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€lje<( 

ramBritige  ^ott^ 

Edited  by 

BROWNING 

Horace  E.  Scudder 

MRS.  BROWNING 

Harriet  "Waters  Preston 

BURNS 

W.  K  Henley 

BYRON 

Paul  E.  More 

DRYDEN 

George  R.  Noyes 

ENGLISH  AND  SCOTTISH  )    Helen  Child  Sargent          | 

POPULAR  BALUDS 

j    George  L.  Kittredge 

HOLMES 

Horace  E.  Scudder 

KEATS 

Horace  E.  Scudder 

LONGFELLOW 

Horace  E.  Scudder 

LOWELL 

Horace  E.  Scudder 

MILTON 

"William  "Vaughn  Moody 

POPE 

Henry  "W.  Bovnton 

SCOTT 

Horace  E.  Scudder 

SHAKESPEARE 

"W.  A.  Neilson 

SHELLEY 

George  E.  Woodberry 

SPENSER 

R.  E.  Neil  Dodge 

TENNYSON 

"William  J.  Rolfe 

WHITTIER 

Horace  E.  Scudder 

WORDSWORTH 

A.  J.  George 

In  Preparation 

CHAUCER 

F.  N.  Robinson 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN   COMPANY 

Boston 

New  York    Chicago 

i€t)e  Cambrtbge  <£&ttian  of  ti^e  ^oet^ 


SHELLEY 

EDITED   BY 

GEORGE  EDWARD  WOODBERRY 


^6p6^^ 


THE 

COMPLETE    POETICAL  WORKS    OF 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

CambriDge  CBDitioti 


c_;^S^/it/    '^  ^l^c^g' 


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COPYRIGHT,    1901,  BV  HOUGHTON,    MIFPUN  AND  CO. 
ALL  RIGHTS   RBSERVBD 


TO 

EDWARD  DOWDEN 

FOB  HIS  SERVICE  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

SHELLEY 

THIS  EDITION  IS  DEDICATED 


EDITOR'S  NOTE 

The  text  of  this  edition  is  that  of  the  Centenary  Edition  of  Shelley's  Poetical 
Works,  1892,  but  differs  from  it  by  the  omission  of  variant  readings  and  emenda- 
tions except  in  cases  where  the  text  is  acknowledged  to  be  corrupt  or  of  doubtful 
authority.  The  only  contribution  to  our  knowledge  of  the  sources  of  the  text  since 
1892  is  Professor  Zupitza's  description  of  some  of  the  Oxford  (formerly  Boscombe) 
MSS.,  contributed  to  the  Archiv  fur  das  Studium  der  neueren  Sprachen  und 
Literaturen,  Band  XCIV,  Heft  1,  from  which  a  few  corrections  have  been  noted ; 
but  for  the  student  of  the  text  the  Centenary  Edition  is  indispensable.  The  J/e- 
moir  of  that  Edition  is  reprinted  as  the  Biographical  Sketch,  and  a  condensation 
of  the  documentary  extracts  which  in  that  edition  were  used  to  illustrate  the 
history  of  the  poems  has  been  embodied  in  the  Headnotes.  The  long  notes  in 
French  and  Greek  affixed  by  SheUey  to  Queen  Mab  have  been  omitted  at  the 
suggestion  of  the  General  Editor  of  the  series ;  and  the  Original  Poetry  of  Victor 
and  Cazire,  of  which  a  copy  was  found  in  1898,  has  not  been  included.  The 
Notes  and  Illustrations  have  been  mainly  confined  to  the  more  important 
poems  of  SheUey,  especially  Alastob,  Prometheus  Unbound,  Eptpsychidion, 
Adonais  and  ELellas  ;  and  they  embrace  only  simple  explanations  of  the  text, 
the  principal  sources  and  parallel  passages  in  the  poets  familiar  to  Shelley,  and 
such  cross-references  as  seemed  to  throw  light  on  his  ideas  and  habit  of  mind, 
together  with  a  few  critical  comments  ;  no  attempt  has  been  made  to  include  such 
information  as  can  be  readily  obtained  from  encyclopsedias,  dictionaries,  manuals 
of  mythology,  and  like  works.  In  this  portion  of  the  work  the  editor  has  made 
use  of  the  labors  of  scholars  and  critics  who  have  studied  particular  poems  of 
Shelley,  and  he  takes  pleasure  in  acknowledging  special  obligation  to  Professov 
Al.  Beljame's  Alastor,  Miss  Vida  Scudder's  Prometheus  Unbou7id,  Rossetti's 
Adonais,  and  Dr.  Richard  Ackermann's  investigation  of  these  three  works  and 
also  the  Epipsychidion  ;  the  fact  that  these  studies  have  appeared  in  the  last 
ten  years  in  France,  America,  England  and  Germany  indicates  the  vitality  and 
extent  of  Shelley's  fame.  G.  E.  W. 

August,  igOL 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH     .       .       .  xv 

QUEEN  MAB:    A  PHILOSOPHICAL 
POEM. 
Introductory  Note  ....      1 
To  Harriet  *****    ....         2 


ALASTOR:  OR,  THE  SPIRIT  OF  SOL- 

o 

ITUDE. 

Introductory  Note  . 

•              •              • 

31 

Alastor     .... 

33 

THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 

Introductory  Note  . 

•              •              • 

43 

Author's  Preface  . 

45 

To  Mary 

•              •              • 

49 

Canto  First     . 

51 

Canto  Second 

. 

61 

Canto  Third    . 

m 

Canto  Fourth     . 

•              •              • 

74 

Canto  Fifth     . 

80 

Canto  Sixth 

•              •              • 

91 

Canto  Seventh 

100 

Canto  Eighth      . 

•              •              • 

107 

Canto  Ninth    . 

111 

Canto  Tenth 

•              •              • 

117 

Canto  Eleventh     • 

125 

Canto  Twelfth  • 

. 

129 

ROSALIND   AND   HELEN: 

A  MOD- 

ern  eclogue. 

Introductory  Note   . 

.    .    . 

136 

Rosalind  and  Helen 

. 

137 

JULIAN   AND   MADDALO 

A   CON- 

VERSATION. 

Introductory  Note 

^       , 

151 

Author's  Preface 

.       . 

152 

Julian  and  Maddalo     . 

. 

152 

PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND : 

A  LYRI- 

CAL  DRAMA. 

Introductory  Note 

,       , 

160 

Author's  Preface     . 

•       •       . 

162 

Act  I 

,       , 

16.5 

Act  II    .       .       .       . 

•       .       • 

178 

Act  III       ...       . 

,       , 

189 

Act  IV  .       . 

. 

197 

MM 

THE  CENCI:  A  TRAGEDY. 

Introductory  Note  .  .  .  206 
Dedication  to  Leigh  Hunt,  Esq.  .  208 
Author's  Preface  ....     209 

Act  I 211 

Act  II 218 

Act  III 224 

Act  IV 232 

Act  V 242 

THE  MASK  OF  ANARCHY. 

Introductory  Note  .  .  .  252 
The  Mask  of  Anarchy     .        .       .  253 

PETER  BELL  THE  THIRD. 

Introductory  Note       .       .       .     258 

Dedication 259 

Prologue •      260 

Part  the  First:  Death  .  .  •  260 
Part  the  Second:  The  Devil  .  261 
Part  the  Third:  Hell  .  .  .  262 
Part  the  Fourth:  Sin.  .  .  264 
Part  the  Fifth:  Grace  .  .  •  265 
Part  the  Sixth:  Damnation  .  267 
Part  the  Seventh:  Double  Dam- 
nation      269 

THE  WITCH  OF  ATLAS. 

Introductory  Note   ....  271 

To  Mary 272 

The  Witch  of  Atlas        •       .       .  273 

OEDIPUS    TYRANNUS,   OR    SWELL- 
FOOT  THE  TYRANT:  A  TRAGEDY. 
Introductory  Notk  ....  283 
Advertisement        ....     284 

Act  I 284 

Act  II 291 

EPIPSYCHIDION. 

Introductory  Note  ....  297 
Advertisement  ....  298 
Epipsychidion 298 

ADONAIS:     AN    ELEGY    ON    THE 
DEATH  OF  JOHN  KEATS. 
Introductory  Note  ....  307 
Author's  Preface  ....     307 
Adonais 308 


CONTENTS 


HELLAS :  A  LYRICAL  DRAMA. 
Introductory  Note 
Author's  Preface 
Prologue  :  a  Fraoment 
Hellas  .<..■•• 


317 
318 
320 
322 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Early  Poems. 

Evening:  To  Harriet  .       .       .  339 

To  Ianthe 3i0 

Stanza     written     at     Brack- 
nell         340 

To ('Oh,  there  are  spirits 

OF  THE  air') 310 

To ('Yet look  on  me  —  take 

not  thine  eyes  away ')     .       .341 
Stanzas.    April,  1814.        .        .      341 

To  Harriet 342 

To  Mary  Wollstonecraft  God- 
win   342 

Mutability 343 

On  Death 343 

A  Summer  Evening  Churchyard  343 
To  Wordsworth  ....  344 
Feelings  of  a   Republican   on 

THE  Fall  of  Bonaparte    .       .  344 
Lines   ('The   cold  earth  slept 

BELOW  ') 345 

Poems  written  in  1816. 

The  Sunset 345 

Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty    346 
Mont  Blanc:  Lines  written  in 
the  Vale  of  Chamoutsi  •       .     347 
Poems  written  in  1817. 

Marianne's  Dream  .  .  .  350 
To  Constantia  singing  .  .  352 
To  the  Lord  Chancellor.  .  353 
To  William  Shelley  .  .  .  354 
On  Fanny  Godwin  .  .  .  355 
Likes  ('That  time  is  dead  for- 
BYER,  child')     ....      355 

Death 355 

Sonnet.  —  Ozymandias       .       .     356 
Lines  to  a  Critic   ....  356 
,    Poems  written  in  1818. 

Sonnet:  To  the  Nile  .  .  .  357 
Passage  of  the  Apennines      .     357 

The  Past 358 

On  a  Faded  Violet  .  .  .  358 
Lines  written  among  the  Euoa- 

NEAN  Hills 358 

Invocation  to  Misery  .  .  362 
Stanzas  written  in  Dejection, 

NEAR  Naples      ....      363 
Sonnet  ('Lift  not  the  painted 
VEIL  which  those  WHO  uvx ')      363 


Poems  written  in  1819. 

Lines  written  during  the  Ca»- 

tlereaob  administration         .  364 
Song  to  the  Men  or  England     364 
To  Sidmouth  and  Castlereagh  .  365 
England  in  1819  ....     365 
National  Anthem  ....  365 
Ode  to  Heaven    ....      366 
An  Exhortation     ....  367 
Ode  to  the  West  Wind    .        .      367 
An  Ode  written  October,  1819, 
before  the  spaniards  had  re- 
COVERED THEIR  Liberty      .        .  369 
On  the  Medusa  of  Leonardo  da 
Vinci  in  the  Florentine  Gal- 
lery      369 

The  Indian  Serenade  .       .       .  370 

To  Sophia 370 

Love's  Philosophy  .       .       .       .371 
Poems  written  in  1820. 
The  Sensitive  Plant. 

Part  First  ....  372 
Part  Second  ....  374 
Part  Third  .  .  .  .  375 
Conclusion  ....  376 
A  Vision  of  the  Sea  .       .       .     377 

The  Cloud 380 

To  A  Skylark  ....  381 
Ode  to  Liberty      ....  382 

To ('  I  FEAR  thy  kisses,  GEN- 
tle maiden  ') 387 

Arethusa 387 

Song  of  Proserpine  while  gath- 
ering Flowers  on  the  Plain 

OF  Enna 388 

Hymn  of  Apollo  ....     388 

Hymn  of  Pan 389 

The  Question  .  .  .  .  3«9 
The  Two  Spirits:  an  Allegory  390 
Letter  to  Marla.  Gisbornb  .  390 
Ode  to  Naples  ....  395 
Autumn:  a  Dirge        .       .       .     398 

Death 398 

Liberty 398 

Summer  and  Winter  .  .  .  399 
The  Tower  of  Famine  .  .  399 
An  Allegory  ('A  portal  ab  of 

SHADOWY  adamant  ')  .  .  399 
The  World's  Wanderers  •  .  400 
Sonnet    ('Ye    hasten    to    the 

GRAVE  I  What  seek  ye  there  ')  400 
Lines  to  a  Reviewer  .  .  40C 
Time  Long  Past  .  .  .  .  400 
Buona  Notts        ....     400 

Good-Night 401 

Poems  written  in  1821. 

Diboe  fob  the  Yeab     •       *      •402 


CONTENTS 


Time 402 

Fhom  the  Arabic  :  an  Imitation  403 
Song  ('Rakely,  bas£lt,  combst 

thou') 403 

To  Night 403 

To (*  Music,  when  soft  voices 

die') 404 

To ('  When  passion's  trance 

IS  overpast')     ....      404 

Mutability 404 

Lines  ('  Fab,  far  away,  O  yb  ')     405 

The  Fugitives 405 

Lines  written  on  hearing  the 
News  of  the  Death  of  Napo- 
leon      406 

Sonnet:  Political  Greatness    .  406 
A  Bridal  Song     ....     406 

Epithalamium 407 

Another  Version        .       .       .     407 
Evening  :  Pontb  al  Mare,  Pisa    407 

The  Aziola 408 

To ('  One  word  is  too  often 

profaned') 408 

Bemembrance  .....  408 
To  Edward  Williams        .       .     409 

TO-MORBOW 410 

Lines  ('If  I  walk  in  Autumn's 

EVEN  ') 410 

A  Lament  ('  O  world  1  O  life  I  O 

time  ! ') 410 

Poems  written  in  1822. 

Lines  C  When  the  lamp  is  shat- 
tered ') 410 

The  Magnetic  Lady  to  HEb  Pa- 
tient     411 

To  Jane. 

The  Invitation     .       .       .     412 

The  Recollection    .       .       .  412 

With  a  Guitar  :  To  Jane  .       .     413 

To  Jane 415 

Epitaph  ('  These  are  two  friends 
whose  lives  were  undivided  ')  415 

The  Isle 415 

A    Dirge    ('  Rough   wind,   that 

moanest  loud').       .       .       .     415 
Lines   written  in  the  Bay  of 

Lerici 416 

Fragments.    Part  I. 

The  D^mon  of  the  World. 

Part  1 416 

Part  II 420 

Prince  Athanase. 

Part  I 425 

Part  II 427 

The  Woodman  and  the  Night- 
ingale     430 

Otho 431 


Tasso 431 

Marenohi 432 

Lines  written  for  Julian  and 

Maddalo 435 

Lines  written  for  Prometheus 

Unbound 435 

Lines  written  for  Mont  Blanc  435 
Lines  written  for  the  Indian 

Serenade 435 

Lines  written  fob  the  Ode  to 

Liberty 436 

Stanza   written    for   the  Odb 

WRITTEN  October,  1819  .  .  436 
Lines  connected  with    Epipsy- 

CHIDION 436 

Lines  written  for  Adonais  .  438 
Liira;s  written  for  Hellas  .  .  439 
The   Pine   Forest  of  the  Cas- 

ciNE  NEAR  Pisa.    First  Draft 

of  'To  Jane:  The  Invitation, 

The  Recollection'     .       .       .  440 

Orpheus 441 

Fiordispina 443 

The  Birth  or  Pleasure  .  .  444 
Love,  Hope,  Desire,  and  Fear  .  444 
A  Satire  on  Satire  .  .  .  445 
GiNEVRA 446 

The  Boat  on  the  Serchio       .     449 

The  Zucca 460 

Lines   ('We    meet    not   as    wb 

PARTED  ') 4S2 

Charles  the  First. 

Introductory  Note.       .       .  452 

Scene  I 453 

Scene  II 456 

Scene  III        ...        .464 

Scene  IV 465 

Scene  V 466 

Fragments    of   an    U-npinished 

Drama 466 

The  Triumph  op  Life    .       .       .  470 
Part  II.  Minor  Fragments. 

Home 480 

Fragment  of  a  Ghost  Story  .  480 
To  Mary  ('O  Mary  dear,  that 

you  were  hereI')  .  .  .  480 
To  Mary  ('  The  world  is  dreary  ')  480 
To  Mary   ('My  dearest  Mary, 

wherefore  hast  thou  gone  ') .  481 
To  William  Shelley  ('My  lost 

William,  thou  in  whom')  .  481 
Lines  written  for  the  Poem  to 

William  Shelley        .       .       .  481 
To  William  Shelley  ('  Thy  lit- 
tle FOOTSTEPS  ON  THE  SANDS ')  .  481 
To  CONSTANTIA  ....   481 

To  Emiua  Viviani      ...     482 


Zll 


CONTENTS 


to c  o  mighty  mind,  in  whose 

deep  stream  thus  age  ')  .  .  482 
Sonnet  to  Bykon  ....  482 
A  Lost  Leadeb    ....      482 

On  Keats 482 

To ('  Fob  me,  my  fbiend,  if 

NOT      that      teaks      DID     TBEM- 

ble') 483 

Milton's  Spirit  ....  483 
'Mighty  eagle'       ....  483 

Laurel 483 

'  Once  more  descend  '    .        .        .  483 

Inspiration 483 

To  the  People  of  England  .  484 
'  What  men  gain  faibly  ' .        .      484 

Rome 484 

To  Italy 484 

'Unrisen  splendor'       .        .        .  484 

To  Zephyr 484 

'  Follow  ' 484 

The  Rain-Wind    ....      484 

Rain 484 

'When  soft  winds'    .        .        .      484 

The  Vine 485 

The  Waning  Moon  .  .  .  485 
To  the  Moon  ('  Bright  wanderer, 

fair  coquette  of  heaven  ')  .  485 
To  THE  Moon  ('  Art  thou  palb 

FOR  weariness')  .  .  .  485 
Poetry  and  Music  ....  485 
'A  gentle  story'  .  .  .  485 
The  Lady  of  the  South  .  .  485 
The  Tale  Untold  ...  485 
Wine  of  Eglantine  .  ,  .  485 
A  Roman's  Chamber  .  .  .  486 
Song  of  the  Furies  .  .  .  486 
'The  rude  wind  is  singing'  .  486 
Before  and  After  ....  486 
The  Shadow  of  Hell        .       .     486 

Consequence 486 

A  Hate-Song         ....     486 

A  Face 486 

The  Poet's  Lover      .        .       .     487 

'  I  WOULD  NOT  be  A   KING '        .          .  487 
'Is     IT     THAT     IN     BOMB    BBIOHTEB 
gPHEBE' 487 

To-day 487 

Love's  Atmosphebb       .        .       .  487 

Torpor 487 

'Wake  the  serpent  not'  .  .  487 
'  Is  not  to-day  enough  ? '  .  .  487 
'To  thirst  and  find  no  fill'  .  487 
Love    ('  Wealth    and    dominion 

fade  into  the  mass  ') .  .  .  488 
Music  ('1   pant   for   the   music 

which  is  divine').  .  .  .  488 
To  One  Singino    ....     488 


To  Music  ('Silver  key  of  the 

FOUNTAIN  OF  TEARS  ')  .  .        488 

To  Music  ('No,  Music,  thou  abt 
NOT  the  "  food  of  Love  "  ')  .      488 

'  I  FAINT,  I  PERISH  WITH  MY  LOVE  I '  489 

To  Silence 489 

'Oh,  that  a  Chariot  of  Cloud 

were  mine  ! '  .  .  .  .  489 
'The  fierce  beasts'  .  .  .489 
'He  wanders'  ....  489 
The  Deserts  of  Sleep  .       .       .  489 

A  Dream 489 

The  Heart's  Tomb  .  .  .  .489 
HoPB,  Feab,  and  Doubt  .  .  489 
'  AlasI  this  is  not  what  I  thought 

life  was' 490 

Cbowned 490 

'  Great  Spibit  '  .  .  .  .  490 
'O  thou  immortal  deity'  .  .  490 
'Ye  gentle  visitations'  .  .  490 
'  My  thoughts  '        .       .       .       .  490 

TRANSLATIONS. 

From  Homer. 

Hymn  to  Mercury  .  .  .  491 
Hymn  to  Venus  ....  503 
Hymn  to  Castor  and  Pollux  .  504 
Hymn  to  Minerva  ....  504 
Hymn  to  the  Sun  .  .  .  504 
Hymn  to  the  Moon  .  .  .  505 
Hymn  to  the  Earth,  Motheb  of 
All 605 

From  Euripides. 

The  Cyclops  :  a  Satyric  Drama  506 

Epigrams  from  the  Greek. 

Spirit  of  Plato  ....  519 
Circumstance        ....     519 

To  Stella 519 

Kissing  Helena    ....     619 

From  Moschus. 

I.  '  When  winds  that  move  not 

ITS  CALM  SUBFACE  SWEEP '     .   520 

II.  Pan,  Echo,  and  the  Satyr  520 
III.  Fbagment  OF  the  Elegy  on 

THE  Death  of  Bion  .       .     520 
Fbom  Bion. 

Fbagment  of  the  Elegy  on  the 
Death  of  Adonis         .       .        .  520 
Fbom  Vibgil. 

The  Tenth  Eclooub      .       .       .521 
Fbom  Dantr. 

I.  Adapted  from  a  Sonnet  in 

THE  Vita  Nuova        .       .      522 
n.  Sonnet:     Dante    Alighiebi 

to  Guido  Cavalcanti        .     522 
III.  The  Fibst  Canzone  of  the 

CONVITO         ....      622 


CONTENTS 


xiu 


rv.  Matilda  gathering  Flowebs  523 

V.  Ugolino 524 

Fkom  Cavalcanti. 

Sonnet:    Guido    Cavalcanti    to 
Dante  Alighieki.       .        .        •  525 
Fbom  Calderon. 

Scenes  from  the  Magico  Pbodi- 
oioso. 

Scene  I 526 

Scene  II 531 

Scene  III 533 

Stanzas  from   Cisma  de  Inola- 

TERRA 537 

From  Goethe, 

Scenes  from  Faust. 

Scene  I.  Prologue  in  Hea- 
ven         538 

Scene  II.  ilAv-DAY  Night      .  540 

JUVENILIA. 


Verses  on  a  Cat     . 

. 

546 

Omens 

. 

547 

Epitaphium:  Latin   Version 

OF 

THE  Epitaph  in  Gray's  Elb 

GY 

547 

In  Horologium 

. 

548 

A  DlALOGtTE         .... 

. 

548 

To  THE  Moonbeam       .       . 

, 

549 

The  Solitary  .... 

. 

549 

To  Death       .... 

, 

549 

Love's  Rose      .... 

, 

550 

Eyes 

. 

550 

Poems    from    St.   Irvyne,    or 

THE 

ROSICRUCIAN. 

I.  Victoria    .... 

, 

551 

II.     'On     THE     DARK      HEIGHT 

OF 

Jura'  

551 

III.  Sister  Rosa  .  a  Ballad. 

552 

rv.  St.  Irvyne's  Tower 

. 

553 

V-   Bereavement 

. 

553 

VI.  The  Drowned  Lover    . 

, 

554 

Posthumous  Fragments  of  Margaret 

Nicholson. 

War 

555 

Fragment    supposed    to   be 

AN 

Epithalamium  of  Francis 

Ra- 

VAILLAC     AND     CHARLOTTE     COR- 

DAY 

. 

557 

Despair 

558 

Fragment  ('Yes!  all   is  past  — 

SWIFT    TIME   has   FLED  AWAY 

')   . 

559 

The  Spectral  Horseman  . 

559 

Melody  to  a  Scene  of  Former 

Times 

. 

660 

661 
561 


562 


562 
663 


569 


569 
570 


Stanza   from   a    Translation    of 

THE  Marseillaise  Hymn    . 

Bigotry's  Victim        .... 

On  an  Icicle  that  clung    to  the 

Grass  of  a  Grave  .... 

Love  ('  Why  is  it  said  thou  canst 

not  live  ') 

On  a  Pete  at  Carlton  House    . 

To  A  Star 563 

To  Mary,  who  died  in  this  Opiniow  563 
A  Tale  of  Society  as  it  is  from 

Facts,  1811 5o3 

To   THE    Republicans    of    North 

America 565 

To  Ireland 565 

On  Robert  Emmet's  Grave  .  .  666 
The  Retrospect  :  Cwm  Elan,  1812  566 
Fragment  of  a  Sonnet  to  Harriet  568 

To  Harriet 568 

Sonnet  :  To  a  Balloon  laden  with 

Knowledge 

Sonnet:  On  Launching  Some  Bot- 
tles   filled    with     Knowledge 
into  the  Bristol  Channel 
The  Devil's  Walk:  a  Ballad 
Fragment    of    a    Sonnet  :    Fare- 
well TO  North  Devon  .        .        .  572 
On  leaving  London  for  Wales.      572 
The  Wandering  Jew's  Soliloquy  .  573 

DOUBTFUL,  LOST  AND  UNPUB- 
LISHED POEMS.  VICTOR  AND 
CAZIRE. 

Doubtful  Poems. 

The  Wandering  Jew     .       .  573 

Introduction.        .        .       .      573 
Author's  Preface  .       .       .  575 

Canto  I 576 

Canto  II 579 

Canto  III        ....      581 

Canto  IV 585 

The  Dinner  Party  Anticipated  589 
The  Magic  Horse  .  .  .  5S9 
To  THE  Queen  of  my  Heart       .  589 

Lost  Poems 589 

Unpublished  Poems       .        .       .        .590 
Original  Poetry  by  Victor  and  Ca- 
ziRE 592 

NOTES  AND  ILLUSTRATIONS  .       .  594 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  ...     643 

INDEX  OF  TITLES 641 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

In  a  small  southwestern  room  of  the  old-fashioned  country  house  named  Field  Place, 
in  Sussex,  there  stands  over  the  fireplace  this  inscription:  — 

Shrine  of  the  dawning  speech  and  thought  * 

Of  Shelley,  sacred  be 
To  all  who  bow  where  Time  has  brought 

Gifts  to  Eternity.' 

Here  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  was  born,  on  Saturday,  August  4,  1792.  He  was  the  eldest 
child  of  Timothy  and  Elizabeth  (Pilfold)  Shelley.  In  this  home  he  had  for  playmates, 
as  he  grew  up,  four  youuger  sisters,  and  a  brother  the  youngest  of  all  :  and  on  their 
memories  were  imprinted  some  scenes  of  his  early  days.  He  was  fond  of  them,  and  as  a 
schoolboy,  when  they  came  in  to  dessert,  would  take  them  on  his  knee  and  tell  them 
romantic  stories  out  of  books  on  which  his  own  imagination  was  fed ;  or  he  would  declaim 
Latin  for  his  father's  pleasure;  sometimes  he  led  them  on  tramps  through  the  fields, 
dropping  his  little  sister  over  inconvenient  fences,  or  he  romped  with  them  in  the  garden, 
not  without  accident,  upsetting  his  baby  brother  in  the  strawberry  bed,  and  being  re- 
proached by  him  as  '  bad  Bit.'  St.  Leonard's  Wood,  off  to  the  northeast  of  the  house,  was 
traditionally  inhabited  by  an  old  Dragon  and  a  headless  Spectre,  and  there  was  a  fabu- 
lous Great  Tortoise  in  Warnham  Pond,  which  he  made  creatures  in  their  children's 
world;  nearer  home  was  the  old  Snake,  the  familiar  of  the  garden,  unfortunately  killed 
by  the  gardener's  scythe;  and,  these  not  being  marvels  enough,  a  gray  alchemist  resided 
in  the  garret.  He  once  dressed  his  sisters  to  impersonate  fiends,  and  ran  in  front  with  a 
fire-stove  flaming  with  magical  liquids,  —  a  sport  that  readily  developed  with  schoolboy 
knowledge  into  rude  and  startling  experiments  with  chemicals  and  electricity.  Altogether 
he  was  an  amiable  brother,  mingling  high  animal  spirits  with  a  delightful  imagination 
and  a  gentle  manner.  His  young  pranks  were  numerous.  He  delighted  in  mystification, 
both  verbal  and  practical;  he  invented  incidents  which  he  told  for  truth,  and  he  espe- 
cially enjoyed  the  ruse  of  a  disguise.  A  single  childish  answer  survives  in  the  anecdote 
that  when  he  set  the  fagot-stack  on  fire  and  was  rebuked,  he  explained  that  he  wanted 
*  a  little  hell  of  his  own.'  He  also  wished  to  adopt  a  child,  —  a  fancy  which  lasted  late 
into  life, — and  thought  a  small  Gypsy  tumbler  at  the  door  would  serve.  As  child  or- 
boy,  all  our  recollections  of  him  are  pleasant  and  natural,  with  touches  of  harmless  mis- 
chief and  vivid  fancy.  There  was  a  spirit  of  wildness  in  him.  Even  before  he  went 
away  to  school,  while  still  a  fairj^slight  boy,  with  long,  bright  hair  and  full,  blue  eyes, 
running  about  or  riding  on  his  pony  in  the  lanes,  —  where,  after  spending  his  own,  he 
would  stop  and  borrow  money  of  the  servant  to  give  the  beggars,  —  he  attracted  the 
notice  of  the  villagers  at  Horsham  as  a  madcap.  Toward  the  end  of  his  boyhood  he 
liked  to  wander  out  alone  at  night,  but  the  servant  sent  to  watch  him  reported  that  he 
only  '  took  a  walk  and  came  back  again.'  Of  all  the  scenes  of  this  early  home  life,  while 
it  was  still  untroubled,  the  most  attractive  is  the  picture  impressed  on  his  five-year-old 
sister,  Margaret,  whose  closest  childish  memory  of  him  was  of  the  day  when,  being 


xvi  PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

f 


home  ill  from  Eton,  he  first  went  out  again,  and,  coming  up  to  the  window  where  she  was, 
pressed  his  face  against  the  pane  and  gave  her  a  kiss  through  the  glass. 

His  education  hegan  at  the  age  of  six,  when  he  went  for  the  rudiments  of  Latin  and 
Greek  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Edwards,  a  Welsh  parson  at  Warnham,  and  got  traditional  Welsh 
instruction  from  the  old  man.  At  ten  he  was  sent  away  from  home  to  Sion  House 
Academy,  near  Brentford,  under  Dr.  Greenlaw,  whom  he  afterward  spoke  of  *  not  without 
respect,'  says  Hogg,  as  '  a  hard-headed  Scotchman,  and  a  man  of  rather  liberal  opiuions.' 
Shelley  was  then  tall  for  his  years,  with  a  pink  and  white  complexion,  curling  brown  hair 
in  abundance,  large,  prominent  blue  eyes,  —  dull  in  reverie,  flashing  in  feeling,  —  and  an 
expression  of  countenance,  says  his  cousin  and  schoolfellow,  Med  win,  '  of  exceeding  sweet- 
ness and  innocence.'  He  was  met  in  the  playground,  shut  in  by  four  stone  walls  with  a 
single  tree  in  it,  by  some  sixty  scholars  drawn  from  the  English  middle  class,  who,  writes 
Medwin,  pounced  on  every  new  boy  with  a  zest  proportioned  to  the  ordeal  each  had 
undergone  in  his  turn.  The  new  boy  in  this  case  knew  nothing  of  peg-top,  leapfrog, 
fives,  or  cricket.  One  challenged  him  to  spar,  and  another  to  race.  His  only  welcome 
was  *  a  general  shout  of  derision.'  To  all  this,  continues  Medwin,  '  he  made  no  reply, 
but  with  a  look  of  disdain  written  in  liis  countenance,  turned  his  back  on  his  new  associ- 
ates, and,  when  he  was  alone,  found  relief  in  tears.'  It  was  but  a  step  from  the  boys  to 
the  masters.  If  he  idled  over  his  books  and  watched  the  clouds,  or  drew  those  rude 
pines  and  cedars  which  he  used  to  scrawl  on  his  manuscripts  to  the  end  of  his  life,  a  box 
on  the  ear  recalled  him;  and  under  English  school  discipline  he  had  his  share  of  flogging. 
*  He  would  roll  on  the  floor,'  says  Gellibrand,  another  schoolmate,  '  not  from  the  pain,  but 
from  a  sense  of  indignity.'  He  was  a  quick  scholar,  but  he  did  not  relish  the  master's 
coarseness  in  Virgil,  and  though  he  was  well  grounded  in  his  classics,  he  owed  little  to 
such  a  moral  discipline  as  he  there  received.  He  was  very  unhappy,  and  Medwin  does 
not  scruple  to  describe  Sion  House  as  '  a  perfect  hell '  to  him.  He  kept  much  to  himself, 
but  he  had  pleasures  of  his  own.  He  formed  a  taste  for  the  wild  sixpenny  romances  of 
the  time,  full  of  ghosts,  bandits,  and  enchantments;  and  his  curiosity  in  the  wonders  of 
science  was  awakened  by  a  travelling  lecturer,  Adam  Walker,  who  exhibited  his  Orrery 
at  the  school.  He  and  Medwin  boated  together  on  the  river,  and  ran  away  at  times  to 
Kew  and  Richmond,  where  Shelley  saw  his  first  play,  Mrs.  Jordan  in  the  '  Country  Girl.' 
Sport,  however,  played  a  small  part  in  such  a  boyhood.  '  He  passed  among  his  school- 
fellows,' says  Medwin,  '  as  a  strange  and  unsocial  being,  for  when  a  holiday  relieved  us 
from  our  tasks,  and  the  other  boys  were  engaged  in  such  sports  as  the  narrow  limits  of 
our  prison  court  allowed,  Shelley,  who  entered  into  none  of  them,  would  pace  backwards 
and  forwards,  —  I  think  I  see  him  now,  —  along  the  southern  wall.'  Rennie,  another 
schoolmate,  from  whom  comes  the  anecdote  that  Shelley  once  threw  a  small  boy  at  his 
tormentors,  adds  that,  '  if  treated  with  kindness  he  was  very  amiable,  noble,  high-spirited, 
a^d  generous.'  It  is  noteworthy  that  at  Sion  House  he  first  developed  the  habit  of  sleep- 
walking, for  which  he  was  punished. 

A  single  fragment  of  autobiography  softens  the  hai;^hness  of  these  two  years.  It  is 
Shelley's  description  of  his  first  boy  friendship  :  — 

'  I  remember  forming  an  attachment  of  this  kind  at  school.  I  cannot  recall  to  my 
memory  the  precise  epoch  at  which  this  took  place;  but  I  imagine  that  it  must  have 
been  at  the  age  of  eleven  or  twelve.  The  object  of  these  sentiments  was  a  boy  about  my 
own  age,  of  a  character  eminently  generous,  brave  and  gentle;  and  the  elements  of 
human  feeling  seem  to  have  been,  from  his  birth,  genially  compounded  within  him. 
There  was  a  delicacy  and  simplicity  in  his  manners  inexpressibly  attractive.     It  has 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xvii 

never  been  my  fortune  to  meet  with  him  since  my  schoolboy  days;  but  either  I  confound 
my  present  recollection  with  the  delusions  of  past  feelings,  or  he  is  now  a  source  of 
honor  and  utility  to  every  one  around  him.  The  tones  of  his  voice  were  so  soft  and 
winning  that  every  word  pierced  into  my  heart;  and  their  pathos  was  so  deep  that  in 
listening  to  him  the  tears  have  involuntarily  gushed  from  my  eyes.  Such  was  the  being 
for  whom  I  first  experienced  the  sacred  sentiments  of  friendship.  I  remember  in  my 
simplicity  writing  to  my  mother  a  long  account  of  his  admirable  qualities  and  my  own 
devoted  attachment.  I  suppose  she  thought  me  out  of  my  wits,  for  she  returned  no 
answer  to  my  letter.  I  remember  we  used  to  walk  the  whole  play-hours  up  and  down  by 
some  moss-covered  palings,  pouring  out  our  hearts  in  youthful  talk.  We  used  to  speak 
of  the  ladies  with  whom  we  were  in  love,  and  I  remember  that  our  usual  practice  was  to 
confirm  each  other  in  the  everlasting  fidelity  in  which  we  had  bound  ourselves  toward 
them  and  toward  each  other.  I  recollect  thinking  my  friend  exquisitely  beautiful. 
Every  night  when  we  parted  to  go  to  bed  we  kissed  each  other  like  children,  as  we  still 
were.' 

Shelley  went  up  to  Eton,  July  29,  1804,  being  then  almost  twelve.  Dr.  Goodall,  an 
amiable  and  dignified  gentleman,  was  Head  Master,  and  was  succeeded  in  1809  by  Dr. 
Keate,  renowned  for  flogging,  who  was  previously  Master  of  the  Lower  School.  Shelley 
went  into  the  house  of  a  writing  master,  Hecker,  and  later  into  that  of  George  Bethel, 
remembered  as  the  dullest  tutor  of  the  school.  He  found  a  larger  body  of  scholars, 
some  five  hundred,  a  more  regulated  fagging  system,  and  a  change  of  masters;  but  if  he 
was  better  off  than  before,  it  was  because  of  his  own  growth  and  of  the  greater  scale  of 
the  school,  which  afforded  more  freedom  and  variety  and  better  companionship.  He 
refused  to  fag,  and  he  brought  into  the  world  of  boyhood  a  compound  of  tastes  and 
qualities  that  made  him  strange.  '  He  stood  apart  from  the  whole  school,'  says  one  of 
his  mates,  '  a  being  never  to  be  forgotten.'  In  particular  the  union  in  him  of  natural 
gentleness  with  a  high  spirit  that  could  be  exasperated  to  the  point  of  frenzy  exposed 
him  to  attack;  but  he  was  dangerous,  and  once,  according  to  his  own  account,  struck  a 
fork  through  the  hand  of  a  boy,  —  an  act  which  he  spoke  of  in  after-life  as  '  almost  in- 
voluntary,' and  '  done  on  the  spur  of  anguish.'  He  was  called  '  Mad  Shelley '  by  the 
boys,  who  banded  against  him.     Dowden  describes  their  fun:  — 

'  Sometimes  he  would  escape  by  flight,  and  before  he  was  lost  sight  of  the  gamesome 
youths  would  have  chased  him  in  full  cry  and  have  enjoyed  the  sport  of  a  "  Shelley-bait " 
up  town.  At  other  times  escape  was  impossible,  and  then  he  became  desperate.  "  I 
have  seen  him,"  wrote  a  schoolfellow,  "  surrounded,  hooted,  baited  like  a  maddened  bull, 
and  at  this  distance  of  time  I  seem  to  hear  ringing  in  my  ears  the  cry  which  Shelley  was 
wont  to  utter  in  his  paroxysm  of  revengeful  anger."  In  dark  and  miry  winter  evenings 
it  was  the  practice  to  assemble  under  the  cloisters  previous  to  mounting  to  the  Upper 
School.  To  surround  "  Mad  Shelley  "  and  "  nail  "  him  with  a  ball  slimy  with  mud,  was  a 
favorite  pastime;  or  his  name  would  suddenly  be  sounded  through  the  cloisters,  in  an 
instant  to  be  taken  up  by  another  and  another  voice,  until  hundreds  joined  in  the  clamor, 
and  the  roof  would  echo  and  reecho  with  "  Shelley  !  Shelley  !  Shelley  !  "  Then  a  space 
would  be  opened,  in  which  as  in  a  ring  or  alley  the  victim  must  stand  to  endure  his  tor- 
ture; or  some  urchin  would  datt  in  behind  and  by  one  dexterous  push  scatter  at  Shelley's 
feet  the  books  which  he  had  held  under  his  arm;  or  mischievous  hands  would  pluck  at 
his  garments,  or  a  hundred  fingers  would  point  at  him  from  every  side,  while  still  the 
outcry  "  Shelley  !  Shelley  !  "  rang  against  the  walls.  An  access  of  passion  —  the  desired 
result  —  would  follow,  which,  declares  a  witness  of  these  persecutions,  "made  his  eyes 
flash  like  a  tiger's,  his  cheeks  grow  pale  as  death,  his  Umbs  quiver."  * 


xviii  PERCY   BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

Shelley,  however,  though  private,  was  not  a  recluse.  He  took  part  in  the  school  life 
on  its  public  side  as  well  as  in  his  studies.  He  boated,  marched  in  the  Monteni  proces- 
sion as  pole-bearer  or  corporal,  and  declaimed  a  speech  of  Cicero  on  an  Election  Monday. 
He  once  appeared  in  the  boys'  prize  ring,  but  panic  surprised  him  in  the  second  round. 
He  became  an  excellent  Latin  versifier  and  began  that  thoughtful  acquaintance  with 
Lucretius  and  Pliny's  Natural  History,  which  afterwards  showed  its  effect  in  his  early 
writings,  and  he  learned  somejthiiig  of  Condorcet,  Franklin  and  Godwin.  Why  he  was 
called  the  '  atheist,'  as  the  tradition  is,  cannot  be  made  out,  as  there  is  no  other  trace  of 
the  word  in  the  Eton  vocabulary.  His  scientific  interest  was  reinforced  by  a  visit  of  the 
same  itinerary  Adam  Walker  who  first  revealed  the  mechanism  of  the  heavens  to  him ; 
and  he  bought  an  electrical  machine  from  the  philosopher's  assistant,  which  the  dull 
tutor,  Bethel,  unexpectedly  felt  the  force  of,  when  he  undertook  to  investigate  his 
lodger's  instruments  for  '  raising  the  devil,'  as  Shelley  boldly  proclaimed  his  occupation 
to  be  at  the  moment.  The  willow  stump  which  he  set  on  fire  with  gunpowder  and  a 
burning  glass  is  still  shown,  and  there  are  other  waifs  of  legend  or  anecdote  which  show 
his  divided  love  for  the  ghosts  of  the  cheap  romances  and  incantations  of  his  own  inven- 
tion. Chemistry,  his  favorite  amusement,  was  forbidden  him,  and  from  these  escapades 
of  a  youthful  search  for  knowledge,  doubtless,  some  of  his  undefined  troubles  with  the 
masters  arose.  In  the  six  years  he  passed  at  Eton  his  native  intellectual  injpulse  was 
the  strongest  element  in  his  growth.  He  began  authorship,  and  there  wrote  *  Zastrozzi,' 
his  first  published  story,  and  with  the  proceeds  of  that  romance  he  is  said  to  have  paid 
for  the  farewell  breakfast  he  gave  to  his  Eton  friends  at  the  same  time  that  he  presented 
them  with  books  for  keepsakes. 

The  reminiscences  of  these  friends,  several  of  whom  have  spoken  of  him,  relieve  the 
wilder  traits  of  his  Eton  career.     Halliday's  description  is  the  most  full  and  heartfelt :  — 

'Many  a  long  and  happy  walk  have  I  had  with  him  in  the  beautiful  neighborhood  of 
dear  old  Eton.  We  used  to  wander  for  hours  about  Clewer,  Frograore,  the  Park  at 
Windsor,  the  Terrace;  and  I  was  a  delighted  and  willing  listener  to  his  marvellous  stories 
of  fairyland  and  apparitions  and  spirits  and  haunted  ground;  and  his  speculations  were 
then  (for  his  mind  was  far  more  developed  than  mine)  of  the  world  beyond  the  grave. 
Another  of  his  favorite  rambles  was  Stoke  Park,  and  the  picturesque  graveyard,  where 
Gray  is  said  to  have  written  his  "  Elegy,"  of  which  he  was  very  fond.  I  was  myself  far 
too  young  to  form  any  estimate  of  character,  but  I  loved  Shelley  for  his  kindliness  and 
affectionate  ways.  He  was  not  made  to  endure  the  rough  and  boisterous  pastime  of  Eton, 
and  his  shy  and  gentle  nature  was  glad  to  escape  far  away  to  muse  over  strange  fancies; 
for  his  mind  was  reflective,  and  teeming  with  deep  thought.  His  lessons  were  child's 
play  to  him.  .  .  .  His  love  of  nature  was  intense,  and  the  sparkling  poetry  of  his  mind 
shone  out  of  his  speaking  eyes  when  he  was  dwelling  on  anything  good  or  great.  He 
certainly  was  not  happy  at  Eton,  for  his  was  a  disposition  that  needed  especial  personal 
superintendence  to  watch  and  cherish  and  direct  all  his  noble  aspirations  and  the  re- 
mai-kable  tenderness  of  his  heart.  He  had  great  moral  courage  and  feared  nothing  but 
what  was  base,  and  false,  and  low.' 

Such  guidance  as  he  had  he  received  from  Dr.  Lind,  a  physician  of  Windsor,  a  man  of 
humane  disposition  and  independent  thought,  but  of  unconventional  ways.  Shelley  always 
spoke  of  him  in  later  years  with  veneration,  and  idealized  him  in  his  verse,  but  his  influ- 
ence can  be  traced  only  slightly  in  the  habit  Shelley  learned  from  him  of  addressing  let- 
ters to  strangers.  At  one  time,  when  Shelley  was  recovering  from  a  fever  at  Field 
Place,  and  thought,  on  the  information  of  a  servant,  that  his  father  was  coutemplating 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xix 

sending  him  to  an  asylum,  he  sent  for  Dr.  Lind,  who  came,  and,  at  all  events,  relieved 
him  of  his  fears. 

While  Shelley  was  still  an  Eton  schoolboy  Medwin  spent  the  Christmas  vacation  of 
1809  at  Field  Place,  and  recalls  walks  with  him  in  St.  Leonard's  Wood,  and  snipe-shoot- 
ing at  Field  Place  Pond.  He  envied  the  marksmanship  of  Shelley,  who  was  a  good  shot, 
pistol-shooting  being  a  favorite  amusement  with  him  through  life.  Shelley  was  already 
in  the  full  flow  of  his  early  literary  faculty,  which  was  first  practised  in  collaboration  with 
his  friends.  At  Eton  he  at  one  time  composed  dramatic  scenes  with  a  schoolmate,  and 
acted  them  before  a  third  lower-form  boy  in  the  same  house.  His  sister  Helen  says  that 
he  also  sent  an  original  play  to  Mathews,  the  comedian.  He  had  written  'Zastrozzi,' 
and  he  now  began  a  similar  romance  with  Medwin,  '  The  Nightmare,'  and  also  a  story, 
having  the  Wandering  Jew  for  its  hero,  which  was  immediately  reworked  by  the  joint 
authors  into  the  juvenile  poem  of  that  title.  By  April  1,  1810,  he  had  completed  his 
second  published  romance,  *  St.  Irvyne,'  and  before  fall  came  he  had,  in  company  with  his 
sister  Elizabeth,  produced  the  poems  of  *  Victor  and  Cazire,'  of  which  he  had  1480  copies 
printed  at  Horsham.  Sir  Bysshe,  his  grandfather,  is  said  to  have  given  him  money  to 
pay  this  village  printer,  but  just  how  Shelley  used  this  liberality  is  unknown.  Shelley 
was  always  in  haste  to  publish.  He  had  sent  '  The  Wandering  Jew '  to  Campbell,  who 
returned  it  with  discouragement,  but  the  manuscript  was,  nevertheless,  put  into  the  hands 
of  Ballantyne  &  Co.,  of  Edinburgh.  Shelley  had  begun,  too,  his  knight-errantry  in  be- 
half of  poor  and  oppressed  authors,  and  while  at  Eton  had  accepted  bills  for  the  purpose 
of  bringing  out  a  work  on  Sweden,  by  a  Mr.  Brown,  who,  to  take  his  own  account,  had 
been  forced  to  leave  the  navy  in  consequence  of  the  injustice  of  his  superior  officers.  He 
undertook  also  on  Medwin's  introduction  a  correspondence  with  Felicia  Brown,  after- 
wards well  known  as  Mrs.  Hemans,  but  it  was  stopped  on  the  interference  of  her  mother, 
who  was  alarmed  by  its  skeptical  character.  These  were  all  noticeable  beginnings,  mark- 
ing traits  and  habits  that  were  to  continue  in  Shelley's  life;  but  the  most  important  of  all 
the  events  of  the  year  was  the  attachment  which  was  formed  between  him  and  his  cOusin, 
Harriet  Grove,  during  a  summer  visit  of  the  Grove  family  to  Field  Place,  and  a  con- 
tinuance of  the  intimacy  at  London,  where  the  whole  party,  excepting  Shelley's  father, 
immediately  went.  Shelley's  attraction  toward  his  cousin,  who  is  described  as  a  very 
beautiful  girl,  amiable  and  of  a  lively  disposition,  was  sincere  if  not  deep.  The  match 
was  seriously  considered  by  the  two  families,  and  at  first  no  hindrance  was  thrown  in  its 
way. 

Shelley  went  up  to  Oxford  in  the  fall  of  1810  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  with  a  cheerful 
and  happy  mind.  He  had  signed  his  name  in  the  books  of  University  College,  where  his 
father  had  been  before  him,  on  April  10,  and,  returning  to  Eton,  had  finished  there  in 
good  standing.  His  father  accompanied  him  to  his  old  college  and  saw  him  installed; 
and  Mr.  Slatter,  then  just  beginning  business  as  an  Oxford  publisher,  a  son  of  Timothy's 
old  host  at  the  Inn,  remembered  a  kindly  call  from  him  in  company  with  Shelley,  in  the 
course  of  which  he  said:  'My  son  here  has  a  literary  turn.  He  is  already  an  author,  and 
do,  pray,  indulge  him  in  his  printing  freaks.'  Shelley  had  already  a  publisher  in  London, 
Stockdale,  afterwards  notorious,  whom  he  had  induced  to  take  the  1480  copies  of  the 
poems  of  *  Victor  and  Cazire  '  off  the  hands  of  the  Horsham  printer;  but  Stockdale,  how- 
ever, undertook  '  St.  Irvyne,'  and  brought  it  out  at  the  end  of  the  year,  and  he  considered 
'  The  Wandering  Jew,'  which  Ballantyne  had  declined ;  but  events  moved  too  rapidly  to 
^dmit  of  his  issuing  the  poem. 

Shelley  found  at  Oxford  the  liberty  and  seclusion  best  fitted  for  his  active  and  explor- 


XX  PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

ing  mind.  There  is  no  safer  place  than  college  for  a  youth  whose  mind  is  confused  and 
excited  by  the  crude  elements  of  new  knowledge;  the  chaos  of  thought,  on  which  Shelley's 
genius  sat  on  brood,  would  naturally  take  form  and  order  there,  in  the  slow  leisure  of 
four  years  of  mingled  acquisition,  retlection  and  growth;  but  such  fortune  was  denied  to 
him.  He  maintained  friendly  relations  with  his  old  Eton  companions,  though  he  was 
intimate  with  none  of  them ;  but  he  was  absorbed  in  the  first  revelation  of  dawning 
thought  and  knowledge,  and  needed  an  intellectual  auditor.  He  found  his  listener  in 
Hogg,  —  'a  pearl  within  an  oyster  shell,' he  afterwards  called  him,  —  a  fellow-student 
from  York,  destined  for  the  law.  Hogg  developed  into  a  cynical  humorist;  but  to 
his  gross  nature  and  more  worldly  experience,  Shelley  was  the  one  flash,  in  a  lifetime,  of 
the  ideal.  He  always  regarded  him  as  a  spirit  from  another  world,  whose  adventures  in 
his  journey  through  mortal  affairs  necess.arily  took  on  the  aspect  of  a  tragi-comedy.  Yet 
he  was  devoted  to  him  to  a  point  singular  in  so  opposite  a  character,  and  he  told  his  story 
of  Shelley  out  of  real  elements,  with  fidelity  to  liis  own  impression,  though  touching  it 
with  a  grotesqueness  that  is,  in  its  effect,  not  far  from  caricature.  Hogg  first  met  Shelley 
in  the  common  dining-hall.  They  fell  into  talk,  as  strangers,  over  the  comparative  merits 
of  German  and  Italian  literature;  and  the  conversation,  being  carried  on  with  such  ani- 
mation tliat  they  were  left  alone  before  they  were  aware  of  it,  Hogg  invited  his  inter- 
locutor to  continue  the  discussion  at  his  room,  where  the  subject  was  at  once  dropped  on 
their  mutual  confession  that  one  knew  as  little  of  the  German  as  the  other  of  the  Italian 
which  he  was  defending.  Shelley,  however,  was  furnished  with  large  discourse,  and  led 
the  talk  on  to  the  wonders  of  science  while  Hogg  scanned  his  guest. 

*  His  figure  was  slight  and  fragile,  and  yet  his  bones  and  joints  were  large  and  strong. 
He  was  tall,  but  he  stooped  so  much  that  he  seemed  of  a  low  stature.  His  clothes  were 
expensive,  .ind  made  according  to  the  most  approved  mode  of  the  day  ;  but  they  were 
tumbled,  rumpled  and  unbrushed.  His  gestures  were  abrupt,  and  sometimes  violent, 
occasionally  even  awkward,  yet  more  frequently  gentle  and  graceful.  His  complexion 
was  delicate  and  almost  feminine,  of  the  purest  red  and  white  ;  yet  he  was  tanned  and 
freckled  by  exposure  to  the  sun,  having  passed  the  autumn,  as  he  said,  in  shooting.  His 
features,  his  whole  face,  and  particularly  his  head,  were  in  fact  unusually  small ;  yet  the 
last  appeared  of  a  remarkable  bulk,  for  his  hair  was  long  and  bushy,  and  in  fits  of  absence, 
and  in  the  agonies  (if  I  may  use  the  word)  of  anxious  thought,  he  often  rubbed  it  fiercely 
with  his  hands,  or  passed  his  fingers  quickly  through  his  locks  unconsciously,  so  that  it 
was  singularly  wild  and  rough.  .  .  .  His  features  were  not  symmetrical  (the  mouth  per- 
haps excepted),  yet  was  the  effect  of  the  whole  extremely  powerful.  They  breathed  an 
animation,  a  fire  and  enthusiasm,  a  vivid  and  preternatural  intelligence  that  I  never  met 
with  in  any  other  countenance.  Nor  was  the  moral  expression  less  beautiful  than  the 
intellectual.' 

The  one  blemish  was  the  shrill,  harsh,  discordant  voice,  which  ceased  when  the  speaker 
hurried  away  to  attend  a  lecture  on  mineralogy,  —  '  About  stones,  about  stones,'  he 
said,  with  downcast  look  and  melancholy  tones,  on  his  return  at  the  end  of  the  hour. 
The  evening  continued  with  talk  on  chemistry,  and  at  last  on  metaphysics  and  the  prob- 
lems of  the  soul,  as  such  youthful  college  talks  will  do.  '  I  lighted  him  downstairs,'  says 
Hogg,  '  and  soon  heard  him  running  through  the  quiet  quadrangle  in  thtj  still  night. 
The  sound  became  afterwards  so  familiar  to  my  ear  that  I  still  seem  to  hear  Shelley's 
hasty  steps.' 

Such  was  Hogg's  first  night,  and  the  others  wore  like  it,  and  are  told  with  similar 
graphic  power.    Peacock  corrects  the  detail  of  Shelley's  shrill  voice,  while  acknowledg- 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xxi 

iiig  the  defect,  which  was  '  chiefly  observable  when  he  spoke  under  excitement.  Then 
his  voice  was  not  only  dissonant,  like  a  jarring  string,  but  he  spoke  iu  sharp  fourths,  the 
most  unpleasing  sequence  of  sound  that  can  fall  on  the  human  ear  ;  but  it  was  scarcely 
so  when  he  spoke  calmly,  and  not  at  all  when  he  read.  On  the  contrary,  he  seemed  then 
to  have  his  voice  under  perfect  command  ;  it  was  good  both  in  time  and  tone  ;  it  was  low 
and  soft,  but  clear,  distinct  and  expressive.'  The  matchless  disorder  of  Shelley's  room, 
with  its  various  studious  interests  of  books  and  apparatus  betraying  the  self-guided  seeker 
in  knowledge,  though  similarly  overcharged  in  the  description,  reflects  the  state  of  Shel- 
ley's mind.  He  was  completely  absorbed  in  the  intellectual  life.  He  read  incessantly, 
as  was  his  custom  throughout  life,  at  all  times  and  in  all  places,  —  in  bed,  at  meals,  or  in 
the  street,  threading  even  the  crowds  of  London  thoroughfares  with  a  book  before  his 
eyes.  His  faith  in  great  minds  was  an  intense  feeling.  When  he  took  up  a  classic  for 
the  first  time  'his  cheeks  glowed,  his  eyes  became  bright,  his  whole  frame  trembled.' 
He  approached  Hume  and  Locke  in  the  same  way.  What  he  read  was  thought  over  and 
discussed  in  the  long  evenings.  Life  went  on  with  him,  however,  as  it  does  even  in  revo- 
lutionary periods,  with  much  matter  of  fact.  He  was  indifferent  to  his  meals,  and 
showed  already  that  abstemiousness  which  characterized  him.  Bread  was  his  favorite 
food  ;  perhaps  because  it  was  handiest,  and  could  be  eaten  with  least  interruption  to  his 
pursuits.  In  London  he  would  go  into  a  shop  and  return  with  a  loaf,  which  he  broke  in 
two,  giving  the  fragment  to  his  astonished  companion.  Sweets,  fruits  and  salads  were 
relished,  but  he  cared  less  for  animal  food,  which  he  afterwards  gave  up  wholly  in  his 
vegetarian  days.  Wine  he  took  rarely,  and  much  diluted,  and,  indeed,  he  had  no  taste 
for  it.  In  his  morals  he  was  pure,  and  he  was  made  uneasy  by  indelicacy,  which  he 
always  resented  with  a  maiden  feeling.  He  was  given  to  a  bizarre  kind  of  fun  in  high 
spirits,  and  occasionally  to  real  gayety.  He  was  always  capable  of  a  childlike  llght- 
heartedness,  and  from  his  boyhood  he  would  sing  by  himself.  These  traits,  which  Hogg 
describes,  are  gathered  from  a  longer  period  than  their  college  days.  At  Oxford  his 
physical  regime  was  sufficient,  if  not  hearty.     He  was  well  and  strong. 

Every  afternoon  the  friends  took  a  long  walk  across  country,  and  Shelley  always  car- 
ried his  pistols  for  practice  in  shooting.  Several  of  their  adventures  on  these  walks  are 
recorded,  and  are  too  characteristic  to  be  wholly  passed  over.  The  picture  of  him  feed- 
ing a  little  girl,  mean,  dull  and  unattractive,  whom  he  found  oppressed  by  cold  and  hun- 
ger and  the  vague  feeling  of  abandonment,  and  drew,  not  without  a  gentle  violence,  to  a 
cottage  near  by  to  get  some  milk  for  her,  is  one  of  the  most  vivid.  '  It  was  a  strange 
spectacle  to  watch  the  young  poet  w^hilst  .  .  .  holding  the  wooden  bowl  in  one  hand  and 
the  wooden  spoon  in  the  other,  and  kneeling  on  his  left  knee,  that  he  might  more  cer- 
tainly attain  to  her  mouth,  he  urged  and  encouraged  the  torpid  and  timid  child  to  eat.' 
His  adventure  with  the  gypsy  boy  and  girl,  also,  is  pretty.  He  had  met  them  a  day  or 
two  before,  and,  on  seeing  him  again,  the  children,  with  a  laughing  salutation,  darted 
back  into  the  tent  and  Shelley  after  them.  '  He  placed  a  hand  on  each  round,  rough 
head,  spoke  a  few  kind  words  to  the  skulking  children,  and  then  returned  not  less  pre- 
cipitately, and  with  as  much  ease  and  accuracy  as  if  he  had  been  a  dweller  in  tents  from 
the  hour  when  he  first  drew  air  and  milk  to  that  day.'  As  he  walked  off  he  rolled  an 
orange  tmder  their  feet.  On  returning  from  these  excursions  Shelley  would  curl  up  on 
the  rug,  with  his  head  to  the  fire  where  the  heat  was  hottest,  and  sleep  for  three  or  four 
hours  ;  then  he  woke  and  took  supper  and  talked  till  two,  which  Hogg  had  sternly  fixed 
as  the  hour  to  retire. 

Hogg  describes  Shelley's  figure  rather  than  his  life.     He  had  come  up  to  Oxford  with 


xxii  PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

many  plans  already  on  foot,  but  he  constantly  found  something  new  to  do.  The  practical 
instinct  in  him  was  as  strong  as  the  intellectual.  He  was  in  haste  to  act,  and  not  merely 
from  that  necessity  for  expression  which  belongs  to  literary  genius,  but  with  that  passion 
for  realizing  ideas  which  belongs  to  the  reformer.  In  his  early  career  the  latter  quality 
seems  to  predominate  because  its  effects  were  obvious,  and,  besides,  literary  progress  is  a 
slower  matter  ;  but  both  elements  worked  together  equally  in  developing  his  character 
and  determining  his  career.  Stockdale  had  withdrawn  the  poems  of  '  Victor  and  Cazire,* 
but  he  was  publishing  '  St.  Irvyne,'  and  considering  '  The  Wandering  Jew.'  The  Oxford 
printers  undertook  '  The  Posthumous  Fragments  of  Margaret  Nicholson,'  a  new  collec- 
tiou  of  poems,  and  published  it.  These  verses,  in  which  only  the  slight  burlesque 
element,  due  to  Hogg,  was  contemporary,  represent  the  results  on  Shelley's  imagination 
and  taste  of  a  really  earlier  period,  and  belong  with  *  Zastrozzi,'  and  '  St.  Irvyne.'  His 
poetic  taste  was  improving,  but  the  ferment  of  his  mind  was  now  mainly  intellectual, 
and  the  new  elements  showed  their  influence  principally  in  the  propagandism  of  his  spec- 
ulative opinions,  his  sympathy  with  the  agitators  for  political  reform,  and  his  efforts  to 
be  of  service  to  obscure  writers.  He  continued  to  be  interested  in  Brown's  '  Sweden,' 
and  on  his  last  day  at  Oxford,  became  joint  security  with  the  publishers  for  £800  —  a 
loss  which  fell  upon  them  —  to  bring  out  the  work.  He  also  encouraged  the  publication 
(and  may  have  undertaken  to  help  pay  for  it)  of  a  volume  of  poems  by  Miss  Janettn 
Phillips,  in  whom  he  thought  he  had  discovered  a  schoolgirl  genius  like  Felicia  Brown. 
He  was  more  deeply  interested  in  the  case  of  Finnerty,  an  Irish  agitator  imprisoned  for 
political  publications,  and  published  a  poem,  now  lost,  for  his  benefit,  and  subscribed  his 
guinea  to  the  fund  for  his  relief  ;  and,  in  connection  with  this  case  also  he  first  addressed 
Leigh  Hunt,  urging  an  association  of  men  of  liberal  principles  for  mutual  protection. 
His  acquaintance  with  Hume  and  Locke,  and  the  writings  of  the  English  reformers,  led 
him  to  skeptical  views.  He  informed  Stockdale  of  a  novel  (presumably  '  Leonora,' 
which  was  printed  but  not  published,  and  is  now  unknown,  in  which  Hogg  may  have  had 
the  principal  share)  '  principally  constructed  to  convey  metaphysical  and  political  opin- 
ions by  way  of  conversation,'  and  also  of  '  A  Metaphysical  Essay  in  support  of  Atheism, 
which  he  intended  to  promulgate  throughout  the  University.'  The  most  important  expres- 
sion of  these  new  views  was  made  in  his  letters  to  his  cousin,  Harriet  Grove,  to  the  alarm 
of  herself  and  her  parents,  who  communicated  with  Shelley's  father,  and  broke  off  the 
match.  Stockdale,  also,  found  it  to  be  his  duty  to  inform  Shelley's  father  of  his  son's 
dangerous  principles,  and  at  the  same  time  to  express  injurious  ideas  of  Hogg*s  influence 
and  character.  When  Shelley  returned  home  at  Christmas,  between  the  anxiety  of  his 
family  over  his  state  of  mind  and  his  own  feeling  of  exasperation  and  sense  of  injustice 
in  the  check  given  to  his  love,  he  had  little  enjoyment.  On  his  return  to  Oxford  his  intel- 
lectual life  reached  a  climax  in  the  publication  of  his  tract,  '  The  Necessity  of  Atheism,' 
which  he  seems  to  have  intended  as  a  circular  letter  for  that  irresponsible  correspondence 
with  strangers  of  which  he  had  learned  the  habit  from  Dr.  Lind.  He  strewed  copies  of 
this  paper  in  Slatter's  bookstore,  where  they  remained  on  sale  twenty  minutes  before  dis- 
covery ;  but  the  friends  who  at  once  summoned  him  to  remonstrate  were  shocked  when 
he  told  them  that  he  had  sent  copies  to  every  bishop  on  the  bench,  to  the  vice-chancellor, 
and  to  each  of  the  Heads  of  Houses.  The  college  authorities  did  not  at  once  act,  but  on 
March  25,  they  assembled  and  summoned  him.     Hogg  describes  what  followed  :  — 

'  It  was  a  fine  spring  morning,  on  Lady  Day,  in  the  year  1811,  when  I  went  to  Shelley's 
room.  He  was  absent,  but  before  I  had  collected  our  books  he  rushed  in.  He  was  ter- 
ribly agitated.     I  anxiously  inquired  what  had  happened.     "  I  am  expelled,"  he  said,  as 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xxiu 

soon  as  he  liad  recovered  himself  a  little,  "I  am  expelled  !  I  was  sent  for  suddenly  a 
few  minutes  ago.  I  went  to  our  common  room,  where  I  found  our  Master  and  two  or 
tliree  of  the  Fellows.  The  Master  produced  a  copy  of  the  little  syllabus,  and  asked  me 
whether  I  was  the  author  of  it.  He  spoke  in  a  rude,  abrupt  and  insolent  tone.  I  begged 
to  be  informed  for  what  purpose  he  put  the  question.  No  answer  was  given,  but  the 
Master  loiidly  and  angrily  repeated,  '  Are  you  the  author  of  this  book  ? '  '  If  I  can 
judge  from  your  manner,'  I  said, '  you  are  resolved  to  punish  me  if  I  should  acknowledge 
tliat  it  is  my  work.  If  you  can  prove  that  it  is,  produce  your  evidence.  It  is  neither 
just  nor  lawful  to  interrogate  me  in  such  a  case  and  for  such  a  purpose.  Such  proceed- 
ings would  become  a  court  of  inquisitors,  but  not  free  men  in  a  free  country.*  '  Do  you 
choose  to  deny  that  this  is  your  composition  ?  '  the  Master  reiterated  in  the  same  rude 
and  angry  voice."  Shelley  complained  much  of  his  violence  and  ungentlemanly  deport- 
ment, saying,  "  I  have  experienced  tyranny  and  injustice  before,  and  I  well  know  what 
vulgar  violence  is,  but  I  never  met  with  such  unworthy  treatment.  I  told  him  calmly, 
but  firmly,  that  I  was  determined  not  to  answer  any  questions  respecting  the  publication. 
He  immediately  repeated  his  demands.  I  persisted  in  my  refusal,  and  he  said  furiously, 
*  Then  you  are  expelled,  and  I  desire  that  you  will  quit  the  college  early  to-morrow 
morning  at  the  latest.'  One  of  the  Fellows  took  up  two  papers  and  handed  one  of  them 
to  me,  —  here  it  is."  He  produced  a  regular  sentence  of  expulsion  drawn  up  in  due  form, 
under  the  seal  of  the  college.  ...  I  have  been  with  Shelley  in  many  trying  situations 
of  his  after-life,  but  I  never  saw  him  so  deeply  shocked  or  so  cruelly  agitated  as  on 
this  occasion.  .  .  .  He  sat  on  the  sofa,  repeating  with  convulsive  vehemence  the  words 
"  expelled  !  expelled  ! "  his  head  shaking  with  emotion,  and  his  whole  frame  quiver- 
ing.' 

Hogg  immediately  sent  word  that  he  was  as  mnch  concerned  in  the  afPair  as  Shelley, 
and  received  straightway  the  same  sentence.  In  the  afternoon  a  notice  was  publicly 
posted  on  the  hall  door,  announcing  the  expulsion  of  the  two  students  '  for  contumaciously 
refusing  to  answer  questions  proposed  to  them,  and  for  also  repeatedly  declining  to  disa- 
vow a  publication  entitled  "  Necessity  of  Atheism."  '  That  afternoon  Shelley  visited  his 
old  Eton  friend,  Halliday,  saying,  '  Halliday,  I  am  come  to  say  good-by  to  you,  if  you  are 
not  afraid  to  be  seen  with  me.'  The  next  morning  the  two  friends  left  Oxford  for  Lon- 
don. Medwin  tells  how,  a  day  or  two  later,  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  Shelley 
knocked  at  his  door  in  Garden  Court  in  the  Temple.  *  I  think  I  hear  his  cracked  voice, 
with  his  well-known  pipe,  "  Medwin,  let  me  in  !  I  am  expelled  !  "  Here  followed  a  loud 
half-hysteric  laugh,  and  the  repetition  of  the  words,  "  I  am  expelled,"  with  the  addition 
of  "for  atheism." '  He  and  Hogg  took  lodgings  in  London,  but  in  a  few  weeks  the  lat- 
ter went  home  and  left  Shelley  alone. 

If  Shelley  was  shocked.  Field  Place  was  troubled.  His  father  demanded  that  he 
should  return  home,  place  himself  submissively  under  a  tutor,  give  up  all  connection 
with  Hogg,  apologize  to  the  authorities  at  Oxford,  and  profess  conformity  to  the  church; 
otherwise  he  should  have  neither  home  nor  money.  Timothy  Shelley  was  not  a  harsh 
man  or  an  unfeeling  father;  he  was  kind-hearted,  irascible  and  obstinate,  inconsequential 
in  his  talk,  and  destitute  of  tact,  with  character  and  principles  neither  better  nor  worse 
than  respectability  required.  He  received  the  world  from  Providence,  and  his  opinions 
from  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  and  was  content.  He  was  a  country  squire  and  satisfied  his 
constituents,  his  tenants,  his  family,  and  his  servants,  and  all  that  was  his  except  his 
father  and  his  eldest  son.  It  is  pleasant  to  recall  the  fact  that  long  after  Shelley  was 
dead  his  old  nurse  received  her  Christmas  gift  at  the  homestead  to  the  end  of  her  days. 


xxiv  PERCY   BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


Timothy  Shelley  was  both  alarmed  and  scandalized  by  his  son's  conduct,  and  he  was  evi- 
dently sincerely  concerned.  He  did  not  understand  it,  and  he  did  not  know  what  to  do. 
At  this  time,  too,  Shelley  was  an  important  person  to  his  family,  which  had  recently 
obtained  wealth  and  title.  He  was  looked  to,  as  the  heir,  to  maintain  and  secure  its 
position,  and  the  entail  was  already  made  for  a  large  portion  of  the  estate,  — £80,000, 
although  a  remainder  of  £120,000  was  still  unsettled.  Old  Sir  Bysshe,  who  had  been  made 
a  baronet  in  1806,  was  the  founder  of  this  prosperity.  If  he  was  an  abler  man  than 
Timothy,  whom  he  was  accustomed  to  curse  roundly  to  his  face,  he  was  a  worse  man. 
He  was  miserly,  sordid,  and  vulgar  in  his  tastes.  He  professed  himself  an  atheist,  and 
though  he  appears  to  have  favored  his  grandson,  when  young,  he  had  set  an  example 
which  profited  him  ill.  He  was  born  in  America,  where  his  father  had  emigrated  early 
in  the  last  century  and  had  married  with  a  stock  not  now  traceable,  so  that  there  were 
some  drops  of  American  blood  in  Shelley's  veins.  On  his  father's  return  to  England, 
owing  to  the  lunacy  of  his  elder  brother,  to  take  charge  of  the  small  family  place  at  Fen 
Place,  Bysshe,  then  eighteen  years  old,  went  with  him,  and  began  the  career  of  a  fortune- 
hunter.  He  twice  eloped  with  wealthy  heiresses,  and  their  property  was  the  nucleus  of 
the  estate  he  built  up.  Two  of  his  daughters  followed  his  example  in  their  mode  of 
marrying.  He  had  devoted  himself  to  founding  a  family  and  had  succeeded,  and  at  the 
end  of  his  days  he  was  deeply  concerned  in  the  fate  of  the  settlements.  There  were 
reasons,  therefore,  for  making  Shelley  take  a  view  of  his  place  more  in  harmony  with 
family  expectations. 

Shelley,  on  his  side,  was  not  lacking  in  family  affection.  He  was  tenderly  attached  to 
his  sisters,  and  Hogg  relates  that  at  Oxford  he  never  received  a  letter  from  them  or  his 
mother  without  manifest  pleasure.  He  certainly  left  in  their  minds  only  pleasant  mem- 
ories of  himself.  He  had  a  boy's  regard  for  his  father  in  early  years,  and  his  letters  are, 
if  firm,  not  deficient  in  respect.  The  only  sign  of  distrust  up  to  this  period  was  the  sus- 
picion, already  mentioned,  that  his  father  intended  sending  him  to  a  lunatic  asylum  at 
the  time  when  he  was  home  from  Eton  ill  with  fever.  But,  however  warm  his  home 
affections  were,  he  was  not,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  prepared  to  abandon  on  command  his 
mind  and  what  was  to  him  moral  duty;  and  he  declined  to  accede  to  his  father's  terms. 
His  relatives,  the  Medwins  and  Groves,  helped  him  in  London,  and  his  sisters,  who  were 
at  school,  sent  him  their  pocket  money  by  a  schoolmate.  In  the  course  of  six  weeks, 
after  several  ineffectual  letters  and  interviews,  a  settlement  was  brought  about,  appar- 
ently through  a  maternal  uncle,  Captain  Pilfold,  who  lived  near  Field  Place  and  was 
always  Shelley's  friend ;  and  it  was  agreed  that  Shelley  should  have  £200  a  year  and 
entire  freedom.  This  was  toward  the  middle  of  May,  and  early  in  June  he  returned 
home,  where  he  was  well  received,  though  he  found  his  favorite  sister,  Elizabeth,  whom 
he  hoped  Hogg  might  marry,  less  confiding  in  her  brother  than  before  these  events.  He 
was  especially  struck  by  the  fact  that  the  principles  of  his  parents  were  social  conven- 
tions, and  that  conflict  with  his  own  ideas  did  not  proceed  from  any  real  convictions. 

In  Shelley's  enforced  absence  from  his  family  an  unknown  opportunity  had  been  given 
for  blasting  their  hopes  more  effectual  than  any  concession  that  could  have  been  made 
which  would  have  kept  him  near  them.  He  had  become  acquainted  with  Harriet  West- 
brook  in  the  Christmas  vacation  before  he  left  Oxford.  She  was  a  schoolmate  of  his 
sisters  at  Mrs.  Fenning's,  Clapham,  like  Sion  House  a  middle-class  school ;  and  he  bad 
been  commissioned  to  take  her  a  gift.  A  correspondence  sprang  up,  which,  like  all  of 
Shelley's  correspondences,  was  confined  to  his  opinions,  as  he  was  still  in  the  missionary 
stage  of  conviction.    When  he  was  living  in  London,  it  wai:  she  who  acted  between  him 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xxv 

^*'  ■ 

and  his  sisters  and  brought  him  tlieir  savings.  There  was  also  an  elder  Miss  Westbrook, 
Eliza,  thirty  years  old,  who  was  very  kind  to  Shelley;  she  took  him  to  walk,  with  Harriet, 
invited  him  to  call,  and  was  on  all  occasions  ready  to  bring  them  together,  guided  the 
conversation  upon  love,  and  left  them  alone.  Mr.  Westbrook,  Shelley  noticed,  was  very 
civil.  He  was  a  retired  tavern-keeper.  Shelley's  interest  was  the  more  engaged,  because 
Harriet  was  reproached  at  school  for  being  friendly  with  a  youth  of  his  principles,  and 
suffered  petty  annoyances.  She  was  a  pretty,  bright,  amiable  girl,  sixteen,  slightly 
formed,  with  regular  features,  a  pink  and  white  complexion  uncommonly  brilliant,  and 
pure,  brown  hair  —  'like  a  poet's  dream,'  says  Helen;  and  with  this  youthful  bloom  she 
had  a  frank  air,  grace,  and  a  pleasant  lively  laugh.  But  Shelley,  though  interested  in 
his  '  little  friend,'  as  he  called  her,  was  untouched;  and  when  he  went  down  to  his  uncle  Pil- 
fold's  in  May,  in  search  of  reconciliation  with  his  father,  he  there  met  another  to  admire, 
Miss  Kitchener,  a  school-teacher  of  twenty-nine,  who  was  to  hold  a  high  place  in  his 
esteem,  and  with  whom  he  began  his  customary  correspondence  on  metaphysics,  educa- 
tion, and  the  causes  that  interested  him.  He  remained  at  home  a  month,  and  wrote 
apparently  his  lost  poem  on  the  fete  at  Carlton  House,  and  in  July  went  to  Wales  to  visit 
his  cousins,  the  Groves.  He  was  taken  soon  after  his  arrival  with  a  brief  though  violent 
nervous  illness,  but  recovered,  and  was  greatly  delighted  with  the  mountain  scenery,  then 
new  to  him.  In  his  rambles  in  the  neighborhood  he  met  with  that  adventure  with  the 
beggar  which  seems  to  have  impressed  him  deeply.  He  gave  the  man  something  and  fol- 
lowed him  a  mile,  trying  to  enter  into  talk  with  him.  Finally  the  beggar  said,  *  I  see  by 
your  dress  that  you  are  a  rich  man.  They  have  injured  me  and  mine  a  million  times. 
You  appear  to  me  well  intentioned,  but  I  have  no  security  of  it  while  you  live  in  such  a 
house  as  that,  or  wear  such  clothes  as  those.     It  would  be  charity  to  quit  me.' 

The  Westbrooks  also  were  in  Wales,  and  letters  came  from  Harriet,  who  wrote  de- 
spondently, complained  of  unhappiness  at  home,  dwelt  upon  suicide,  and  at  last  asked 
Shelley's  protection.  *  Her  letters,'  says  Shelley,  writing  two  months  later  to  Miss 
Hitchener,  '  became  more  and  more  gloomy.  At  length  one  assumed  a  tone  of  such  de- 
spair, as  induced  me  to  leave  Wales  precipitately.  I  arrived  in  London.  I  was  shocked 
at  observing  the  alteration  in  her  looks.  Little  did  I  divine  its  cause.  She  had  become 
violently  attached  to  me,  and  feared  that  I  should  not  return  her  attachment.  Prejudice 
made  the  confession  painful.  It  was  impossible  to  avoid  being  much  affected;  I  promised 
to  unite  my  fate  to  hers.  I  stayed  in  London  several  days,  during  which  she  recovered 
her  spirits.  I  promised  at  her  bidding  to  come  again  to  London.'  This  was  in  the  early 
part  of  August.  He  wrote  to  Hogg,  whom  he  had  previously  told  that  he  was  not  in 
love,  detailing  the  affair,  and  discussed  with  him  whether  he  should  marry  Harriet,  or,  as 
she  was  ready  to  do,  should  disregard  an  institution  which  he  had  learned  from  Godwin 
to  consider  irrational.  He  went  home  and  did  not  anticipate  that  any  decision  would  be 
necessary  at  present.  Within  a  week  Harriet  called  him  back  because  her  father  would 
force  her  to  return  to  school.  He  went  to  her,  took  the  course  of  honor,  and  in  the  last 
week  of  August  went  with  her  to  Edinburgh,  where  they  were  married,  August  28.  He 
was  nineteen,  and  she  sixteen  years  of  age. 

Shelley  was  no  sooner  married  than  he  began  to  feel  the  pecuniary  embarrassments 
which  were  to  become  familiar  to  him.  He  had  never  been  without  money,  except  for 
the  six  weeks  in  London  after  leaving  Oxford,  and  he  did  not  anticipate  that  his  father 
would  cut  him  off.  He  had  borrowed  the  money  for  his  journey  from  the  elder  Medwin, 
and  now,  his  quarterly  allowance  not  being  paid,  he  was  kept  from  want  only  by  a  kindly 
remittance  from  bis  unde  Filfold.     Hogg  bad  joined  tbem  at  Edinburgh,  but  Shelley 


xxvi  PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

was  anxious  to  luake  a  settlement,  and  early  in  October  the  party  went  to  York,  where 
Shelley  left  Harriet  in  Hogg's  charge  while  he  went  on  to  his  uncle's  to  seek  some  com- 
munication witli  his  father.  Within  a  week  he  returned,  unsuccessful,  to  York,  whither 
Harriet's  elder  sister,  Eliza,  had  preceded  him.  He  found  on  his  arrival  that  Hogg  had 
undertaken  to  intrigue  with  Harriet.  A  month  later,  in  a  letter  to  Miss  Kitchener  he 
gave  an  account  of  the  interview  he  had  with  him :  — 

*  We  walked  to  the  fields  beyond  York.  I  desired  to  know  fully  the  account  of  this 
affair.  I  heard  it  from  him  and  I  believe  he  was  sincere.  All  that  I  can  recollect  of 
that  terrible  day  is  that  I  pardoned  him,  —  fully,  freely  pardoned  him;  that  I  would  still 
be  a  friend  to  him,  and  hoped  soon  to  convince  him  how  lovely  virtue  was;  that  his  crime, 
not  himself,  was  the  object  of  my  detestation;  that  I  value  a  human  being  not  for  what 
it  has  been,  but  for  what  it  is;  that  1  hoped  the  time  would  come  when  he  would  regard 
this  horrible  error  with  as  much  disgust  as  I  did.  He  said  little.  He  was  pale,  terror- 
struck,  remorseful.' 

After  this  incident  Shelley  remained  in  York  but  a  few  days,  and  in  November  left 
without  giving  Hogg  any  intimation  of  his  intentions.  '  I  leave  him,'  wrote  Shelley,  '  to 
his  fate.     Would  that  I  could  rescue  him.' 

He  took  a  cottage  at  Keswick.  He  had  already  written  to  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  who 
had  before  been  brought  in  as  a  peacemaker  between  father  and  son,  soliciting  his  inter- 
vention, and  was  invited  to  Grej'stoke  by  the  duke,  where  he  spent  with  his  family  a  few 
days  at  the  expense  of  almost  his  last  guinea.  He  wrote  to  the  elder  Med  win:  '  We  are 
now  so  poor  as  to  be  actually  in  danger  of  every  day  being  deprived  of  the  necessaries  of 
life.'  In  December  Mr.  Westbrook  allowed  Harriet  £200  a  year,  and  in  January  Shelley's 
father  made  an  equal  allowance  to  him,  to  prevent  '  his  cheating  strangers.'  At  Grey- 
stoke  he  had  met  Calvert,  who  introduced  him  to  Southey.  *  Here  is  a  man  at  Keswick,' 
wrote  Southey,  '  who  acts  upon  me  as  my  own  ghost  would  do;  he  is  just  what  I  was  in 
1794.'  Shelley  had  long  regarded  Southey  with  admiration,  and  'Thalaba'  remained  a 
favorite  book  with  him.  But,  although  Southey  was  kind  to  him,  contributing  to  his 
domestic  comfort  in  material  ways,  the  acquaintance  resulted  in  a  diminution  of  Shelley's 
regard.  On  January  2  he  introduced  himself  to  Godwin  by  letter,  according  to  his 
custom,  having  only  then  heard  that  the  writer  whom  he  really  revered  was  still  alive, 
and  he  interested  the  grave  philosopher  very  earnestly  in  his  welfare.  Meanwhile  he 
had  not  been  idle.  Through  all  these  events,  indeed,  he  must  have  kept  busy  with  his 
pen.  He  designed  a  poem  representing  the  perfect  state  of  man,  gathered  his  verses  to 
make  a  volume,  worked  on  his  metaphysical  essays,  and,  especially,  composed  a  novel, 
'Hubert  Cauviu,' to  illustrate  the  causes  of  the  failure  of  the  French  Revolution.  At 
Keswick,  too,  occurred  the  first  of  the  personal  assaults  on  Shelley,  which  tried  the  be- 
lief of  his  friends.  He  had  begun  the  use  of  laudanum,  as  a  relief  from  pain,  but  he 
had  recovered  from  the  illness  which  discloses  this  fact,  before  the  incident  occurred.  On 
January  19,  at  seven  o'clock  at  night,  Shelley,  hearing  an  unusual  noise,  went  to  the  door 
and  was  struck  to  the  ground  and  stunned  by  a  blow.  His  landlord,  alarmed  by  the  noise, 
came  to  the  scene,  and  the  assailant  fled.  The  affair  was  publisVied  in  the  local  paper, 
and  is  spoken  of  by  Harriet  as  well  as  Shelley.  Some  of  the  neighbors  disbelieved  in  it, 
but  his  simple  chemical  experiments  had  excited  their  minds  and  made  him  an  object  of 
suspicion,  and  it  is  to  be  said  that  the  count/y  was  in  a  disturbed  state.  Shelley's  thoughts 
were  already  turned  to  Ireland  as  a  field  of  practical  action,  and,  his  private  affairs  being 
now  satisfactorily  settled,  he  determined  to  go  there  and  work  for  the  cause  of  Catholic 
emancipation.     At  Keswick  be  wrote  his  <  Address  to  the  Irish  People,'  and  in  spite  of 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xxvii 

the  dissuasion  of  Calvert  and  Godwin  lie  started  with  his  wife  in  the  first  days  of  Feb- 
ruary, 1812,  and  arrived  in  Dublin  on  the  12th. 

Shelley  sent  his  '  Address  '  to  the  printer,  and  within  two  weeks  Lad  fifteen  hundred 
copies  on  hand,  which  he  distributed  freely,  sending  them  to  sixty  coffee-houses,  flinging 
them  from  his  balcony,  giving  them  away  on  the  street,  and  sending  out  a  man  with 
them.  He  wrote  also  '  Proposals  for  an  Association,'  published  March  2.  He  had  pre- 
sented a  letter  from  Godwin  to  Curran,  and  made  himself  known  to  the  leaders.  On 
February  28,  at  a  public  meeting  which  O'Connell  addressed,  Shelley  also  spoke  for  an 
hour,  and  received  mingled  hisses  and  applause,  —  applause  for  the  wrongs  of  Ireland, 
hisses  for  his  plea  for  religious  toleration.  He  also  became  acquainted  with  Mr.  Lawless, 
a  follower  of  Curran,  and  wrote  passages  of  Irish  history  for  a  proposed  work  by  him. 
Meanwhile  Godwin  sent  letters  dissuading  him  from  his  course,  and  finally  wound  up,  — 
'Shelley,  you  are  preparing  a  scene  of  blood.'  Shelley's  Irish  principles  were  but 
remotely  connected  with  the  practical  politics  of  the  hour,  and  consisted,  in  the  main,  of 
very  general  convictions  in  regard  to  equality,  toleration,  and  the  other  elements  of 
republican  government.  He  did  compose,  out  of  French  sources,  a  revolutionary  '  De- 
claration of  Rights.'  He  was  soon  discouraged  by  the  character  of  the  men  and  of  the 
situation.  His  heart,  too,  was  touched  by  the  state  of  the  people,  for  he  engaged  at  once 
in  that  practical  philanthropy  which  was  always  a  large  part  of  his  personal  life.  *  A 
poor  boy,'  he  writes,  '  whom  I  found  starving  with  his  mother,  in  a  hiding  place  of  unut- 
terable filth  and  misery,  —  whom  I  rescued  and  was  about  to  teach,  has  been  snatched  on 
a  charge  of  false  and  villainous  effrontery  to  a  Magistrate  of  Hell,  who  gave  him  the 
alternative  of  the  tender  or  of  military  servitude.  ...  I  am  sick  of  this  city,  and  long  to 
be  with  you  and  peace.'  At  last  he  gave  up,  sent  forward  a  box  filled  with  his  books, 
which  was  inspected  by  the  government  and  reported  as  seditious,  and  on  April  4  left 
Ireland.  He  settled  ten  days  later  at  Nantgwilt,  near  Cwm  Elan,  the  seat  of  his  cousins, 
the  Groves,  and  there  remained  until  June.  In  this  period  he  appears  to  have  met  Pea- 
cock, through  whom  he  was  probably  introduced  to  his  London  publisher,  Hookham.  In 
June  he  again  migrated  to  Lynmouth  in  Devon.  Here  he  wrote  his  '  Letter  to  Lord 
Ellenborough,'  defending  Eaton,  who  had  been  sentenced  for  publishing  Paine's  '  Age  of 
Reason '  in  a  periodical.  He  amused  himself  by  putting  copies  of  the  '  Declaration  of 
Rights  '  and  a  new  satirical  poem,  '  The  Devil's  Walk,'  in  bottles  and  fire  balloons,  and 
setting  them  adrift  by  sea  and  air;  but  a  more  mundane  attempt  to  circulate  the  *  De- 
claration of  Rights '  resulted  unfortunately  for  his  servant,  Dan  Healy,  who  had  become 
attached  to  him  and  followed  him  from  Ireland,  and  was  punished  in  a  fine  of  £200  or 
eight  months'  imprisonment  for  posting  it  on  the  walls  of  Barnstable.  Shelley  could  not 
pay  the  fine,  but  he  provided  fifteen  shillings  a  week  to  make  the  prisoner's  confinement 
more  comfortable.  The  government  now  put  Shelley  under  surveillance,  and  he  was 
watched  by  Leeson,  a  spy.  At  Lynmouth  '  Queen  Mab  '  is  first  heard  of.  In  September 
he  removed  to  Tanyrallt,  near  Tremadoc,  in  Wales,  where  he  became  deeply  interested 
in  a  scheme  of  Mr.  Maddock's  for  reclaiming  some  waste  land  by  an  embankment.  It 
was  a  large,  practical  enterprise,  which  engaged  both  Shelley's  imagination  and  his  spirit 
of  philanthropy.  He  subscribed  £100,  and  on  October  4,  went  to  London,  seeking  to 
interest  others  ill  this  undertaking.  Here  he  first  met  Godwin,  through  whom  he  became 
acquainted  with  the  Newtons,  of  vegetarian  fame,  but  before  this,  while  in  Dublin,  he 
had  himself  adopted  that  way  of  life.  It  is  uncertain  whether  at  this  time  he  saw  God- 
win's daughter  Mary.  He  renewed  his  acquaintance  with  Hogg,  in  whose  narratire 
scenes  of  Shelley's  life  at  this  period,  presented  with  the  same  vigor  and  vivacity  as  in 


rxviii  PERCY  BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

the  Oxford  time,  occur.  None  of  them  are  more  humorous  than  such  as  describe  the  ap« 
pearance  of  Miss  Kitchener,  who,  yielding  to  Shelley's  long  expressed  wish,  had  Joined 
the  family  before  they  left  Wales  and  was  now  an  inmate  of  the  household.  Shelley  had 
idealized  her  at  a  distance,  but  her  near  neighborhood  was  disenchantment.  Hogg's  de- 
scription of  his  walk  with  the  '  Brown  Demon,'  as  he  called  her,  on  one  arm,  and  the 
'  Black  Diamond,'  as  he  nicknamed  Eliza,  on  the  other,  has  given  her  an  unenviable 
figure.  She  was  finally  got  rid  of,  and  a  stipend  paid  her  to  make  good  the  loss  she  had 
suffered  by  giving  up  her  school-teaching;  but  in  her  after-life  she  was  much  respected 
by  those  with  whom  she  lived;  and  she  appears  to  have  remained  very  loyal  to  the 
poet,  whose  correspondence  for  nearly  two  years  was  so  large  a  part  of  her  life. 

Shelley  returned  to  Wales  on  November  13,  going  to  Tanyrallt.  There  he  worked 
very  constantly  at  his  essays,  an  unpublislied  collection  of  *  Biblical  Extracts  '  for  poptdar 
distribution,  and  '  Queen  Mab.'  There  also  occurred  the  second  assault  upon  him,  which 
has  been  received  with  more  distrust  than  any  other  event  in  his  life.  On  February  26, 
between  ten  and  eleven  o'clock,  Shelley,  after  retiring,  was  alarmed  by  a  noise  in  the 
parlor  below.  He  went  down  with  two  loaded  pistols  to  the  billiard  room,  and  followed 
the  sound  of  retreating  footsteps  into  a  small  office,  where  he  saw  a  man  passing,  through 
a  glass  window.  The  man  fired,  and  Shelley's  pistol  flashed,  on  which  the  man  knocked 
Shelley  down,  and,  while  they  struggled,  Shelley  fired  his  second  pistol,  which  he  thought 
took  effect.  The  man  arose  with  a  cry  and  said,  *  By  God,  I  will  be  revenged  !  I  will 
murder  your  wife  !  I  will  ravish  your  sister  !  By  God,  I  will  be  revenged  ! '  He  then 
fled.  The  servants  were  still  up,  and  the  whole  family  assembled  in  the  parlor  and 
remained  for  two  hours.  Shelley  and  his  servant,  Dan,  who  had  that  day  returned  from 
prison,  sat  up.  At  four  o'clock,  Harriet  heard  a  pistol  shot,  and  on  going  down,  found 
that  Shelley's  clothes  and  the  window  curtain  had  been  shot  through.  Dan  had  left  the 
room  to  see  what  time  it  was,  when  Shelley  heard  a  noise  at  the  window;  as  he  approached 
it,  a  man  thrust  his  arm  through  the  glass  and  fired.  Shelley's  pistol  again  missed  fire, 
and  he  struck  at  the  man  with  an  old  sword ;  while  they  were  still  struggling,  Dan  came 
back,  and  the  man  escaped.  Peacock  was  there  the  next  summer,  and  heard  that  person.s 
who  examined  the  premises  in  the  morning,  found  the  grass  trampled  and  rolled  on,  but 
there  were  no  footprints  except  toward  the  house,  and  the  impression  of  the  ball  on  the 
wainscot  showed  that  the  pistol  had  been  fired  toward  the  window  and  not  from  it. 
There  are  other  accounts  of  what  Shelley  said.  In  after  years  he  ascribed  the  spasms  of 
pain,  from  which  he  suffered,  to  the  pressure  of  the  man's  knee  on  his  body.  It  is  not 
unlikely,  as  Dowden  remarks,  that  Dan  Healy  had  been  followed  by  a  spy,  and  it  is 
known  that  Shelley  was  dogged  by  Leeson,  whom  he  feared  long  afterwards.  If  the 
affair  is  regarded  as  an  illusion  of  the  sort  to  which  Shelley  was  said  to  be  subject,  the 
material  circumstances  show  that  the  event  was  one  of  intense  reality  to  Shelley,  and  it 
is  not  strange  that  he  immediately  left  the  neighborhood,  finding  life  there  insupportable. 
He  made  a  short  journey  to  Ireland,  where  he  arrived  March  9,  visited  the  Lakes  of 
Killarney,  and  returned  to  Dublin,  March  21.     Early  in  April  he  was  back  in  London. 

On  returning  to  London,  Shelley  entered  again  into  negotiations  with  his  father  for  a 
further  settlement.  He  would  soon  be  of  age,  and  it  was  necessary  to  make  some  terms 
to  prevent  the  loss  the  estate  would  suffer  by  raising  money  on  post-obit  bonds.  He  was 
much  harassed  by  his  creditors,  and  his  father  is  said  privately  to  have  taken  measures 
to  relieve  him  from  their  persecutions  without  his  knowledge.  It  is  uncertain  whether 
he  lived  in  a  hotel  or  in  lodgings.  His  first  child,  lauthe  Eliza,  was  born  in  June.  At 
the  end  of  July  he  was  settled  at  Bracknell,  near  the  Buinvilles,  who  were  connected 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xxlx 

fc^— —  — ^ , —  I 

with  the  Newtons.  Here  Peacock  visited  biin,  and  from  this  time  became  intimate. 
Peacock's  cold  judgment,  notwithstanding  his  frequent  skepticism  and  imperfect  know- 
ledge of  Shelley's  affairs,  makes  his  impressions  valuable.  To  him,  more  than  to  any 
other  external  iiifluence,  is  to  be  attributed  the  devotion  of  Shelley,  which  now  began,  to 
Greek  studies.  In  the  first  week  of  October  Peacock  joined  the  family  in  a  journey  to 
Edinburgh,  taken  in  a  private  carriage  which  Shelley  had  bought  for  Harriet.  Nothing 
noteworthy  occurred  except  that  Shelley  made  a  new  convert,  Baptista,  a  young  Brazilian, 
wko  corresponded  with  him  and  partly  translated  *  Queen  Mab,'  which  had  been  printed 
in  the  late  spring,  into  Portuguese;  but  he  died  while  young.  Shelley  returned  to  Loudon 
in  December. 

Two  years  and  a  half  had  now  passed  since  Shelley's  marriage,  and  the  union,  in  which 
love  upon  his  part  had  not  originally  been  an  element,  had  become  one  of  warm  affection. 
Through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  his  wandering  life  it  was  a  main  source  of  Shelley's  happi- 
ness. Time  now  began  to  disclose  those  limitations  of  character  and  temperament  which 
were  to  be  anticipated.  The  last  pleasant  scene  in  this  early  married  life  is  Peacock's 
description  of  Shelley's  pleasure  in  his  child  :  — 

'  He  was  extremely  fond  of  it,  and  would  walk  up  and  down  the  room  with  it  in  his 
anus  for  a  long  time  together,  singing  to  it  a  monotonous  melody  of  his  own  making, 
which  ran  on  the  repetition  of  a  word  of  his  own  making.  His  song  was,  "  Ydhmani, 
Yahmani,  Yahmani,  Yahmani."  It  did  not  please  me;  but,  what  was  more  important,  it 
pleased  the  child,  and  lulled  it  when  it  was  fretful.  Shelley  was  extremely  fond  of  his 
children.  He  was  preeminently  an  affectionate  father.  But  to  the  firstborn  there  were 
accompaniments  which  did  not  please  him.  The  child  had  a  wet  nurse,  whom  he  did  not 
like,  and  was  much  looked  after  by  his  wife's  sister,  whom  he  intensely  disliked.  I  have 
often  thought  that  if  Harriet  had  nursed  her  own  child,  and  if  this  sister  had  not  lived 
with  them,  the  link  of  their  married  love  would  not  have  been  so  readily  broken.' 

In  the  autumn  of  1813,  on  coming  to  London,  Harriet  began  to  vary  from  that  de- 
scription of  her  which  Shelley  had  written  to  Fanny  Godwin  in  December,  1812:  — 

*  How  is  Harriet  a  fine  lady  ?  You  indirectly  accuse  her  of  this  offence,  —  to  me  the 
most  unpardonable  of  all.  The  ease  and  simplicity  of  her  habits,  the  unassuming  plain- 
ness of  her  address,  the  uncalculated  connection  of  her  thought  and  speech,  have  ever 
formed  in  my  eyes  her  greatest  charm ;  and  none  of  tliese  are  compatible  with  fashionable 
life,  or  the  attempted  assumption  of  its  vulgar  and  noisy  eclat.' 

It  was  to  please  her  that  he  then  bought  a  carriage  and  a  quantity  of  plate,  and  she 
displayed  a  taste  for  expensive  things.  On  the  birth  of  the  child  her  intellectur.1  sym- 
pathy with  him  seems  to  have  ended.  Afterwards  she  neither  read  nor  studied.  She 
was  disenchanted  of  his  views,  which.  Peacock  mentions,  she  joined  with  him  in  not  tak- 
ing seriously;  she  was  disenchanted,  too,  of  the  wandering  life  and  recurring  poverty  to 
which  they  led. 

Her  sister's  presence  in  the  household  became  a  cause  of  difference  between  her  and 
her  husband.  The  first  expressed  sign  of  domestic  unbappiness  occurs  in  Shelley's 
melancholy  letter  to  Hogg,  March  22,  1814.  He  had  then  been  staying  for  a  month 
with  Mrs.  Boiuville,  and  looked  forward  with  regret  to  ending  his  visit.  He  thus  refers 
to   Eliza:  — 

'  Eliza  is  still  with  us,  not  here,  but  will  be  with  me  when  the  infinite  malice  of  destiny 
forces  me  to  depart.  I  am  now  but  little  inclined  to  contest  this  point.  I  certainly  hate 
her  with  all  my  heart  and  soul.  It  is  a  sight  which  awakens  an  inexpressible  sensation 
of  disgust  and  horror  to  see  her  caress  my  poor  little  lanthe,  in  whom  I  may  hereafter 


XXX  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

find  the  consolation  of  sympathy.  I  sometimes  feel  faint  with  the  fatigue  of  checking 
the  overflowing  of  my  unbounded  abhorrence  for  this  miserable  wretch.  But  she  is  no 
more  than  a  blind  and  loathsome  worm  that  cannot  see  to  sting.' 

Shelley  felt  keenly  the  contrast  of  the  peaceful  home  in  which  he  was  staying  with  his 
own.     Some  years  afterwards,  in  1819,  he  wrote  to  Peacock:  — 

•  I  could  not  help  considering  Mrs.  B.  when  I  knew  her  as  the  most  admirable  specimen 
of  a  human  being  I  had  ever  seen.  Nothing  earthly  ever  appeared  to  me  more  perfect 
than  her  character  and  manners.  It  is  improbable  that  I  shall  ever  meet  again  the  per- 
son whom  I  so  much  esteem  and  still  admire.  I  wish,  however,  that  when  you  see  her 
you  would  tell  her  that  I  have  not  forgotten  her,  nor  any  of  the  amiable  circle  once 
assembled  around  her;  and  that  I  desired  such  remembrances  to  her  as  an  exile  and  a 
Pariah  may  be  permitted  to  address  to  an  acknowledged  member  of  the  community  of 
mankind.' 

With  Mrs.  Boinville  and  her  daughter,  Mrs.  Turner,  he  now  made  his  first  acquaint- 
ance with  Italian.  On  March  26  he  remarried  Harriet,  who  had  not  been  with  him  for 
the  previous  month,  in  St.  George's  Church,  London,  in  order  to  place  beyond  doubt  the 
validity  of  the  Scotch  marriage  and  the  rights  of  his  children.  Shortly  afterwards,  in 
April,  Harriet  again  left  him,  and  to  this  month  belongs  the  poem,  '  Stanza,  April,  1814,* 
the  most  melancholy  verses  he  had  yet  written,  in  which  he  speaks  of  his  *  sad  and  silent 
home,'  and  'its  desolated  liearth.'  During  the  next  month  Harriet  was  still  away;  and, 
at  some  time  in  it,  he  addressed  to  her  the  stanzas,  '  To  Harriet,  May,  1814,'  in  which 
he  appeals  to  her  to  return  to  him  and  restore  his  happiness,  tells  her  that  her  feeling  is 
•  remorseless,'  that  it  is  '  malice,'  '  revenge,'  *  pride,'  and  begs  her  to  '  pity  if  thou  canst 
not  love.'  There  is  no  evidence  that  Harriet  rejoined  Shelley,  and,  when  her  residence 
is  next  discovered,  in  July,  she  was  living  at  Bath  apparently  with  her  sister.  The  story 
of  Harriet's  voluntarily  leaving  Shelley  may  have  sprung  from  this  protracted  absence. 

Meanwhile  Shelley  had  met  Godwin's  daughter,  Mary,  a  girl  of  sixteen,  who  is  de- 
scribed as  golden-haired,  with  a  pale,  pure  face,  hazel  eyes,  a  somewhat  grave  manner, 
and  strength  both  of  mind  and  will.  Early  in  June  he  was  feeling  a  strong  attraction 
toward  her.  He  confided  in  her,  and  out  of  their  intimacy,  through  her  sympathy,  sprang 
that  mutual  love  which  soon  became  passion.  The  stanzas  '  To  Mary,  June,  1814,'  show 
deep  feeling  and  a  sense  of  doubtfulness  in  their  position,  but  do  not  disclose  any  thought 
or  suggestion  of  a  relation  other  than  friendship.  But  to  Shelley,  who  was  suffering 
deeply  and  was  indeed  wretched,  it  was  not  unnatural  that  he  should  reflect  whether  this 
was  not  one  of  those  occasions  justifying  separation,  which  he  had  always  held  should 
be  met  by  putting  an  end  to  a  relation  which  had  become  false.  This  was  his  view  of 
marriage,  well  known  to  Harriet  at  the  time  that  he  married  her,  when  he  had  observed 
the  ceremony  for  her  sake,  and  openly  repeated  in  his  writings  dedicated  to  her  within  a 
year.  Shelley  would  not  violate  his  principles  by  such  an  action;  nor  could  it  be  pleaded 
that  he  had  taken  up  with  this  view  after  obligations  already  incurred  or  subsequent  to 
the  incidents  which  made  him  desire  a  change.  Harriet  probably  did  not  realize  what 
Shelley's  convictions  were,  and  may  have  been  deceived  by  her  experience  of  his  disposi- 
tion. The  natural  inference  from  the  state  of  the  facts,  which,  at  best,  are  imperfectly 
known,  is  that,  as  Shelley  had  now  come  of  age  and  was  in  a  position  to  make  his  rights 
of  property  felt,  Harriet,  under  the  guidance  of  her  sister,  who  had  been  the  intriguer 
from  the  start,  desired  such  a  settlement  as  would  put  her  in  possession  of  the  social  posi- 
tion and  privileges  which  were  at  Shelley's  command;  that  differences  arose  in  the  home, 
possibly  on  the  cooiparatively  slight  question  whether  Eliza  should  continue  to  live  with 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xxxi 

them;  and  that  Harriet,  swayed  by  her  sister,  was  endeavoring  to  subdue  Shelley  to  her 
way  by  a  certain  hardness  in  her  conduct,  and  by  if  not  refusing  to  live  with  him,  refrain- 
ing from  doing  so.  But  Shelley,  on  his  part,  in  Harriet's  absence,  had  come  to  love 
Mary,  and  to  see  in  following  that  love  the  way  of  escape  from  his  troubles.  The  time 
was  one  of  intense  mental  excitement  to  him,  especially  when  the  crisis  came  early  in 
July.  He  secured  Mary's  consent.  She  was  the  daugliter  of  Mary  WoUstonecraft  and  of 
Godwin,  and  derived  from  both  parents  the  same  principles  of  marriage,  both  by  practice 
and  precept,  that  Shelley  held.  In  their  own  eyes  neither  of  them  was  committing  a 
wrong.  Shelley  sent  for  Harriet.  She  came  to  London,  and  he  told  her  his  determina- 
tion. She  was  greatly  shocked  and  made  ill  by  the  disclosure.  Shelley  acted  with  a 
certain  deliberation  as  well  as  with  openness.  He  directed  settlements  to  be  made  for 
Harriet's  maintenance,  and  saw  that  she  was  supplied  with  money  for  the  present.  At 
the  same  time  his  state  of  mind  was  one  of  conflict  and  distress.  Peacock  describes 
his  appearance :  — 

*  Nothing  that  I  ever  read  in  tale  or  history  could  present  a  more  striking  image  of  a 
sudden,  violent,  irresistible,  uncontrollable  passion,  than  that  under  which  I  found  him 
laboring,  when,  at  his  request,  I  went  up  from  the  coimtry  to  call  on  him  in  London. 
Between  his  old  feelings  toward  Harriet,  from  whom  he  was  not  then  separated,  and  his 
new  passion  for  Mary,  he  showed  in  his  looks,  in  his  gestures,  in  his  speech,  the  state  of 
a  mind  "  suffering  like  a  little  kingdom  the  nature  of  an  insurrection."  His  eyes  were 
bloodshot,  his  hair  and  dress  disordered.  He  caught  up  a  bottle  of  laudanum  and  said, 
"  I  never  part  from  this."  He  added,  "  I  am  always  repeating  to  myself  your  lines  from 
Sophocles  :  — 

' "  '  Man's  happiest  lot  is  not  to  be  : 

And  when  we  tread  life's  thorny  steep 
Host  blest  are  they  who  earliest  free 
Descend  to  death's  eternal  sleep.'  "  ' 

Mary  appears  to  have  been  determined  at  last  by  fears  for  Shelley's  life,  and  on  July 
28  she  left  England  with  him. 

It  is  unfortunately  necessary  to  notice  another  element  in  the  situation.  It  is  the  tes- 
timony of  the  common  friends  of  Harriet  and  Shelley  —  Hogg,  Peacock,  and  Hookham 
■ —  that,  up  to  the  period  of  their  parting,  she  was  pure.  It  is  said,  indeed,  on  what  must 
be  regarded  as  the  very  doubtful  authority  of  Miss  Clairmont,  that  Shelley  persuaded 
Mary  to  go  by  asserting  Harriet's  unfaithfulness.  What  is  certain  is  that,  after  Harriet's 
death,  he  wrote  to  Mary,  January  11,  1817,  *  I  learned  just  now  from  Godwin  that  he  has 
evidence  that  Harriet  was  unfaithful  to  me  four  months  before  I  left  England  with  you.' 
That  Godwin  had  such  a  story  is  known  by  his  own  evidence.  The  name  of  an  obscure 
person,  Ryan,  who  was  acquainted  with  the  family  as  early  as  the  summer  of  1813,  was 
brought  into  connection  with  the  affair.  Shelley  at  one  time  doubted  the  paternity  of 
his  second  child,  Charles  Bysshe,  born  in  November,  1814,  but  he  was  afterwards 
satisfied  that  he  was  in  error.  I  do  not  find  any  reliable  evidence  that  Shelley  ever 
maintained  that  he  was  convinced  in  July,  1814,  of  Harriet's  infidelity.  He  afterwards 
believed  that  she  had  been  in  fault,  as  is  shown  by  his  letter  to  Southey  in  1820,  in  which 
he  maintains  the  rightfulness  of  his  conduct :  *  I  take  God  to  witness,  if  such  a  being  is 
now  regarding  both  you  and  me  ;  and  I  pledge  myself,  if  we  meet,  as  perhaps  you 
expect,  before  Him  after  death,  to  repeat  the  same  in  his  presence  —  that  you  accuse  me 
wrongfully.  I  am  innocent  of  ill,  either  done  or  intended.  The  consequence  you  allude 
to  flowed  in  no  respect  from  me.'     At  the  time  of  the  event  itself,  it  was  not  necessary 


xxxii  PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

to  Shelley's  mind  to  have  a  justification  which  would  appeal  to  all  the  world  and  ordinary 
ways  of  thinking  ;  but,  when  time  disclosed  such  justification,  he  made  use  of  it  to 
strengthen  his  action  in  his  own  eyes  and  the  eyes  of  Mary,  and,  though  ouly  by  implica- 
tion, in  Southey's  judgment.  He  appears  never  to  have  mentioned  the  matter  to  others. 
Shelley's  habitual  reticence  was  far  greater  than  he  has  ever  received  credit  for. 

Shelley  and  Mary  had  for  a  companion  on  their  voyage  Miss  Clairmout,  a  daughter  of 
the  second  Mrs.  Godwin  by  her  first  marriage.  They  visited  Paris,  crossed  France,  and 
stopped  on  the  shores  of  Lake  Lucerne,  near  Brunueu.  There  they  remained  but  a  short 
time,  and,  descending  the  Rhine  to  Cologne,  journeyed  by  Rotterdam  to  England,  where 
they  arrived  September  13.  Peacock  describes  the  following  winter  as  the  most  solitary 
period  of  Shelley's  life.  He  settled  in  Loudon,  and  was  greatly  embarrassed  witli  his 
affairs,  endeavoring  to  raise  money  and  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of  creditors.  He  had 
written  to  Harriet  during  his  journey,  often  saw  her  in  London,  and  seems  to  have  been 
upon  pleasant  terms  with  her.  Godwin,  who  bad  at  first  been  very  angry,  renewed  his 
relations  under  the  stress  of  his  own  financial  difficulties,  and  the  money  to  be  had  from 
Shelley.  In  January,  1815,  old  Sir  Bysshe's  death  greatly  improved  Shelley's  position 
by  making  him  the  immediate  heir.  He  went  home,  and  was  refused  admittance  by  his 
father;  but  negotiations  could  not  be  long  delayed.  They  lasted  for  eighteen  months.  He 
was  given  the  choice  of  entailing  the  entire  estate,  £200,000,  surrendering  his  claim  to 
that  part  of  the  property,  £80,000,  which  could  not  be  taken  from  him,  and  accepting  a 
life  interest,  on  which  condition  he  should  receive  the  whole  ;  or,  refusing  this,  he  should 
be  deprived  of  the  £120,000,  which  would  go  to  his  younger  brother,  John.  Shelley 
refused  to  execute  the  entail,  which  he  thought  wrong,  and  yielded  the  larger  part  of 
the  property.  To  pay  his  immediate  debts  he  sold  his  succession  to  the  fee-simple  of  a 
portion  of  the  estate,  valued  at  £18,000,  to  his  father  for  £11,000,  in  June,  1815,  and  by 
the  same  agreement  received  a  fixed  annual  allowance  of  £1,000,  and  also  a  considerable 
sum  of  money.  He  sent  Harriet  £200  for  her  debts,  and  directed  his  bankers  to  pay  her 
£200  annually  from  his  allowance.  Mr.  Westbrook  also  continued  to  his  daughter  his 
allowance  of  £200,  so  that  she  now  had  £400  a  year. 

Early  in  this  year  Shelley  was  told  that  he  was"  dying  rapidly  of  consumption.  His 
health  was  certainly  broken  before  this  time,  but  every  symptom  of  pulmonary  disease 
suddenly  and  completely  passed  away.  In  February  Mary's  first  child  was  born,  but 
died  within  a  fortnight.  In  the  spring  he  settled  at  Bishopgate  and  there  wrote  '  Alas- 
tor.'  In  1816,  Mary's  second  child,  William,  was  born.  In  May,  Shelley,  with  Mary 
and  Miss  Clairmout,  left  England  for  the  Continent,  and  within  two  weeks  arrived  at 
Lake  Geneva.  There  he  became  acquainted  with  Byron,  and  spent  the  summer  boating 
with  him.  Unknown  to  Shelley  or  Mary,  MLss  Clairmout,  before  leaving  London,  had 
become  Byron's  mistress,  and  the  intrigue  went  on  at  Geneva  without  their  knowledge. 
There  Shelley  also  met  Monk  Lewis.  On  returning  to  England,  where  he  arrived  Sep- 
tember 7,  lie  settled  at  Bath  for  some  months.  The  two  incidents  that  saddened  the 
year  occurred  in  quick  succession.  On  October  8,  Mary's  half-sister  Fanny,  daughter  of 
Mary  Wollstonecraft  and  Imlay,  committed  suicide  by  taking  laudanum  at  an  inn  in 
Swansea.  Shelley  was  much  shocked  by  this  event,  but  another  blow  was  in  store  for 
him.  He  seems  to  have  lost  sight  of  Harriet  during  his  residence  abroad,  and  it  is  doubt- 
ful whetker  he  saw  her  after  reaching  England.  She  had  received  her  allowances  reg- 
ularly. In  Novenrber  Shelley  sought  for  and  could  not  find  her.  It  is  affirmed  that  she 
was  living  under  the  protection  of  her  father  until  shortly  before  her  death.  She  was  in 
lodgings,  however,  in  that  month,  and  did  not  return  to  them  after  November  9.     On 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xxxiii 

9  ■ ■ — 

December  10  her  body  was  found  in  the  Serpentine  River.  Of  the  two  suicides,  he  said 
that  he  felt  that  of  Fanny  most  acutely ;  but  it  is  plain  that,  while  he  said  at  a  later  time 
she  had  *  a  heart  of  stone,'  the  fate  of  Harriet  brought  a  melancholy  that  was  not  to  pass 
away,  though  he  had  ceased  to  love  her.  Unfortunately  there  is  no  doubt  that  she  had 
erred  in  her  life  after  leaving  his  protection,  but  the  letters  she  wrote  to  an  Irish  friend 
excite  pity  and  sympathy  with  her. 

Shelley  was  married  to  Mary  December  30,  in  St.  Mildred's  Church.  He  immediately 
undertook  to  recover  his  children  from  the  Westbrooks.  These  children  had  been  placed* 
before  Harriet's  death,  under  the  care  of  the  Rev.  John  Kendall,  at  Budbrooke.  The 
Westbrooks  were  determined  to  contest  Shelley's  possession  of  them.  The  affair  was 
brought  into  the  Chancery  Court.  It  was  set  forth  that  Shelley  was  a  man  of  atheistical 
and  immoral  principles,  and  '  Queen  Mab,'  which  had  been  distributed  only  in  a  private 
way,  was  offered  in  proof.  The  case  was  heard  early  in  1817  before  Lord  Eldon. 
Shelley  was  represented  by  his  Lawyers.  On  March  27  Lord  Eldon  gave  judgment 
against  Shelley,  basing  it  on  his  opinions  as  affecting  his  conduct.  The  children  were 
not  placed  in  the  hands  of  the  Westbrooks,  but  were  made  wards,  and  the  persons 
nominated  by  Shelley,  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Hume,  were  appointed  guardians.  Shelley  was  to 
be  allowed  to  visit  them  twelve  times  in  the  year,  but  only  in  the  presence  of  their 
guardians,  and  the  Westbrooks  were  given  the  same  privilege  without  that  restriction. 

Shelley  settled  at  Marlow  early  in  1817,  having  with  him  Miss  Clairmont  and  her  new- 
born child  Allegra,  and  his  own  two  children,  William  and  Clara.  In  the  summer  he 
wrote  'The  Revolt  of  Islam,' besides  prose  pamphlets  upon  polities;  but  he  had  now 
really  begun  his  serious  life  as  a  poet.  The  only  cloud  on  his  happiness  was  the  separa- 
tion from  his  children,  which  his  poems  sufficiently  illustrate.  Hunt,  with  whom  he  was 
now  intimate,  says,  that  after  the  decision  Shelley  '  never  dared  to  trust  himself  with 
mentioning  their  names  in  my  hearing,  though  I  had  stood  at  his  side  throughout  the 
business.'  He  was  in  fear  lest  his  other  children  should  be  taken  from  him;  and  he 
finally  determined  to  leave  England  and  settle  in  Italy,  being  partly  led  thereto  by  the 
state  of  his  health,  for  which  he  was  advised  to  try  a  warm  climate. 

The  private  and  intimate  view  of  Shelley,  from  the  time  of  his  union  with  Mary  in  the 
summer  of  1814  to  that  of  his  final  departure  from  England  in  the  spring  of  1818,  is 
given  by  Peacock  and  Hunt.  Peacock  had  become  his  familiar  friend,  though  Shelley 
was  less  confidential  with  him  than  Peacock  supposed.  In  the  solitary  winter  of  1814-15, 
which  was  spent  drearily  in  London,  Peacock  saw  him  often;  and  in  the  next  summer, 
during  his  residence  at  Bishopgate,  the  pleasant  voyage  up  the  Thames  to  Lechlade  was 
taken.  It  was  on  this  excursion  that  Peacock's  favorite  prescription  for  Shelley's  ills  — 
'  three  mutton  chops  well  peppered  '  —  effected  so  sudden  a  cure.  Peacock  attributes 
much  of  Shelley's  physical  ills  to  his  vegetarian  diet.  He  observes  that  whenever  Shelley 
took  a  journey  and  was  obliged  to  live  '  on  what  he  could  get,'  as  Shelley  said,  he  became 
better  in  health,  so  that  his  frequent  wanderings  were  beneficial  to  him.  On  these  jour- 
neys, he  notes,  too,  Shelley  always  took  with  him  pistols  for  self-defence,  and  laudanum 
as  a  resource  from  the  extreme  fits  of  pain  to  which  he  was  subject.  Shelley  was  appre- 
hensive of  personal  danger,  and  he  had  a  vague  fear,  till  he  left  England,  that  his  father 
would  attempt  to  restrain  his  liberty  on  a  charge  of  madness.  He  also  had  at  one  time 
the  suspicion  that  he  was  afflicted  with  elephantiasis.  Peacock  took  these  incidents  more 
seriously  than  is  at  all  warranted.  Shelley's  mind  was,  in  general,  strong,  active  and 
sound;  his  industry,  both  in  acquisition  and  creation,  was  remarkable;  and  the  theory  that 
be  was  really  unbalanced  in  any  material  degree  is  not  in  harmony  with  his  constant 


xxxiv  PERCY  BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

intellectual  power,  his  very  noticeable  practical  sense  and  carefulness  in  such  business  as 
be  had  to  execute,  and  his  adherence  to  fact  in  those  cases  where  his  account  can  be 
tested  by  another's.  He  had  visions,  both  waking  and  sleeping;  he  had  wandering  fears 
that  became  ideas  temporarily,  perhaps  approaching  the  point  of  hallucination;  but  to  give 
such  incidents,  which  are  not  extraordinary,  undue  weight  is  to  disturb  a  just  impression 
of  Shelley's  mind  and  life,  as  a  whole,  which  were  singularly  distinguished  by  continual 
intellectual  force,  tenacity  and  consistency  of  principle,  and  studies  and  moral  aims  main- 
tained in  the  midst  of  confusing  and  annoying  affairs,  perpetual  discouragement,  and 
bodily  weariness  and  pain.  The  excess  of  ideality  in  him  disturbed  his  judgment  of  wo- 
men, but  in  otlier  relations  of  life,  except  at  times  of  illness,  he  did  not  vary  from  the 
normal  more  tlian  is  the  lot  of  genius. 

Peacock  brings  out,  more  than  other  friends,  the  manner  of  Shelley,  his  temp>erance  in 
discussion,  especially  when  his  own  affairs  were  concerned,  and  his  serene  demeanor. 
One  anecdote  is  illustrative  of  this  courtesy,  and  at  the  same  time  indicates  that  limitation 
nnder  which  his  friendship  with  Peacock  went  on:  — 

*  I  was  walking  with  him  in  Bisham  Wood,  and  we  had  been  talking  in  the  usual  way 
of  our  ordinary  subjects,  when  he  suddenly  fell  into  a  gloomy  reverie.  I  tried  to  rouse 
him  out  of  it,  and  made  some  remarks  which  I  thought  might  make  him  laugh  at  his  own 
abstraction.  Suddenly  he  said  to  me,  still  with  the  same  gloomy  expression:  "  There  is 
one  thing  to  which  I  have  decidedly  made  up  my  mind.  I  will  take  a  great  glass  of  ale 
every  night."  I  said,  laiighingly,  "A  very  good  resolution,  as  the  result  of  a  melancholy 
musing."  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  but  you  do  not  know  why  I  take  it.  I  shall  do  it  to  deaden 
my  feelings;  for  I  see  that  those  who  drink  ale  have  none."  The  next  day  he  said  to 
me,  "  You  must  have  thought  me  very  unreasonable  yesterday  evening  ?  "  I  said,  "  I  did, 
certainly."  "  Then,"  he  said,  "  I  will  tell  you  what  I  would  not  tell  any  one  else.  I  was 
thinking  of  Harriet."  I  told  him  I  had  no  idea  of  such  a  thing;  it  was  so  long  since  he 
had  named  her.' 

This  is  the  single  instance  of  expression  of  the  remorse  which  Shelley  felt  for  Harriet's 
fate. 

Peacock  mentions  the  heartiness  of  Shelley's  laughter,  in  connection  with  his  failure 
to  cultivate  a  taste  for  comedy  in  him,  for  Shelley  felt  the  pain  of  comedy  and  its  neces- 
sary insensibility  to  finer  humane  feeling;  but  this  did  not  make  him  enjoy  less  his  famil- 
iar, harmless  humor,  in  which  there  was  a  dash  of  his  early  wild  spirits.  He  was  always 
fond  of  amusements  of  a  childlike  sort.  Peacock  thought  that  it  was  from  him  Shelley 
learned  the  sport  of  sailing  paper-boats,  happy  if  he  could  load  them  with  pennies  for  the 
boys  on  the  other  side  of  stream  or  pond.  At  Marlow  he  used  to  play  with  a  little  girl 
who  had  attracted  him,  pushing  a  table  across  the  floor  to  her,  and  when  he  went  away 
he  gave  her  nuts  and  raisins  heaped  on  a  plate,  which  she  kept  through  life  in  memory 
of  him,  and  on  her  death  willed  it,  so  that  it  is  now  among  the  few  personal  relics  of  the 
poet.  At  Marlow,  too,  he  visited  the  poor  in  their  homes,  as  his  custom  was,  helping 
and  advising.  His  house  there  was  a  large  one  with  many  rooms,  and  handsomely  fur- 
nished, the  library  being  large  enough  for  a  ball-room,  and  the  garden  pleasant.  Pea- 
cock's last  service  was  to  introduce  him  to  the  Italian  opera,  of  which  he  became  fond, 
just  before  leaving  England. 

Hunt  bad  once  seen  Shelley  in  earlier  years,  and  in  prison  had  received  letters  of  ad- 
miration and  encouragement  from  him;  but  he  did  not  really  know  him  until  the  end  of 
1816,  just  at  the  time  of  Harriet's  death.  He  is  more  evenly  appreciative,  and  no  such 
allowances  as  are  made  for  Hogg  and  Peacock  have  to  be  observed  in  his  case.     Shellej 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  xxxv 


was  especially  fond  of  Hunt's  children,  and  would  play  with  them  to  their  great  delight. 
The  anecdote  of  their  begging  him  '  not  to  do  the  horn '  (meaning  that  he  should  not 
twist  his  hair  on  his  forehead  in  acting  the  monster)  is  well  known.  It  had  been  the 
temptation  of  setting  off  fireworks  with  the  Newton  children  that  took  Shelley  away  from 
Godwin  on  his  first  night  with  the  philosopher  and  introduced  him  to  the  vegetarian 
circle.  Hunt  was  in  many  ways  more  fitted  by  nature  to  enter  into  sympathy  with  Shel- 
ley than  any  one  he  had  known;  the  friendship  they  formed  was  delightful  to  both,  and 
Shelley's  part  in  it  caused  him  to  show  some  of  his  finest  qualities  of  tact,  toleration  and 
service,  that  asked  no  thanks  and  knew  no  bounds.  On  the  other  hand.  Hunt  several 
tmies  defended  Shelley's  good  name  under  virulent  and  slanderous  attacks,  and  after  his 
death  was  one  of  those  who  repeatedly  spoke  out  for  him.  Hunt  ascribes  Sh^ley's  dis- 
repute in  England  in  considerable  measure  to  the  effect  of  the  Lord  Chancellor's  decree 
depriving  him  of  his  children.     He  says:  — 

<  He  was  said  to  be  keeping  a  seraglio  at  Marlow,  and  his  friends  partook  of  the  scan* 
dal.  This  keeper  of  a  seraglio,  who,  in  fact,  was  extremely  difficult  to  please  in  such 
matters,  and  who  had  no  idea  of  love  unconnected  with  sentiment,  passed  his  days  like  a 
hermit.  He  rose  early  in  the  morning,  walked  and  read  before  breakfast,  took  that  meal 
sparingly,  wrote  and  studied  the  greater  part  of  the  morning,  walked  and  read  again, 
dined  on  vegetables  (for  he  took  neither  meat  nor  wine)  conversed  with  nis  friends  (to 
whom  his  house  was  ever  open),  again  walked  out,  and  usually  finished  with  reading  to 
his  wife  till  ten  o'clock,  when  he  went  to  bed.  This  was  his  daily  existence.  His  book 
was  generally  Plato,  or  Homer,  or  one  of  the  Greek  tragedies,  or  the  Bible,  in  which  last 
he  took  a  great,  though  peculiar,  and  often  admiring  interest.' 

Hunt  notices,  as  others  have  done,  the  great  variability  of  Shelley's  expression,  due  to 
his  responsiveness  to  the  scenes  about  him  or  his  own  memories,  and  in  particular  the 
suddenness  with  which  he  would  droop  into  an  aspect  of  dejection.  He  admired  his  char- 
acter, and  did  not  distrust  his  temperament  because  some  of  his  moods  might  seem  at  the 
time  inexplicable.  He  especially  praises  his  generosity,  and  the  noble  way  of  it,  as  he 
had  reason  to  do,  having  at  one  time  received  £1,400  from  him,  besides  the  loans  (which 
were  the  same  as  gifts)  in  the  ordinary  course  of  affairs;  and,  indeed,  nothing  but  its 
emptiness  ever  closed  Shelley's  purse  to  any  of  his  friends,  who,  it  must  be  said,  availed 
tliemselves  somewhat  freely  of  his  liberal  nature.  One  anecdote  told  by  Hunt  brings 
Shelley  before  the  eye  better  than  pages  of  description,  and  with  it  he  closes  his  reminis- 
cences of  the  Marlow  period:  — 

'  Shelley,  in  coming  to  our  house  that  night,  had  found  a  woman  lying  near  the  top  of 
the  hill  in  fits.  It  was  a  fierce  winter  night,  with  snow  upon  the  ground;  and  winter 
loses  nothing  of  its  fierceness  at  Hampstead.  My  friend,  always  the  promptest  as  well 
as  most  pitying  on  these  occasions,  knocked  at  the  first  houses  he  could  reach,  in  order  to 
have  the  woman  taken  in.  The  invariable  answer  was  that  they  could  not  do  it.  He 
asked  for  an  outhouse  to  put  her  in,  while  he  went  for  a  doctor.  Impossible.  In  vain 
he  assured  them  that  she  was  no  impostor.  They  would  not  dispute  the  point  with  him; 
but  doors  were  closed,  and  windows  shut  down.  .  .  .  Time  flies.  The  poor  woman  is  in 
convulsions;  her  son,  a  young  man,  lamenting  over  her.  At  last  my  friend  sees  a  car- 
riage driving  up  to  a  house  at  a  little  distance.  The  knock  is  given;  the  warm  door 
opens;  servants  and  lights  pour  forth.  Now,  thought  he,  is  the  time.  He  puts  on  his 
best  address.  .  .  .  He  tells  his  story.  They  only  press  on  the  faster.  "  Will  you  go  and 
see  her?"  "No,  sir;  there's  no  necessity  for  that  sort  of  thing,  depend  on  it.  Im- 
postors swarm  everywhere.     The  thing  cannot  be  done.     Sir,  your  conduct  is  extraordi- 


xxxvi  PERCY   BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

nary."  "  Sir,"  cried  Shelley,  assuming  a  very  different  manner  and  forcing  the  flourishing 
householder  to  stop  out  of  astonishment,  "  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  your  conduct  is  not  ex- 
traordinary, and  if  my  own  seems  to  amaze  you,  I  will  tell  you  something  which  will 
amaze  you  more,  and  I  hope  will  frighten  you.  It  is  such  men  as  you  who  madden  the 
spirits  and  the  patience  of  the  poor  and  wretched;  and  if  ever  a  convulsion  comes  in  this 
country  (as  is  very  probable)  recollect  what  I  tell  you:  you  will  have  your  house,  that 
you  refuse  to  put  the  miserable  woman  into,  burnt  over  your  head."  "  God  bless  me, 
sir !  Dear  me,  sir  !  "  exclaimed  the  poor,  frightened  man,  and  fluttered  into  his  man- 
sion. The  woman  was  then  brought  to  our  house,  which  was  at  some  distance  and  down 
a  bleak  path;  and  Shelley  and  her  son  were  obliged  to  hold  her  till  the  doctor  could 
arrive.  It  appeared  that  she  had  been  attending  this  son  in  London,  on  a  criminal  charge 
made  against  him,  the  agitation  of  which  had  thrown  her  into  fits  on  her  return.  The 
doctor  said  that  she  would  have  perished,  had  she  remained  there  a  short  time  longer. 
The  next  day  my  friend  sent  mother  and  son  comfortably  home  to  Hendon,  where  they 
were  known,  and  whence  they  returned  him  thanks  full  of  gratitude.' 

Shelley  left  England  for  the  last  time  on  March  12,  1818,  and  travelled  by  the  way  of 
Paris  and  Mont  Ceuis  to  Milan.  Thenceforth  he  resided  in  Italy,  with  frequent  changes 
of  abode  at  first,  but  finally  at  Pisa  and  its  neighborhood.  He  had  now  matured,  and  his 
intimate  life,  his  nature,  and  his  character,  are  disclosed  by  himself  in  the  rapidly  pro- 
duced works  on  which  his  fame  rests.  From  this  time  it  is  not  necessary  to  seek  in  others' 
impressions  that  knowledge  of  himself  which  is  the  end  of  biography;  and  the  singular 
consistency  and  self-possession  of  his  character  and  career,  as  shown  in  his  poetry  and 
prose,  and  in  his  familiar  letters,  bearing  out  as  they  do  the  permanent  traits  of  his  dis- 
position already  known,  and  correcting  or  shedding  light  upon  what  was  extraordinary  in 
bis  personality,  give  the  best  reason  for  belief  that  much  in  Shelley's  earlier  career  which 
seems  abnormal  is  due  to  the  misapprehension  and  the  misinterpretation  of  him  by  his 
friends.  It  was  the  life  of  a  youth,  impulsive  and  self-confident,  and,  moreover,  it  is  the 
only  full  narrative  of  youth  which  our  literature  affords.  If  the  thoughts  and  actions 
of  first  years  were  more  commonly  and  minutely  detailed,  there  might  be  less  wonder, 
less  distrust,  less  harsh  judgment  upon  what  seems  erratic  and  foolish  in  Shelley's  early 
days.  His  misfortune  was  that  immaturity  of  mind  and  judgment  became  fixed  in  im- 
prudent acts;  his  practical  responsibility  foreran  its  due  time.  Yet  tlie  story,  as  it  stands, 
demonstrates  generous  aims,  a  sense  of  human  duty,  an  interest  in  man's  welfare,  and  a 
resolution  to  serve  it,  as  exceptional  as  Shelley's  poetic  genius,  intimate  as  the  tie  was 
between  the  two;  for  he  was  right  in  characterizing  his  poetic  genius  as  in  the  main  a 
moral  one.  The  latter  years,  during  which  his  life  is  contained  and  expressed  in  his 
works,  require  less  attention  to  such  details  as  have  been  followed  thus  far;  his  life  in 
manhood  must  be  read  in  his  poetry  and  prose,  and  especially  in  his  letters,  but  some 
account  of  external  affairs  is  still  necessary. 

He  had  taken  Miss  Clairmont  and  her  child  with  him,  but  at  Milan  the  baby,  Allegra, 
was  sent  to  Byron,  who  undertook  her  bringing  up  and  education.  He  enjoyed  the  opera 
at  Milan,  and  made  an  excursion  to  Como  in  search  of  a  house,  but  finally  decided  to  go 
further  south,  and  departed,  on  May  1,  for  Leghorn,  where  the  party  arrived  within  ten 
days.  The  presence  there  of  the  Gisbornes,  old  friends  of  Godwin,  drew  him  to  that  city, 
which  became,  with  Pisa,  his  principal  place  of  residence.  Mrs.  Gisborne  was  a  middle- 
aged  woman  of  sense  and  experience,  and  possessed  of  much  literary  cultivation.  She 
bad  been  brought  up  as  a  girl,  in  the  East,  and  had  married  Reveley,  the  student  of 
Athenian  antiquities,  io  Borne.     He  was  a  Radical,  and  on  returning  to  England  became 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xxxvii 

associated  with  Godwin,  Holcroft,  and  others  of  the  group  of  reformers;  and  in  this  way 
it  happened  that  when  Mary's  mother  died  at  her  child's  birth,  Mrs.  Reveley  took  the 
babe  home  and  cared  for  it.  Two  years  later,  when  Reveley  died,  Godwin  proposed 
marriage  to  her,  but  was  refused ;  and  afterwards  she  married  Mr.  Gisborne,  with  whom 
she  had  lived  in  Italy  for  some  years.  She  welcomed  Mary  with  great  cordiality,  and 
the  pleasantest  relations,  which  were  only  once  broken,  sprang  up  between  the  families. 
She  introduced  Shelley  to  Calderon,  and  read  Spanish  with  him,  as  time  went  on,  greatly 
to  his  pleasure;  and,  on  his  side,  he  became  attached  to  her  son,  Henry  Reveley,  a  young 
engineer,  and  especially  assisted  him  in  the  scheme  of  putting  a  steamboat  on  the  Medi- 
terranean; but  the  plan,  in  which  Shelley  had  embarked  capital,  failed.  It  was  in  the 
financial  complications  springing  out  of  this  affair  that  opportunity  was  given  for  the 
breach  of  confidence  which  then  occurred,  as  Shelley  thought  he  was  to  be  defrauded; 
but  the  trouble  between  them  was  amicably  settled.  These  events  took  place  at  a  later 
time. 

Shelley  did  not  at  once  settle  in  Leghorn,  but  took  a  house  at  the  Baths  of  Lucca, 
where  he  spent  a  quiet  period,  pleased  with  the  scene,  his  walks  and  rides,  the  bath 
under  the  woodland  waterfall,  and  all  the  first  delights  of  Italy,  while  he  was  not  blind 
to  its  miseries.  He  finished  '  Rosalind  and  Helen,'  which  he  had  begun  at  Marlow,  and 
translated  Plato's  '  Symposium.'  Miss  Clairmont  had  already  begun  to  be  discontented 
at  the  separation  from  Allegra,  and  was  far  from  comforted  by  what  news  reached  her 
of  Byron's  life  at  Venice.  Shelley  yielded  to  her  anxiety  and,  on  August  19,  accompa- 
nied her  by  Florence  to  Venice,  where  Byron  received  him  cordially,  and  offered  him  his 
villa  at  Este,  where  her  mother,  whose  presence  in  Venice  was  concealed,  would  be  per- 
mitted to  see  Allegra.  Shelley  wrote  to  Mary,  who  left  Lucca  August  30,  and  the  family 
was  soon  settled  at  Este.  Here  their  youngest  child,  Clara,  sickened,  and,  on  their  tak- 
ing her  at  once  to  Venice  for  advice,  she  died  in  that  city,  September  24.  The  loss  made 
the  autumn  lonely  at  Este,  but  there,  except  for  brief  visits  to  Byron,  Shelley  remained, 
writing  the  '  Lines  on  the  Euganean  Hills,'  *  Julian  and  Maddalo,'  and  the  first  act  of 
'  Prometheus  Unbound.'  His  poetic  genius  had  come  somewhat  suddenly  to  its  mastery, 
and  his  mind  was  full  of  great  plans,  keeping  it  restless  and  absorbed,  while  his  melaik 
choly  seemed  to  deepen.  On  November  5  they  departed  for  the  south.  Miss  Clairmont 
still  accompanying  them,  and  she  continued  to  live  with  them.  They  arrived  at  Rome 
November  20,  and,  remaining  only  a  week,  were  settled  at  Naples  December  1.  Here 
Shelley  was  intoxicated  with  the  beauty  of  Italy;  he  visited  Pompeii,  ascended  Vesuvius, 
and  went  south  as  far  as  Paestum,  and  in  his  letters  gives  marvellously  beautiful  descriptions 
of  these  scenes;  but  he  was,  for  causes  which  remain  obscure,  deeply  dejected  and  unhappy 
to  such  a  degree  that  he  hid  his  verses  from  Mary  and  disclosed  no  more  of  his  grief  than 
he  could  help.  She  ascribed  his  melancholy  to  physical  depression,  but  there  were  other 
reasons,  never  satisfactorily  made  out.  He  worked  but  little,  only  at  finishing  and 
remodelling  old  poems,  except  that  he  wrote  the  well-known  personal  poems  of  that 
winter. 

On  March  5  they  returned  to  Rome,  and  there  he  plucked  up  courage  again,  and  fin- 
ished three  acts  of  *  Prometheus  Unbound,'  writing  in  that  wilderness  of  beauty  and  ruin 
which  he  describes  with  a  sad  eloquence.  Here  the  most  severe  domestic  sorrow  they 
were  to  undergo  came  upon  them  in  the  death  of  their  boy,  William,  on  June  7.  Shelley 
watched  by  him  for  sixty  hours  uninterruptedly,  and  immediately  was  called  on  to  forget  his 
g^ief  and  sustain  Mary,  who  sank  under  this  last  blow.  '  Yesterday,'  he  wrote  to  Peacock, 
•  af t«r  rn  illness  of   only  a  few  days,  my  little  William  died.    There  was  uo  hope  from 


xxxviii  PERCY  BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

the  moment  of  tlie  attack.  You  will  be  kiud  enougk  to  tell  all  my  friends,  so  that  I  need 
not  write  to  them.  It  is  a  great  exertion  to  me  to  write  even  this,  and  it  seems  to  me  as 
if,  hunted  by  calamity  as  I  have  been,  that  I  should  never  recover  any  cheerfulness  again.' 
He  removed  with  Mary  at  once  to  Leghorn,  that  she  might  have  Mrs.  Gisborne's  com- 
pany, and  there  spent  the  summer.  *  The  Cenci '  was  the  work  of  these  months,  written 
in  a  tower  on  the  top  of  his  house  overlooking  the  country.  On  October  2  they  went  to 
Florence,  where  his  last  child,  Percy,  was  born  November  12.  The  galleries  were  a  per' 
petual  delight  to  him,  and  especially  the  sculptures,  on  which  he  made  notes  and  from 
which  he  derived  poetic  stimulus.  Here  he  wrote  the  fourth  act  of  '  Prometheus  Un- 
bound,' finishing  that  poem. 

On  January  27  tliey  removed  to  Pisa,  where  they  found  a  friend  in  Mrs.  Mason,  one 
of  the  Earl  of  Kingston's  daughters  whom  Mary  WoUstonecraft  had  once  in  charge. 
She  was  one  of  their  set  of  acquaintances  from  this  time.  Shelley  was  much  troubled  in 
the  opening  months  of  this  year,  1820,  by  Godwin's  complaints  and  embarrassments,  but 
as  he  had  already  given  Godwin  £4,000  or  £5,000,  and  in  order  to  do  it  had  divested 
himself,  as  he  reminded  Godwin,  of  four  or  five  times  this  amount,  which  he  had  raised 
from  money-lenders,  and  as  he  was  really  unable  to  accomplish  anything  by  such  sacri- 
fices, he  receded  from  the  impossible  task  of  extricating  him  from  debt.  Miss  Clairmont, 
too,  toward  whom  Shelley's  conduct  is  tenderly  considerate  and  manly,  caused  him 
trouble  by  her  anxiety  about  AUegra,  and  her  inability  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  Mary, 
who  was  now  unwilling  that  she  should  continue  with  them.  His  discharged  servant, 
Paolo,  also  was  a  source  of  uneasiness  and  exasperation,  as  he  first  attempted  to  black- 
mail Shelley  and  then  spread  scandals  about  his  private  life,  which  were  taken  up  in 
Italy  and  echoed  in  England.  On  June  15  they  again  removed  to  Leghorn,  taking  the 
house  of  the  Gisbornes,  and  on  August  5  went  for  the  summer  to  the  Baths  of  San  Giuli- 
ano  near  Pisa.  To  these  months  belong  *  The  Witch  of  Atlas,'  and  '  CEdipus  Tyrannus;  * 
but  Shelley's  principal  works  were  the  occasional  pieces.  He  had  become  greatly  dis- 
couraged by  the  continued  neglect  of  the  public,  and  by  the  personal  attacks  to  which 
his  character  was  subjected  in  England.  He  certainly  felt  keenly  his  position  as  an  out- 
cast, and  though  his  enthusiasm  for  political  causes  was  undiminished  and  famed  up  in 
'  The  Mask  of  Anarchy,'  and  the  *  Odes,'  his  spirit  was  depressed  and  hopeless.  Miss 
Clairmont  left  them  at  the  end  of  the  summer,  and  became  a  private  governess  in  Flor- 
ence, though  from  time  to  time  she  visited  them.  On  October  22  Medwin  joined  them 
for  some  months,  and  directly  after,  on  October  29,  they  returned  from  the  Baths  to  Pisa 
for  the  winter.  Here  their  circle  of  acquaintance  was  now  large,  and  included  Professor 
Pacchiani,  Emilia  Vivian! ,  Prince  Mavrocordato,  the  Princess  Argiropoli,  Sgricci,  Taaffe, 
—  new  names,  but,  excepting  two,  of  minor  importance.  Emilia  Viviani  was  a  young  lady 
who  interested  Mary  and  Miss  Clairmont  as  well  as  Shelley  in  her  misfortunes.  She  was 
the  occasion  of  ♦  Epipsychidion,'  in  writing  which  Shelley  expressed  his  full  idealization  of 
woman  as  the  object  of  love  and  in  so  doing  broke  the  charm  of  this  last  object  of  his 
idolatry.  The  event  ended  in  exciting  a  certain  jealousy  in  Mary,  who  was  soon  disen- 
chanted of  the  distressed  maiden;  but  she  continued  to  be  treated  by  all  with  the  great- 
est kindness.  Mavrocordato  was  the  occasion  of  Shelley's  keener  interest  in  the  Greek 
revolt,  which  was  expressed  in  '  Hellas,'  an  improvisation  of  1821,  and  he  was  welcome 
alfM)  to  Mary,  who  read  Greek  with  him.  The  most  important  addition  to  the  circle  was 
Edward  Williams  and  his  wife,  Jane,  who  came  on  January  13,  1821,  and  were  Shelley's 
constant  and  most  prized  companions,  from  this  time  to  the  end.  The  summer  was  spent 
At  the  Baths  of  Giuliano,  where  *  Adonais '  waa  composed,  except  that  Shelley  went  to 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xxxix 

Ravenna  to  see  Byron  in  August ;  and  the  winter  was  passed  at  Pisa,  where  Byron  settled 
in  November  with  the  Countess  Guiccioli.  Medwin  also  returned  and  joined  the  circle. 
It  was  proposed,  too,  to  invite  Hunt,  who  was  in  straits,  to  Italy,  and  a  plan  was  made 
lor  him  to  join  with  Byron  in  issuing  '  The  Liberal '  there,  and  in  consequence  of  this 
arrangement,  and  by  Shelley's  free  but  self-denying  material  aid,  he  was  enabled  to 
come,  but  did  not  arrive  so  soon  as  was  hoped. 

Such,  in  rapid  outline,  was  the  external  course  of  Shelley's  life  in  these  four  Italian 
years  up  to  the  spring  of  1822.  He  had  accomplished  his  poetic  work,  though  it  remained 
in  large  part  unpublished,  and  he  looked  upon  himself  as  having  failed,  —  not  that  he  did 
not  know  that  his  work  was  good,  but  that  it  had  received  no  recognition.  In  private 
life  he  had  continued  to  meet  with  grave  misfortune,  and  his  character  still  stood  black- 
ened and  traduced  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  His  life  with  Mary  had  been  a  happy  one, 
but  he  had  early  learned  that  it  was  his  part  to  deny  himself  and  contain  his  own  moods 
and  sorrows.  It  is  plain  that  he  felt  a  lack  of  perfect  sympathy  between  them,  a  certain 
coldness,  and  something  like  fault-finding  with  him  because  of  his  persistent  difference 
from  the  world  and  its  ways.  He  was  pained  by  this,  and  made  solitary,  and  Mary 
afterwards  was  aware  of  it,  as  her  self-reproaches  show;  but  the  union,  notwithstanding, 
was  one  of  tender  affection  in  the  midst  of  many  circumstances  that  might  have  disturbed 
it.  To  Shelley's  continued  loneliness  must  be  ascribed  the  deep  melancholy  of  his  verses 
to  Mrs.  Williams,  the  sheaf  of  poems  that  was  the  last  of  all.  Edward  Williams,  who 
had  been  at  Eton  in  Shelley's  time,  may  have  had  some  knowledge  of  him,  but  he  was 
practically  a  new  acquaintance.  He  was  manly  and  generous  by  nature,  and  had  a  taste 
for  literature,  though  his  previous  life  had  been  an  active  one.  Shelley  became  much 
attached  to  him,  and  found  in  his  company,  as  they  boated  on  the  Serchio  together,  great 
enjoyment.  Both  he  and  Mary  express  warm  admiration  for  their  friend.  Mrs.  Wil- 
liams suffered  the  same  idealization  that  Shelley  had  wrought  about  every  woman  who 
attracted  him  at  all;  and  the  peace  and  happiness  of  her  life  with  her  husband  especially 
won  upon  him.  The  verses  he  wrote  her  were  kept  secret  from  Mary,  and  have  the 
personal  and  intimate  quality  of  poems  meant  for  one  alone  to  read.  This  friendship 
was  the  last  pleasure  that  Shelley  was  to  know,  and  Williams  was  to  be  his  companior 
in  death. 

Trelawny,  from  whom  the  true  description  of  Shelley  at  the  end  of  life  comes,  joined 
the  circle  January  14,  1822.  He  had  led  a  romantic  life  as  a  sailor,  and  was  now  twenty- 
eight  years  old  when  ho  sought  out  Shelley,  and  made  friends  with  Byron,  and  through 
these  friendships  became  an  interesting  character  to  the  world.  The  scene  of  his  intro- 
duction to  Shelley  has  been  often  quoted:  — 

'  The  Williamses  received  me  in  their  earnest,  cordial  manner.  We  had  a  great  deal 
to  communicate  to  each  other,  and  were  in  loud  and  animated  conversation,  when  I  was 
rather  put  out  by  observing  in  the  passage  near  the  open  door  opposite  to  where  I  sat  a 
pair  of  glittering  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  mine.  It  was  too  dark  to  make  out  whom  they 
belonged  to.  With  the  acuteness  of  a  woman,  Mrs.  Williams's  eyes  followed  the  direc- 
tion of  mir»e,  and  going  to  the  doorway  she  laughingly  said,  "Come  in,  Shelley;  it's  only 
our  friend  Tre,  just  arrived."  Swiftly  gliding  in,  blushing  like  a  girl,  a  tall,  slim  strip- 
ling held  out  both  his  hands;  and,  although  I  could  hardly  believe,  as  I  looked  at  bis 
flushed,  feminine  and  artless  face,  that  it  could  be  the  poet,  I  returned  his  warm  pressure. 
After  the  ordinary  greetings  and  courtesies  he  sat  down  and  listened.  I  was  silent  from 
astonishment.  Was  it  possible  this  mild-looking,  beardless  boy  could  be  the  veritable 
monster  at  war  with  all  the  world  ?  —  ezoommunicated  by  the  Fathers  of  the  Cburcb| 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


deprived  of  his  civil  rig]its  by  the  fiat  of  a  grim  Lord  Chancellor,  discarded  by  every 
meniber  of  his  fiiinily,  and  denounced  by  the  rival  sages  of  our  literature  as  the  founder 
of  a  Satanic  school  ?  I  could  not  believe  it;  it  must  be  a  hoax.  .  .  .  He  was  habited 
like  a  boy  in  a  black  jacket  and  trousers,  which  he  seemed  to  have  outgrown,  or  his 
tailor,  as  is  the  custom,  had  most  shamefully  stinted  him  in  his  "sizings."  Mrs.  Williams 
saw  my  embarrassment  and,  to  relieve  me,  asked  Shelley  what  book  he  had  in  his  hand. 
His  face  brightened,  and  he  answered  briskly,  "  Calderon's  *  Magico  Prodigioso.'  I  am 
translating  some  passages  in  it."  "  Oh,  read  it  to  us  I  "  Shoved  off  from  the  shore  of 
commonplace  incidents,  that  could  not  interest  him,  and  fairly  launched  on  a  theme  that 
did,  he  instantly  became  oblivious  of  everything  but  the  book  in  his  hand.  The  masterly 
manner  in  which  he  analyzed  the  genius  of  the  author,  his  lucid  interpretation  of  the 
story,  and  the  ease  with  which  he  translated  into  our  language  the  most  subtle  and  imag- 
inative passages  of  the  Spanish  poet  were  marvellous,  as  was  his  command  of  the  two 
languages.  After  this  touch  of  his  quality  I  no  longer  doubted  his  identity.  A  dead 
silence  ensued.  Looking  up  I  asked,  "  Wiiere  is  he  ?  "  Mrs.  Williams  said,  "  Who  ? 
Shelley  ?  Oh,  he  comes  and  goes  like  a  spirit,  no  one  knows  when  or  where."  Pre- 
sently he  reappeared  with  Mrs.  Shelley.' 

Trelawny's  whole  narrative  is  very  vivid  and  clear,  and,  in  particular,  he  renders  the 
boyishness  of  Shelley  better  than  Hogg  or  Peacock,  who  turned  it  to  ridicule.  He  found 
in  him  the  old  qualities,  however,  and  many  of  the  old  habits.  He  still  read  or  wrote 
incessantly,  and  could  close  his  senses  to  the  world  around,  even  at  Byron's  dinner- 
parties, and  withdraw  to  his  own  thoughts.  He  had  no  regular  habits  of  eating,  and 
lived  on  water  and  bread,  —  '  bread  literally  his  staff  of  life.'  He  could  jump  into  the 
water,  on  being  told  to  swim,  and  lie  quiet  on  the  bottom  till  '  fished  out,'  —  an  incident 
that  would  have  read  very  differently  in  Hogg  or  Peacock,  but  is  here  told  with  perfect 
nature.  He  was  self-willed.  *  I  always  go  on  till  I  am  stopped,  and  I  never  am  stopped,' 
he  said.  He  had  filled  Williams  with  enthusiasm  for  self-improvement,  and  won  him 
over  wholly  to  books  and  thought  and  poetizing,  just  as  he  always  sought  to  do  with  his 
friends,  men  or  women.  He  was  as  passionately  fond  of  boating  as  ever  and  eager  for 
the  craft  he  had  ordered  for  the  summer,  which  they  were  to  spend  in  the  Gulf  of  Spezia, 
as  had  been  decided;  and  he  wandered  out  alone  into  the  Pine  Forest  to  write,  as  when 
he  composed  '  Alastor.'  The  same  features,  the  same  traits,  are  here  as  of  old,  —  with 
the  difference  that  they  are  told  naturally  without  the  suggestion  of  grotesqueness  on 
one  side  or  of  incipient  lunacy  on  the  other.  This  sustains  our  belief  in  Shelley's  always 
having  been  a  natural  being,  subject  to  no  more  of  eccentricity  or  disease  than  exists 
within  the  bounds  of  an  ordinary  healthy  nature.  '  He  was  like  a  healthy,  well-condi- 
tioned boy,'  says  Trelawny.  The  gentle  timidity  is  here,  too,  the  half  ludicrous  fear  of 
a  '  party '  with  which  Mary  had  '  threatened  '  him,  and  similar  shynesses  that  existed  in 
his  temperament,  with  the  openness  that  knew  no  wrong  where  no  wrong  was  meant. 
His  dislike  of  Byron,  mixed  with  admiration  of  his  genius  and  discouragement  in  its  pre- 
sence, is  not  concealed,  and  the  vigor  and  brilliancy  of  his  talk,  its  eloquent  flow,  together 
with  his  spells  of  sadness  and  the  physical  spasms  that  made  him  roll  on  the  floor,  but 
with  self-command  and  words  of  unforgetting  kindness  for  those  about  him  who  were 
obliged  to  look  on,  and  also  the  constant  discouragement  of  his  spirits  in  respect  to  him* 
self  and  his  life,  —  are  all  spread  on  these  pages,  which  are  biographically  of  the  highest 
value.  It  is  fortunate  that  there  is  so  faithful  a  witness  of  these  last  days  ;  but  this 
memoir  must  draw  to  a  close  without  lingering  over  the  last  portrait. 

The  plan  to  pass  the  summer  on  the  Gulf  of  Spezia  was  carried  out.     On  May  1,  after 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  adi 

some  difficulties  in  finding  a  place  of  abode,  Shelley  was  settled  in  the  Casa  Magni,  a 
lonely  house  on  the  edge  of  the  sea,  under  steep  and  wooded  slopes,  bencatli  which  rocky 
footpaths  wound  to  Lerici  on  the  south  and  to  the  near  village  of  San  Terenzo  on  the 
north.  The  Williamses  were  with  him,  and,  temporarily.  Miss  Clairmont,  to  whom  in 
the  first  days  he  there  broke  the  news  of  the  death  of  Allegra.  The  spot  is  one  of  inde- 
scribable beauty,  with  lovely  views,  both  near  and  distant,  wherever  the  eye  wanders  or 
rests  ;  but  it  had  also  an  aspect  of  wildness  and  strangeness,  which  depressed  Mary's 
spirits.  '  The  gales  and  squalls,'  she  says,  *  that  hailed  our  first  arrival  surrounded  the 
bay  with  foam.  Tlie  liowling  winds  swept  round  our  exposed  house,  and  the  sea  roared 
unremittingly.  .  .  .  The  natives  were  wilder  than  the  place.  Our  near  neighbors  of 
San  Terenzo  were  more  like  savages  than  any  people  I  ever  before  lived  among.  Many 
a  night  they  passed  on  the  beach  singing,  or  rather  howling,  the  women  dancing  about 
among  the  waves  that  broke  at  their  feet,  the  men  leaning  against  the  rocks  and  joining 
in  their  loud,  wild  chorus.'  It  was  among  these  villagers  that  Shelley's  last  offices  of 
charity  were  doite,  as  he  visited  them  in  their  houses,  and  helped  the  sick  and  the  poor  as 
he  was  able.  On  May  12  arrived  the  boat  which  Shelley  christened  the  Ariel,  —  *  a  per- 
fect plaything  for  the  summer,'  Williams  said.  They  made  also  a  shallop  of  canvas  and 
reeds,  and  in  one  or  the  other  of  these  crafts  he  incessantly  boated.  He  wrote  '  The 
Triumph  of  Life,'  going  off  by  himself  in  his  shallop  in  the  moonlight.  Mary  thought  it 
was  the  happiest  period  in  his  life.  '  I  still  inhabit  this  divine  bay,'  he  wrote,  '  reading 
Spanish  dramas,  and  sailing  and  listening  to  the  most  enchanting  music'  Again  he  says» 
'  If  the  past  and  future  could  be  obliterated,  the  present  would  content  me  so  well  that  I 
could  say  with  Faust  to  the  passing  moment,  —  "  Remain  thou,  thou  art  so  beautiful.'" 
Mary  unfortunately  was  not  so  happy,  and  she  says,  took  no  pleasure  excepting  when 
•  sailing,  lying  down  with  my  head  on  his  knee,  I  shut  my  eyes  and  felt  the  wind  and  our 
swift  motion  alone.'  She  was  also  at  one  time  dangerousl}'  ill,  and  Shelley  himself  was 
far  from  well.  The  house  was  a  place  of  visions.  One  night,  when  with  Williams,  he 
saw  Allegra  as  a  naked  child  rise  from  the  waves,  clapping  her  hands;  again  he  saw  the 
image  of  himself,  who  asked  him,  *  How  long  do  you  mean  to  be  content  ?  *  And  Mrs. 
Williams  twice  saw  Shelley  when  he  was  not  present. 

Two  months  passed  by  in  this  retreat,  and  it  was  now  time  for  Leigh  Hunt  to  arrive. 
Shelley  set  off  to  meet  him  at  Leghorn,  taking  Williams  and  the  s.iilor-boy,  Charles 
Vivian,  with  him.  Mary  called  Shelley  back  two  or  three  times  and  told  him  that  if  he 
did  not  come  soon  she  should  go  to  Pisa,  with  their  child  Percy,  and  cried  bitterly  when 
he  went  away.  Tlie  next  day  he  arrived  at  Leghorn.  Thornton  Hunt  alwaj's  remem- 
bered the  cry  with  which  Shelley  rushed  into  his  father's  arms,  saying,  '  I  am  inexpressi- 
bly delighted  !  you  caimot  think  how  inexpressibly  happy  it  makes  me.'  He  saw  the 
Hunts  settled,  and  arranged  affairs  between  Hunt  and  Byron  ;  but  both  he  and  Williams 
were  anxious  to  return  to  their  families  in  their  lonely  situation.  On  July  8  they  set  sail 
in  the  Ariel,  not  without  warning  of  risk.  The  weather  was  threatening,  and  in  a  few 
moments  they  were  lost  in  a  sea-fog.     Trelawny  describes  the  scene  :  — 

'  Although  the  sun  was  obscured  by  mists  it  was  oppressively  sultry.  Tliere  was  not  a 
breath  of  air  in  the  harbor.  The  heaviness  of  the  atmosphere  and  an  unwonted  stillness 
benumbed  my  senses.  I  went  down  into  the  cabin  and  sank  into  a  slumber.  I  was 
roused  up  by  a  noise  overhead,  and  went  on  deck.  The  men  were  getting  up  a  chain 
cable  to  let  go  another  anchor.  There  was  a  general  stir  amongst  the  shipping;  shifting 
berths,  getting  down  yards  and  masts,  veering  out  cables,  hauling  in  of  hawsers,  letting 
go  anchors,  bailing  from  the  ships  and  quays,  boats  sculling  rapidly  to  and  fro.     It  was 


xln  PERCY   BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

almost  dark,  although  only  half  past  six.  The  sea  was  of  the  color  and  looked  as  solid 
and  smooth  as  a  sheet  of  lead,  and  covered  with  an  oily  scum ;  gusts  of  wind  swept  over 
without  ruffling  it,  and  big  drops  of  rain  fell  on  its  surface,  rebounding,  as  if  they  could 
not  penetrate  it.  There  was  a  commotion  in  the  air,  made  up  of  many  threatening  sounds, 
coming  upon  us  from  the  sea.  Fishing  craft  and  coasting  vessels  under  bare  poles  rushed 
by  us  in  shoals,  running  foul  of  the  ships  in  the  harbor.  As  yet  the  din  and  hubbub  was 
that  made  by  men,  but  their  shrill  pipings  were  suddenly  silenced  by  the  crashing  voice 
of  a  thunder  squall  that  burst  right  over  our  heads.  For  some  time  no  other  sounds  were 
to  be  heard  than  the  thunder,  wind  and  rain.  When  the  fury  of  the  storm,  which  did 
not  last  for  more  than  twenty  minutes,  had  abated,  and  the  horizon  was  in  some  degree 
cleared,  I  looked  to  seaward  anxiously,  in  the  hope  of  descrying  Shelley's  boat  amongst 
the  many  small  crafts  scattered  about.  I  watched  every  speck  that  loomed  on  the  hori- 
zon, thinking  that  they  would  have  borne  up  on  their  return  to  the  port,  as  all  the  other 
boats  that  had  gone  out  in  the  same  direction  had  done.  I  sent  our  Genoese  mate  on 
board  some  of  the  returning  crafts  to  make  inquiries,  but  they  all  professed  not  to  have 
seen  the  English  boat.  .  .  .  During  the  night  it  was  gusty  and  showery,  and  the  light- 
ning flashed  along  the  coast;  at  daylight  I  returned  on  board  and  resumed  my  examina- 
tions of  the  crews  of  the  various  boats  which  had  returned  to  the  port  during  the  night. 
They  either  knew  nothing  or  would  say  nothing.  My  Genoese,  with  the  quick  eye  of  a 
sailor,  pointed  out  on  board  a  fisliing-boat  an  English-made  oar  that  he  thought  he  had 
seen  in  Shelley's  boat,  but  the  entire  crew  swore  by  all  the  saints  in  the  calendar  that 
this  was  not  so.  Another  day  was  passed  in  horrid  suspense.  On  the  morning  of  the 
third  day  I  rode  to  Pisa.  Byron  liad  returned  to  the  Lanfranchi  Palace.  I  hoped  to  find 
a  letter  from  the  Villa  Magni;  there  was  none.  I  told  my  fears  to  Hunt,  and  then  went 
upstairs  to  Byron.  When  I  told  him  his  lip  quivered,  and  his  voice  faltered  as  he  ques- 
tioned me.' 

TrelawTiy  sent  a  courier  to  Leghorn  and  Byron  ordered  the  Bolivar  to  cruise  along  the 
coast.  He  himself  took  his  horse  and  rode.  At  Via  Reggio  he  recognized  a  punt,  a 
water  keg,  and  some  bottles  that  had  been  on  Shelley's  boat,  and  his  fears  became  almost 
certainties.  To  quicken  their  watchfulness  he  promised  rewards  to  the  coast-guard 
patrol.  On  July  18  two  bodies  were  found.  '  The  tall,  slight  figure,  the  jacket,  the  vol- 
ume of  iEschylus  in  one  pocket,  and  Keats's  poems  in  the  other,  doubled  back  as  if  the 
reader  in  the  act  of  reading  had  hastily  thrust  it  away,  were  all  too  familiar  to  me  to 
leave  a  doubt  on  my  mind  that  this  mutilated  corpse  was  any  other  than  Shelley's.'  The 
second  body  was  that  of  Williams.  A  few  days  later,  the  body  of  the  sailor-boy,  Charles 
Vivian,  was  also  found.  Trelawny  went  on  to  Lerici  and  broke  the  news  to  the  two 
widows  there,  who,  after  suffering  great  suspense,  and  going  to  Pisa  and  returning,  still 
hoped  agaiiLst  hope  through  these  days. 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  done  except  that  the  last  offices  must  be  discharged. 
The  bodies  had  been  buried  in  the  sand,  but  permission  was  obtained  from  the  authorities 
to  burn  them.  Trelawny  took  charge.  He  had  a  furnace  made,  and  provided  what  else 
was  necessary.  On  the  first  day  Williams's  body  was  burned,  and  on  the  second,  August 
18,  Shelley's.  Three  white  wands  had  been  stuck  in  the  sand  to  mark  the  grave,  but  it 
was  nearly  an  hour  before  his  body  was  found.  The  preparations  were  then  completed. 
Only  Byron  and  Hunt  besides  Trelawny  and  some  natives  of  the  place  were  present. 
•  The  sea,'  says  Trelawny,  '  with  the  islands  of  Gorgona,  Capraja  and  Elba,  was  before 
us.  Old  battlemented  watch  towers  stretched  along  the  coast,  backed  by  the  marble- 
crested  Apennines  glistening  in  the  sun,  picturesque  from  their  diversified  outlines,  and 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xliS 

not  a  human  dwelling  was  in  sight.*  And  Hunt  takes  up  the  description:  'The  beauty 
of  the  flame  arising  from  the  funeral  pile  was  extraordinary.  The  weather  was  beauti- 
fully fine.  The  Mediterranean,  now  soft  and  lucid,  kissed  the  shore  as  if  to  make  peace 
with  it.  The  yellow  sand  and  blue  sky  were  intensely  contrasted  with  one  another; 
marble  mountains  touched  the  air  with  coolness,  and  the  flame  of  the  fire  bore  away  to- 
ward heaven  in  vigorous  amplitude,  wavering  and  quivering  with  a  brightness  of  incon- 
ceivable beauty.*  Wine,  oil  and  sale  were  thrown  on  the  pile,  and  with  them  the  volume 
of  Keats,  and  all  was  slowly  consumed.  Trelawny  snatched  the  heart  from  the  flames. 
Hunt  and  Byron  hardly  maintained  themselves,  but  at  last  all  was  over,  and  they  rode 
away.  The  ashes  were  deposited  in  the  English  burying  ground  at  Rome,  in  the  now 
familiar  spot  where  Trelawny  placed  a  slab  in  the  groimd  and  inscribed  it:  — 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

Cor  Cordium 

Nattts  IV  Aug.  MDCCXCH 

Obiit  Vni  Jul.  MDCCCXXH 

*  Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  sufiEer  a  sea  change 
Into  somethinsr  rich  and  strange.' 

6.  E.  W. 


QUEEN  MAB 
A  PHILOSOPHICAL  POEM 


WITH  NOTES 

ECRASEZ  L'INFAME! 

Correspondance  de  Voltairv, 

Avia  Pieridum  peragro  loca,  nuUius  ante 
Trita  solo,  juvat  integros  accedere  fonteis ; 
Atque  baurire :  juvatque  novos  decerpere  floreSi 

Unde  prius  nulli  velarint  tempera  Musae. 
Primum  quod  magnis  doceo  de  rebus  ;  et  arctis 
Religionum  animos  nodis  exsolvere  pergo. 

Lucretius,  lib.  iv. 

Abt  n-ou  VTw,  K(u  Kocrfioc  xiiojo'w. 

Archimedes. 


'  Daring  my  existence  I  have  incessantly 
speculated,  thought  and  read.'  So  Shelley 
wrote  -when  he  was  yet  not  quite  twenty  years 
old ;  and  the  statement  fairly  represents  the 
history  of  his  boyhood  and  youth.  Queen  Mab 
was  composed  in  1812-13,  in  its  present  form, 
and  issued  during  the  summer  of  the  latter 
year,  when  Shelley  was  just  twenty-one.  It 
embodies  substantially  the  contents  of  his  mind 
at  that  period,  especially  those  speculative, 
religious  and  philanthropic  opinions  to  the  ex- 
pression of  which  his  '  passion  for  reforming 
the  world  '  was  the  incentive  ;  and,  poetically, 
it  is  his  first  work  of  importance.  Much  of 
its  subject-matter  had  been  previously  treated 
by  him.  The  figure  of  Ahasuerus,  which  was 
a  permanent  imaginative  motive  for  him,  had 
been  the  centre  of  a  juvenile  poem.  The  Wan- 
dering Jew,  in  which  Medwin  claims  to  have 
collaborated  with  him,  as  early  as  1809-10 ; 
and  youthful  verse  written  before  1812  is 
clearly  incorporated  in  Queen  Mob.  It  may 
fairly  be  regarded,  poetically  and  intellectu- 
ally, as  the  result  of  the  three  preceding  years, 
from  the  eighteenth  to  the  twenty-first  of  the 
poet's  life. 

The  poem  owes  much  to  Shelley's  studies  in 
the  Latin  and  French  authors.  The  limitations 
of  his  poeticnl  training  and  taste  in  English  verse 
are  justly  stated  by  Mrs.  Shelley,  in  her  note  : 

'  Our  earlier  English  poetry  was  almost  un- 
known to  him.    The  love  and  knowledge  of 


nature  developed  by  Wordsworth  —  the  lofty 
melody  and  mysterious  beauty  of  Coleridge's 
poetry  —  and  the  wild  fantastic  machinery  and 
gorgeous  scenery  adopted  by  Southey,  com- 
posed his  favorite  reading.  The  rhythm  of 
Queen  Mab  was  founded  on  that  of  Thalaba, 
and  the  first  few  lines  bear  a  striking  resem- 
blance in  spirit,  though  not  in  idea,  to  the 
opening  of  that  poem.  His  fertile  imagina- 
tion, and  ear  tuned  to  the  finest  sense  of  har- 
mony, preserved  him  from  imitation.  Another 
of  his  favorite  books  was  the  poem  of  Gebir^ 
by  Walter  Savage  Landor.' 

Queen  Mab  is,  in  form,  what  would  be  ex- 
pected from  such  preferences.  His  own  Notes 
indicate  the  prose  sources  of  his  thought.  He 
dissented  from  all  that  was  established  in  so- 
ciety, for  the  most  part  very  radically,  and  was 
a  believer  in  the  perfectibility  of  man  by  moral 
means.  Here,  again,  Mrs,  Shelley's  note  is 
most  just : 

'  He  was  animated  to  greater  zeal  by  com- 
passion for  his  fellow-creatures.  His  sym- 
pathy was  excited  by  the  misery  with  which 
the  world  is  bursting.  He  witnessed  the  suf- 
ferings of  the  poor,  and  was  aware  of  the  evils 
of  ignorance.  He  desired  to  induce  every  rich 
man  to  despoil  himself  of  superfluity,  and  to 
create  a  brotherhood  of  property  and  serrice, 
and  was  ready  to  be  the  first  to  lay  down  the 
advantages  of  his  birth.  He  was  of  too  un- 
compromising a  disposition  to  join  any  party 


QUEEN   MAB 


He  did  not  in  his  youth  look  forward  to  grad- 
ual improvement :  nay,  in  those  days  of  intol 
erance,  now  almost  forgotten,  it  seemed  as  easy 
to  look  forward  to  the  sort  of  millennium  of 
freedom  and  brotherhood,  which  he  thought 
the  proper  state  of  mankind,  as  to  the  present 
reign  of  moderation  and  improvement.  Ill 
health  made  him  believe  that  his  race  would 
soon  be  run  ;  that  a  year  or  two  was  all  he  had 
of  life.  He  desired  that  these  years  should  be 
useful  and  illustrious.  He  saw,  in  a  fervent 
call  on  his  fellow-creatures  to  share  alike  the 
blessings  of  the  creation,  to  love  and  serve 
each  other,  the  noblest  work  that  life  and  time 
permitted  him.  In  this  spirit  he  composed 
Queen  Mab.^ 

Shelley's  own  opinion  of  the  poem  changed 
in  later  years.  He  always  referred  to  it  aa 
written  in  his  nineteenth  year,  when  it  was  ap- 
parently begun,  though  its  final  form  at  any 
rate  dates  from  the  next  year.  In  1817  he 
wrote  of  it  as  follows  : 

.  .  .  '  Full  of  those  errors  which  belong  to 
youth,  as  far  as  imagery  and  language  and  a 
connected  plan  is  concerned.  But  it  was  a  sin- 
cere overflowing  of  the  heart  and  mind,  and  that 
at  a  period  when  they  are  most  uncorrupted  and 
pure.  It  is  the  author's  boast,  aud  it  consti- 
tutes no  small  portion  of  his  happiness,  that, 
after  six  years  [this  period  supports  the  date 
1811]  of  added  experience  and  reflection,  the 
doctrines  of  equality,  and  liberty,  and  disinter- 
estedness, and  entire  unbelief  in  religion  of  any 
sort,  to  which  this  poem  is  devoted,  have 
gained  rather  than  lost  that  beauty  and  that 
grandeur  which  first  determined  him  to  devote 
his  life  to  the  investigation  and  inculcation  of 
them.' 

In  1821,  when  the  poem  was  printed  by  W. 
Clark,  Shelley,  in  a  letter  of  protest  to  the  edi- 
tor of  the  Examiner,  describes  it  in  a  different 
strain  : 

'A  poem,  entitled  Queen  Mab,  was  written 
by  me,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  I  dare  say  in  a 
sufficiently  intemperate  spirit  —  but  even  then 
•was  not  intended  for  publication,  and  a  few 


copies  only  were  struck  off,  to  be  distributed 
among  my  personal  friends.  I  have  not  seen 
this  production  for  several  years ;  I  doubt  not 
but  that  it  is  perfectly  worthless  in  point  of 
literary  composition ;  and  that  in  all  that  con- 
cerns moral  and  political  speculation,  as  well 
as  in  the  subtler  discriminations  of  metaphysi- 
cal and  religious  doctrine,  it  is  still  more  crude 
and  immature.  I  am  a  devoted  enemy  to  re- 
ligious, political,  and  domestic  oppression  ;  and 
I  regret  this  publication  not  so  much  from  lit- 
erary vanity,  as  because  I  fear  it  is  better  fitted 
to  injure  than  to  serve  the  sacred  cause  of 
freedom.' 

Queen  Mab,  as  Shelley  here  states,  was  pri- 
vately issued.  The  name  of  the  printer  was 
cut  out  of  nearly  all  copies,  for  fear  of  prose- 
cution. The  edition  was  of  two  hundred  and 
fifty  copies,  of  which  about  seventy  were  put 
in  circulation  by  gift.  Many  pirated  editions 
were  issued  after  Shelley's  death  both  in  Eng- 
land and  America,  and  the  poem  was  esj)ecially 
popular  with  the  Owenites.  By  it  Shelley  was 
long  most  widely  known,  and  it  remains  one 
of  the  most  striking  of  his  works  in  popular 
apprehension.  Though  at  last  he  abandoned 
it,  because  of  its  crudities,  he  had  felt  inter- 
est in  it  after  its  first  issue  and  had  partly 
recast  it,  and  included  a  portion  of  this  re- 
vision in  his  next  volume.  Alastor,  1816,  as  the 
Damon  of  the  World.  The  radical  character 
of  Queen  Mab,  which  was  made  a  part  of  the 
evidence  against  his  character,  on  the  occasion 
of  the  trial  which  resulted  in  liis  being  de- 
prived of  the  custody  of  his  children  by  Lord 
Eldon,  was  a  main  element  in  the  contempo- 
rary obloquy  in  which  his  name  was  involved  in 
England,  though  very  few  persons  could  ever 
have  read  the  poem  then ;  but  it  may  be 
doubted  whether  in  the  end  it  did  not  help  his 
fame  by  the  fascination  it  exercises  over  a  cer- 
tain class  of  minds  in  the  first  stages  of  social 
and  intellectual  revolt  or  angry  unrest  so  wide- 
spread in  this  century. 

The  dedication  To  Harriet  *****  is  to  his 
first  wife. 


TO   HARRIET  ***** 

Whose  is  the  love  that,  gleaming  through 
the  world, 

Wards  off  the  poisonous  arrow  of  its  scorn? 
Whose  is  the  warm  and  partial  praise, 
Virtue's  raost  sweet  reward  ? 

Beneath  whose  looks  did  my  reviving  soul 
Riper  in  truth  and  virtuous  daring  g^ow  ? 
Whose  eyes  have  I  gazed  fondly  on, 
And  loved  mankind  the  more  ? 


Harriet  !  on  thine  :  —  thou  wert  my  purer 

mind  ; 
Thou  wert  the  inspiration  of  my  song  ; 

Thine  are  these  early  wilding  flowers, 

Though  garlanded  by  me. 

Then  press  into  thy  breast  this  pledge  of 

love  ; 
And  know,  though  time  may  change  and 
years  may  roll, 
Each  floweret  gathered  in  my  heart 
It  consecrates  to  thine. 


QUEEN  MAB 


How  wonderful  is  Death, 

Death,  and  his  brother  Sleep  f 
One   pale  as  yonder  waning  moon 

With  lips  of  lurid  blue  ; 

The  other,  rosy  as  the  morn 
When  throned  on  ocean's  wave 

It  blushes  o'er  the  world  ; 
Yet  both  so  passing  wonderful  I 

Hath  then  the  gloomy  Power 
Whose  reign  is  in  the  tainted  sepulchres  lo 
Seized  on  her  sinless  soul  ? 
Must  then  that  peerless  form 
Which  love  and  admiration  cannot  view 
Without  a  beating  heart,  those  azure  veins 
Which  steal  like  streams  along  a  field  of 
snow, 
That  lovely  outline  which  is  fair 
As  breathing  marble,  perish  ? 
Must  putrefaction's  breath 
Leave  nothing  of  this  heavenly  sight 

But  loathsomeness  and  ruin  ?  20 

Spare  uotliing  but  a  gloomy  theme, 
On  which  the  lightest  heart  might  moral- 
ize? 
Or  is  it  only  a  sweet  slumber 
Stealing  o'er  sensation. 
Which  the  breath  of  roseate  morning 
Chaseth  into  darkness  ? 
Will  lanthe  wake  again. 
And  give  that  faithful  bosom  joy 
Whose  sleepless  spirit  waits  to  catch 
Light,  life  and  rapture,  from  her  smile  ? 

Yes  !  she  will  wake  again,  31 

Although  her  glowing  limbs  are  motionless, 
And  sil^t  those  sweet  lips. 
Once  breathing  eloquence 
That  might  have  soothed  a  tiger's  rage 
Or  thawed  the  cold  heart  of  a  conqueror. 
Her  dewy  eyes  are  closed, 
And  on  their  lids,  whose  texture  fine 
Scarce  hides  the  dark  blue  orbs  beneath, 
The  baby  Sleep  is  pillowed  ;       40 
Her  golden  tresses  shade 
The  bosom's  stainless  pride. 
Curling  like  tendrils  of  the  parasite 
Around  a  marble  column. 

Hark  !  whence  that  rushing  sound  ? 

'T  is  like  the  wondrous  strain 
That  round  a  lonely  ruin  swells. 
Which,  wandering  on  the  echoing  shore. 

The  enthusiast  hears  at  evening  ; 


'T  is  softer  than  the  west  wind's  sigh  ; 
'T  is  wilder  than  the  unmeasured  notes 
Of  that  strange  lyre  whose  strings     5a 
The  genii  of  the  breezes  sweep  ; 
Tliose  lines  of  rainbow  light 
Are  like  the  moonbeams  when  they 
fall 
Through  some  cathedral  window,  but  the 
tints 

Are  such  as  may  not  find 
Comparison  on  earth. 

Behold  the  chariot  of  the  Fairy  Queen  ! 
Celestial     coursers     paw    the    unyielding 
air;  6c 

Their    filmy   pennons   at   her   word   thej" 

furl, 
And  stop  obedient  to  the  reins  of  light ; 
These  the  Queen  of  Spells  drew  in  ; 
She  spread  a  cliarm  around  the  spot, 
And,  leaning  graceful  from   the  ethereal 
car. 
Long  did  she  gaze,  and  silently. 

Upon  the  slumbering  maid. 

Oh  !  not  the  visioned  poet  in  his  dreams, 
When  silvery  clouds  float  through  the  wil- 

dered  brain, 
When    every   sight   of    lovely,    wild    and 
grand  70 

Astonishes,  enraptures,  elevates, 
When  fancy  at  a  glance  combines 
The  wondrous  and  the  beautiful,  — 
So  bright,  so  fair,  so  wild  a  shape 
Hath  ever  yet  beheld. 
As  that  which  reined  the  coursers  of  the 
air 
And  poured  the  magic  of  her  gaze 
Upon  the  maiden's  sleep. 

The  broad  and  yellow  moon 

Shone  dimly  through  her  form  —       80 

That  form  of  faultless  symjnetry; 

The  pearly  and  pellucid  car 

Moved  not  the  moonlight's  line. 
'T  was  not  an  earthly  pageant. 

Those,  who  had  looked  upon  the  sight 
Passing  all  human  glory. 
Saw  not  the  yellow  moon. 
Saw  not  the  mortal  scene. 
Heard  not  the  night-wind's  rush, 
Heard  not  an  earthly  sound,  90 

Saw  but  the  fairy  pageant. 
Heard  but  the  heavenly  strains 
That  filled  the  lonely  dwelling. 


QUEEN  MAB 


The  Fairy's  frame  was  slight  —  you  fibrous 

cloud, 
That  catches  but  the  palest  tiuge  of  even, 
Aud   which  the  straining  eye  cau  hardly 

seize 
Wheu  meltiug  into  eastern  twilight's  shad- 
ow. 
Were  scarce  so  thin,  so  slight ;  but  the  fair 

star 
That  geuis  the  glittering  coronet  of  inorn, 
Sheds  not  a  light  so  mild,  so  powerful,     loo 
As  that  which,  bursting  from  the  Fairy's 

form. 
Spread  a  purpureal  halo  round  the  scene, 
Yet  with  an  undulating  motion. 
Swayed  to  her  outline  gracefully. 

From  her  celestial  car 

The  Fairy  Queen  descended, 

And  thrice  she  waved  her  wand 

Circled  with  wreaths  of  amarauth; 
Her  tliiu  and  misty  form 
Moved  with  the  moving  air,  no 

And  the  clear  silver  tones. 
As  thus  she  spoke,  were  such 

As  are  unheard  by  all  but  gifted  ear. 


*  Stars  !  3'onr  balmiest  influence  shed  1 
Elements  !  your  wrath  suspend  ! 
Sleep,  Ocean,  in  the  rocky  bounds 

That  circle  thy  domain  ! 
Let  not  a  breath  be  seen  to  stir 
Around  yon  grass-grown  ruin's  height ! 
Let  even  the  restless  gossamer  120 

Sleep  on  the  moveless  air  ! 
Soul  of  lanthe  !  thou. 
Judged  alone  worthy  of  the  envied  boon 
That  waits  the  good  aud  the  sincere  ;  that 

waits 
Those  who  have  struggled,  and  with  reso- 
lute will 
Vanquished   earth's   pride   and   meanness, 

burst  the  chains. 
The  icy  chains  of  custom,  and  have  shone 
The   day  -  stars   of  their  age ;  —  Soul   of 
lanthe  ! 

Awake  1  arise  1 ' 

Sudden  arose  130 

lanthe's  Soul;  it  stood 
All  l)eautiful  in  naked  purity. 
The  perfect  semblance  of  its  bodily  frame ; 
Instinct    with    inexpressible    beauty    and 
grace  — 


Each  stain  of  earthliness 
Had  passed  away  —  it  reassumed 
Its  native  dignity  and  stood 

Immortal  amid  ruin. 

Upon  the  couch  the  body  lay. 

Wrapt  in  the  depth  of  slumber;         i4e 

Its  features  were  fixed  and  meaningless. 
Yet  animal  life  was  there, 
And  every  organ  yet  performed 
Its  natural  functions;  'twas  a  sight 

Of  wonder  to  behold  the  body  and  the  soul. 
The  self-same  lineaments,  the  same 
Marks  of  identity  were  there ; 

Yet,   oh.  how  different !     One  aspires   to 
Heaven, 

Pants  for  its  sempiternal  heritage. 

And,  ever  clianging,  ever  rising  still,        150 
Wantons  in  endless  being: 

The  other,  for  a  time  the  unwilling  sport 

Of  circumstance  and  passion,  struggles  on; 

Fleets  tlirough  its  sad  duration  rapidly; 

Then  like  an  useless  and  worn-out  machine, 
Rots,  perishes,  and  passes. 


*  Spirit !  who  hast  dived  so  deep; 
Spirit !  who  hast  soared  so  high; 
Thou  the  fearless,  thou  the  mild, 

Accept  the  boon  thy  worth  hath  earned, 
Ascend  the  car  with  me  ! '  161 

SPIRIT 

*  Do  I  dream  ?     Is  this  new  feeling 
But  a  visioned  ghost  of  slumber  ? 

If  indeed  I  am  a  soul, 
A  free,  a  disembodied  soiJ, 
Speak  again  to  ^e.' 


'  I  am  the  Fairy  Mab:  to  me  'tis  given 
The  wonders  of  the  human  world  to  keep; 
The  secrets  of  the  immeasurable  past, 
In  the  unfailing  consciences  of  men,     170 
Those  stern,  unflattering  chroniclers,  I 

fiad; 
The  future,  from  the  causes  which  arise 
In  each  event,  I  gather;  not  the  sting 
W^hich  retributive  memory  implants 
In  the  hard  bosom  of  the  selfi.»h  man, 
Nor  that  ecstatic  and  exulting  throb 
Which    virtue's    votary   feels   when    he 

sums  up 
The  thoughts  and  actions  of  a  well-spent 

day, 


QUEEN  MAB 


Are  unforeseen,  unregistered  by  me; 
And  it  is  yet  permitted  me  to  rend       i8o 
The  veil  of  mui'tal  frailty,  that  the  spirit, 
Clothed  in   its   changeless   purity,   may 

know 
How  soonest   to   accomplish   the   great 

end 
For  which  it  hath   its   being,  and   may 

taste 
That  peace  which  in  the  end  all  life  will 

share. 
This  is  the  meed  of  virtue;  happy  Soul, 
Ascend  the  car  with  me  ! ' 

Tlie  chains  of  earth's  immurement 

Fell  from  lanthe's  spirit; 
They  shrank  and  brake  like  bandages  of 
straw  190 

Beneath  a  wakened  giant's  strength. 

She  knew  her  glorious  change, 
And  felt  in  apprehension  uncontrolled 

New  mptures  opening  round ; 
Each  day-dream  of  her  mortal  life. 
Each  frenzied  vision  of  the  shimbers 

That  closed  each  well-spent  day, 

Seemed  now  to  meet  reality. 
The  Fairy  and  the  Soul  proceeded; 

The  silver  clouds  disparted;  200 

And  as  the  car  of  magic  they  ascended, 

Again  the  speechless  music  swelled, 

Aguin  the  coursers  of  the  air 
Unfurled    their   azure   pennons,    and    the 
Queen, 

Shaking  the  beamy  reins, 

Bade  them  pursue  their  way. 

The  magic  car  moved  on. 
The  night  was  fair,  and  counties?  stars 
Studded  heaven's  dark  blue  vault; 

Just  o'er  the  eastern  wave  210 

Peeped  the  first  faint  smile  of  morn. 

The  magic  car  moved  on  — 

From  the  celestial  hoofs 
The  atmosphere  in  flaming  sparkles  flew. 

And  where  the  burning  wheels 
Eddied  above  the  mountain'sloftiest  peak. 

Was  traced  a  line  of  lightning. 

Now  it  flew  far  above  a  rock, 

The  utmost  verge  of  earth,  219 

The  rival  of  the  Andes,  whose  dark  brow 

Lowered  o'er  the  silver  sea. 

Far,  far  below  the  chariot's  path, 
Calm  as  a  slumbering  babe, 
Tremendous  Ocean  lay. 


The  mirror  of  its  stillness  showed 
The  pale  and  waning  stars. 
The  chariot's  fiery  track. 
And  the  gray  light  of  mom 
Tinging  those  fleecy  clouds 
That  canopied  the  dawn.  330 

Seemed  it  that  the  chariot's  way 
Lay  through  the  midst  of  an  immense  con- 
cave 
Radiant  with  million  constellations,  tinged 
With  shades  of  infinite  color. 
And  semicircled  with  a  belt 
Flashing  incessant  meteors. 

The  magio  car  moved  on. 
As  they  approached  their  goal,  238 

The  coursers  seemed  to  gather  speed ; 
The  sea  no  longer  was  distinguished ;  earth 
Appeared  a  vast  and  shadowy  sphere; 
The  sun's  unclouded  orb 
Rolled  through  the  black  concave; 
Its  rays  of  rapid  light 
Parted  around  the  chariot's  swifter  course, 
And  fell,  like  ocean's  feathery  spray 
Dashed  from  the  boiling  surge 
Before  a  vessel's  prow. 

Tlie  magic  car  moved  on. 
Earth's  distant  orb  appeared  250 

The   smallest   light   that   twinkles  in  the 
heaven ; 
Whilst  round  the  chariot's  way 
Innumerable  systems  rolled 
And  countless  spheres  diffused 
An  ever-varying  glory. 
It  was  a  sight  of  wonder:  some 
Were  homM  like  the  crescent  moon; 
Some  shed  a  mild  and  silver  beam 
Like  Hesperus  o'er  the  western  sea;    259 
Some  dashed  athwart  with  trains  of  flame. 
Like  worlds  to  death  and  ruin  driven; 
Some  shone  like  suns,  and  as  the  chariot 
passed. 
Eclipsed  all  other  light. 

Spirit  of  Nature  t  here  — 

In  this  interminable  wilderness 

Of  worlds,  at  whose  immensity 

Even  soaring  fancy  staggers. 

Here  is  thy  fitting  temple! 

Yet  not  the  lightest  leaf         26g 
That  quivers  to  the  passing  breeze 
Is  less  instinct  with  thee; 
Yet  not  the  meanest  worm 


QUEEN   MAB 


That  lurks  in  graves  and  fattens  ou  the 

dead, 
Less  shares  thy  eternal  breath! 

Spirit  of  Nature!  thou, 
Imperishable  as  this  scene  — 

Here  is  thy  fitting  temple! 


If  solitude  hath  ever  led  thy  steps 
To  the  wild  ocean's  echoing  shore, 
And  thou  hast  lingered  there, 
Until  the  sun's  broad  orb 

Seemed  resting  on  the  burnished  wave, 
Thou  must  liave  marked  tlie  lines 

Of  purple  gold  that  motionless 
Hung  o'er  the  sinking  sphere; 

Thou   must    have    marked    the    billowy 
clouds, 

Edged  with  intolerable  radiancy,  lo 

Towering  like  rocks  of  jet 
Crowned  with  a  diamond  wreath; 
And  yet  there  is  a  moment, 
When  the  sun's  highest  point 
Peeps  like  a  star  o'er  ocean's  western  edge. 
When  those  far  clouds  of  feathery  gold. 

Shaded  with  deepest  purple,  gleam 

Like  islands  on  a  dark  blue  sea; 
Then  has  thy  fancy  soared  above  the  earth 
And  furled  its  wearied  wing  20 

Within  the  Fairy's  fane. 

Yet  not  the  golden  islands 
Gleaming  in  yon  flood  of  light, 
Nor  the  feathery  curtains 
Stretching  o'er  the  sun's  bright  couch. 
Nor  the  burnished  ocean-waves 
Paving  that  gorgeous  dome, 
So  fair,  so  wonderful  a  sight 
As  Mab's  ethereal  palace  could  afford.      29 
Yet  likest  evening's  vault,  that  faery  Hall! 
As  Heaven,  low  resting  on  the   wave,  it 
spread 

Its  floors  of  flashing  light, 
Its  vast  and  azure  dome, 
Its  fertile  golden  islands 
Floating  on  a  silver  sea; 
Whilst  suns  their  mingling  beamings  darted 
Through  clouds  of  circumambient  darkness. 
And  pearly  bjittlements  around 
Looked  o'er  the  immense  of  Heaveu. 

The  magic  car  no  longer  moved.  40 

The  Fairy  and  the  Spirit 
Entered  the  Hall  of  Spells. 
Those  golden  clouds 


That  rolled  in  glittering  billows 
Beneath  the  azure  canopy. 
With  the  ethereal  footsteps  trembled  not; 

The  light  and  crimson  mists, 
Floating  to  strains  of  thrilling  melody 
Through  that  unearthly  dwelling, 
Yielded  to  every  movement  of  the  will;    50 
Upon  their  passive  swell  the  Spirit  leaned. 
And,    for    the    varied    bliss    that    pressed 
around, 
Used  not  the  glorious  privilege 
Of  virtue  and  of  wisdom. 

'Spirit!'  the  Fairy  said, 
And  pointed  to  the  gorgeous  dome, 
'  This  is  a  wondrous  sight 
And  mocks  all  human  grandeur; 
But,  were  it  virtue's  only  meed  to  dwell 
In  a  celestial  palace,  all  resigned  60 

To  pleasurable  impulses,  immured 
Within  the  prison  of  itself,  the  will 
Of  changeless  Nature  would  be  unfulfilled. 
Learn  to  make  others  happy.    Spirit,  come! 
This  is  thine  high  reward:  —  the  past  shall 

rise; 
Thou  shalt  behold  the  present;  I  will  teach 
The  secrets  of  the  future.' 

The  Fairy  and  the  Spirit 
Approached  the  overhanging  battlement. 
Below  lay  stretched  the  universe!      70 
There,  far  as  the  remotest  line 
That  bounds  imagination's  flight, 

Countless  and  unending  orbs 
In  maz}-^  motion  intermingled. 
Yet  still  fulfilled  immutably 
Eternal  Nature's  law. 
Above,  below,  around, 
The  circling  systems  formed 
A  wilderness  of  harmony; 
Each  with  undeviating  aim,  80 

In  eloquent  silence,  through  the  depths  of 
space 

Pursued  its  wondrous  way. 

There  was  a  little  light 
That  twinkled  in  the  misty  distance. 

None  but  a  spirit's  eye 

Might  ken  that  rolling  orb. 

None  but  a  spirit's  eye. 

And  in  no  other  place 
But  that  celestial  dwelling,  might  behold 
Each  action  of  this  earth's  inhabitants.      9a 

But  matter,  space,  and  time. 
In  those  aerial  mansions  cease  to  act; 


QUEEN   MAB 


And  all-prevailing  wisdom,  when  it  reaps 
The  harvest  of  its  excellence,  o'erbounds 
Those  obstacles  of  which  an  earthly  soul 
Fears  to  attempt  the  conquest. 

The  Fairy  pointed  to  the  earth. 
The  Spirit's  intellectual  eye 
Its  kindred  beings  recognized.  99 

The  thronging  thousands,  to  a  passing  view, 
Seemed  like  an  ant-hill's  citizens. 
How  wonderf id  !  that  even 
The  passions,  puejudices,  interests, 
That  sway  the  meanest  being  —  the  weak 
touch 

That  moves  the  finest  nerve 
And  in  one  human  brain 
Causes  the  faintest  thought,  becomes  a  link 
In  the  great  chain  of  Nature! 

'  Behold,'  the  Fairy  cried, 

'Palmyra's  ruined  palaces!  no 

Behold  where  grandeur  frowned! 

Behold  where  pleasure  smiled! 
Wliat  now  remains  ?  —  the  memory 

Of  senselessness  and  shame. 

What  is  immortal  there  ? 

Nothing  —  it  stands  to  tell 

A  melancholy  tale,  to  give 

An  awful  warning;  soon 
Oblivion  will  steal  silently 

The  remnant  of  its  fame.  120 

Monarchs  and  conquerors  there 
Proud  o'er  prostrate  millions  trod  — 
The  earthquakes  of  the  human  race; 
Like  them,  forgotten  when  the  ruin 

That  marks  their  shock  is  past. 

'  Beside  the  eternal  Nile 
The  Pyramids  have  risen. 
Nile  shall  pursue  his  changeless  way; 

Those  Pyramids  shall  fall. 
Yea!  not  a  stone  shall  stand  to  tell       130 

The  spot  whereon  they  stood; 
Their  very  site  shall  be  forgotten, 
As  is  their  builder's  name! 

*  Behold  yon  sterile  spot, 
Whera  now  the  wandering  Arab's  tent 

Flaps  in  the  desert  blast! 
There  once  old  Salem's  haughty  fane 
Reared  high  to  heaven  its  thousand  golden 
donu*s. 
And  in  the  blushing  face  of  day 

Exposed  its  shameful  glory.  140 

Oh!  many  a  widow,  many  an  orphan  cursed 


The  building  of  that  fane ;  and  many  a 

father, 
Worn  out  with  toil  and  slavery,  implored 
The  poor  man's  God  to  sweep  it  from  the 

earth 
And  spare  his  children  the  detested  task 
Of  piling  stone  on  stone  and  poisoning 
The  choicest  days  of  life 
To  soothe  a  dotard's  vanity. 
There  an  inhuman  and  uncultured  race    149 
Howled  hideous  praises  to  their  Demon- 
God; 
They  rushed  to  war,  tore  from  the  mother's 

womb 
The  unborn  child  —  old  age  and  infancy 
Promiscuous  perished;  their  victorious  arms 
Left  not  a  soul  to  breathe.    Oh!  they  were 

fiends! 
But  what  was  he  who  taught  them  that  the 

God 
Of  Nature  and  benevolence  had  given 
A  special  sanction  to  the  trade  of  blood? 
His  name  and  theirs  are  fading,  and  the 

tales 
Of   this   barbarian   nation,    which    impos- 
ture 
Recites  till  terror  credits,  are  pursuing    160 
Itself  into  forgetf ulness. 

*  Where  Athens,  Rome,  and  Sparta  stood. 
There  is  a  moral  desert  now. 
The  mean  and  miserable  huts. 
The  yet  more  wretched  palaces, 
Contrasted  with  those  ancient  fanes 
Now  crumbling  to  oblivion, — 
The  long  and  lonelj'  colonnades 
Through   which  the  ghost  of   Freedom 
stalks,  — 
Seem  like  a  well-known  tune,  170 

Which  in  some  dear  scene  we  have  loved 
to  hear. 
Remembered  now  in  sadness. 
But,  oh  !  how  much  more  changed, 
How  gloomier  is  the  contrast 
Of  human  nature  there  ! 
Where  Socrates  expired,  a  tyrant's  slave, 
A    coward     and    a    fool,    spreads    death 
around  — 
Then,  shuddering,  meets  his  own. 
Where  Cicero  and  Antoninus  lived, 
A  cowled  and  hypocritical  monk  180 

Prays,  curses  and  deceives. 

'  Spirit !  ten  thousand  years 
Have  scarcely  passed  away, 


8 


QUEEN  MAB 


Since  in  the  waste,  where  now  the  sarage 

drinks 
His  enemy's  blood,  and,  aping  Europe's 
sons, 
Wakes  the  unholy  song  of  war. 
Arose  a  stately  city, 
Metropolis  of  the  westeini  continent. 

There,  now,  the  mossy  coluiuu-stone. 
Indented  by  time's  uurelaxing  grasp,        190 
Which  once  appeared  to  brave 
All,  save  its  country's  ruin,  — 
There  the  wide  forest  scene. 
Rude  in  the  uncultivated  loveliness 

Of  gardens  long  run  wild,  — 
Seems,  to  the  unwilling  sojourner  whose  steps 

Chance  iu  that  desert  has  delayed. 
Thus  to  have  stood  since  earth  was  what 
it  is. 
Yet  once  it  was  the  busiest  haunt,         199 
Whither,  as  to  a  common  centre,  flocked 
Strangers,  and  ships,  and  merchandise  ; 
Once  peace  and  freedom  blest 
The  cultivated  plain; 
But  wealth,  that  curse  of  man, 
Ellghted  the  bud  of  its  prosperity; 
Virtue  and  wisdom,  truth  and  liberty. 
Fled,  to  return  not,  until  man  shall  know 
That  they  alone  can  give  the  bliss 
Worthy  a  soul  that  claims 
Its  kindred  with  eternity.  210 

*  There 's  not  one  atom  of  yon  earth 
But  once  was  living  man; 
Nor  the  minutest  drop  of  rain. 
That  hangeth  in  its  thinnest  cloud. 
But  flowed  in  human  veins; 
And  from  the  burning  plains 
Where  Libyan  monsters  yell, 
From  the  niost  gloomy  glens 
Of  Greenland's  sunless  clime, 
To  where  the  golden  fields  220 

Of  fertile  England  spread 
Their  harvest  to  the  day. 
Thou  canst  not  find  one  spot 
Whereon  no  city  stood. 

*  How  strange  is  human  pride  ! 
I  tell  thee  that  those  living  things. 
To  whom  the  fragile  blade  of  grass 

That  springeth  in  the  morn 

And  perisheth  ere  noon. 

Is  an  unbounded  world;  230 

I  tell  thee  that  those  viewless  beings. 
Whose  mansion  is  the  smallest  particle 

Of  the  impassive  atmosphere, 


Think,  feel  and  live  like  man; 
That  their  affections  and  antipathies, 

Like  his,  produce  the  laws 

Ruling  their  moral  state; 

And  the  minutest  throb 
That  through  their  frame  diffuses 

The  slightest,  faintest  motion,  240 

Is  fixed  and  indispensable 

As  the  majestic  laws 

That  rule  yon  rolling  orbs.' 

The  Fairy  paused.     The  Spirit, 
In  ecstasy  of  admiration,  felt 
All  knowledge  of  the  past  revived;  the 
events 
Of  old  and  wondrous  times. 
Which  dim  tradition  interruptedly 
Teaches  the  credulous  vulgar,  were  un- 
folded 
In  just  perspective  to  the  view;  250 

Yet  dim  from  their  infinitude. 
The  Spirit  seemed  to  stand 
High  on  an  isolated  pinnacle; 
The  flood  of  ages  combating  below. 
The  depth  of  the  unbounded  universe 
Above,  and  all  around 
Nature's  unchanging  harmony. 


*  Fairy  ! '  the  Spirit  said, 
And  on  the  Queen  of  Spells 
Fixed  her  ethereal  eyes, 

*  I  thank  thee.     Thou  hast  given 

A  boon  which  I  will  not  resign,  and  taught 
A  lesson  not  to  be  unlearned.     I  know 
The  past,  and  thence  I  will  essay  to  glean 
A  warning  for  the  future,  so  that  man 
May  profit  by  his  errors  and  derive 

Experience  from  his  folly;  10 

For,  when  the  power  of  imparting  joy 
Is  equal  to  the  will,  the  human  soul 

Requires  no  other  heaven.' 


*  Turn  thee,  surpassing  Spirit  I 
Much  yet  remains  unscanned. 
Thou  knowest  how  great  is  man, 
Thou  knowest  his  imbecility; 
Yet  learn  thou  what  he  is; 
Yet  learn  the  lofty  destiny 
Which  restless  Time  prepares  zn 

For  every  living  soul. 

*  Behold  a  gorgeous  palace  that  amid 
Yon  populous  city  rears  its  thousand  towers 


QUEEN  MAB 


And  seems  itself  a  city.     Gloomy  troops 
Of  sentinels  in  stern  and  silent  ranks 
Encompass  it  around;  the  dweller  there 
Cannot   be   free  and  happy;  hearest  thou 

not 
The  curses  of  the  fatherless,  the  groans 
Of  those  who  have  no  friend  ?     He  passes 

on  — 
The  King,  the  wearer  of  a  gilded  chain    30 
That  binds  his  soul  to  abjeetness,  the  fool 
Whom  courtiers  nickname  monarch,  whilst 

a  slave 
Even  to  the  basest  appetites  —  that  man 
Heeds  not  the  shriek  of  penury;  he  smiles 
At  the  deep  curses  which  the  destitute 
Mutter  in  secret,  and  a  sullen  joy 
Pervades  his  bloodless   heart  when   thou- 
sands groan 
But  for  those  morsels  which  his  wantonness 
Wastes  in  unjoyous  revelry,  to  save 
All  that  they  love  from  famine  ;  when  he 

hears  40 

The  tale  of   horror,  to   some   ready-made 

face 
Of  hypocritical  assent  he  turns, 
Smothering  the  glow  of  shame,  that,  spite 

of  him, 
Flushes  his  bloated  cheek. 

Now  to  the  meal 
Of  silence,  grandeur  and  excess  he  drags 
His  palled  unwilling  appetite.     If  gold. 
Gleaming    around,   and   numerous   viands 

culled 
From  every  clime  could  force  the  loathing 

sense 
To  overcome  satiety,  —  if  wealth 
The  spring  it  draws  from  poisons  not,  —  or 

vice,  50 

Unfeeling,  stubborn  vice,  converteth  not 
Its  food  to  deadliest  venom  ;  then  that  king 
Is  happy  ;  and  the  peasant  who  fulfils 
His  unforced  task,  when  he  returns  at  even 
And  by  the  blazing  fagot  meets  again 
Her  welcome  for  whom  all  his  toil  is  sped. 
Tastes  not  a  sweeter  meal. 

Behold  him  now 
Stretched  on  the  gorgeous  couch  ;  his  fe- 
vered brain 
Reels  dizzily  awhile  ;  but  ah  !  too  soon 
The  slumber  of  intemperance  subsides,  60 
And  conscience,  that  undying  serpent,  calls 
Her  venomous  brood  to  their  nocturnal 
task. 


Listen !  he  speaks  1  oh  I  mark  that  frenzied 

eye  — 
Oh  I  mark  that  deadly  visage  ! ' 


'  No  cessation  I 
Oh  !  must  this  last  forever  !  Awful  death, 
I  wish,  yet  fear  to  clasp  thee  !  —  Not  one 

moment 
Of  dreamless  sleep  !     O  dear  and  blessed 

Peace, 
Why  dost  thou  shroud  thy  vestal  purity 
In    penury    and    dungeons?      Wherefore 

lurkest 
With   danger,   death,  and    solitude ;    yet 

shuu'st  70 

The   palace   I  have  built  thee  ?     Sacred 

Peace  ! 
Oh,  visit  me  but  once,  —  but  pitying  shed 
One  drop  of  balm  upon  my  withered  soul  ! ' 

THE    FAIRY 

'  Vain   man !   that   palace   is  the  virtuous 

heart, 
And  Peace  defileth  not  her  snowy  robes 
In  such  a  shed  as   thine.     Hark  !   yet  he 

mutters  ; 
His  slumbers  are  but  varied  agonies  ; 
They  prey  like  scorpions  on  the  springs  of 

life. 
There   needeth   not   the    hell   that   bigots 

frame 
To  punish  those  who  err  ;  earth  in  itself   80 
Contains  at  once  the  evil  and  the  cure  ; 
And  all-sufficing  Nature  can  chastise 
Those  who  transgress  her  law  ;   she  only 

knows 
How  justly  to  proportion  to  the  fault 
The  punishment  it  merits. 

Is  it  strange 
That  this  poor  wretch  should  pride  him  in 

his  woe  ? 
Take  pleasure  in  his  abjeetness,  and  hug 
The  scorpion  that  consumes   him  ?     Is  it 

strange 
That,  placed  on  a  conspicuous  throne  of 

thorns. 
Grasping  an  iron  aceptre,  and  immured    90 
Within    a    splendid    prison    whose    stem 

bounds 
Shut  him  from  all  that's  good  or  dear  on 

earth. 
His  soul  asserts  not  its  humanity  ? 
That  man's  mild  nature  rises  not  in  war 


QUEEN  MAB 


Against  a  king's  employ  ?     No  —  'tis  not 

strange. 
He,  like  the  vulgar,  thinks,  feels,  acts,  and 

lives 
Just  as  his  father  did  ;   the   unconquered 

powers 
Of  precedent  and  custom  interpose 
Between  a  king  and  virtue.  Stranger  yet, 
To  those  who  know  not  Nature  nor  de- 
duce loo 
The  future  from  the  present,  it  may  seem, 
That  not  one  slave,  who  suffers  from  the 

crimes 
Of  this  unnatural  being,  not  one  wretch, 
Whose  children  famish  and  whose  nuptial 

bed 
Is  earth's  unpitying  bosom,  rears  an  arm 
To  dash  him  from  his  throne  ! 

Those  gilded  flies 
That,  basking  in  the  sunshine  of  a  court, 
Fatten  on  its  corruption  !  what  are  they  ?  — 
The  drones  of  the  community  ;  they  feed 
On    the    mechanic's    labor ;    the    starved 

hind  no 

For  them  compels  the  stubborn  glebe   to 

yield 
Its   unshared   harvests  ;   and   you   squalid 

form, 
Leaner  than  fleshless  misery,  that  wastes 
A  sunless  life  in  the  unwholesome  mine. 
Drags  out  in  labor  a  protracted  death 
To  glut  their  grandeur  ;  many  faint  with 

toil 
That  few  may  know  the  cares  and  woe  of 

sloth. 

Whence,  thinkest  thou,  kings  and  parasites 

arose  ? 
Whence  that  unnatural  line  of  drones  who 

heap 
Toil  and  unvanquishable  penury  120 

On  those  who  build  their  palaces  and  bring 
Their    daily   bread  ?  —  From    vice,   black 

loathsome  vice  ; 
From     rapine,    madness,    treachery,    and 

wrong  ; 
From  all  that  genders  misery,  and  makes 
Of  earth  this  thorny  wilderness  ;  from  lust, 
Revenge,  and  murder.  —  And  when  reason's 

voice, 
Loud  as  the  voice   of  Nature,  shall  have 

waked 
The  nations  ;  and   mankind  perceive  that 

vice 


Is  discord,  war  and  misery  ;  that  virtue 
Is  peace  and  happiness  and  harmony  ;      130 
When  man's  maturer  nature  shall  disdain 
The  playthings  of  its  childhood  ;  —  kingly 

glare 
Will  lose  its  power  to  dazzle  ;  its  authority 
Will  silently  pass  by  ;  the  gorgeous  throne 
Shall  stand  unnoticed  in  the  regal  hall, 
Fast  falling  to   decay  ;   whilst  falsehood's 

trade 
Shall  be  as  hateful  and  unprofitable 
As  that  of  truth  is  now. 

Where  is  the  fame 

Which  the  vain-glorious  mighty  of  the  eartli 

Seek    to    eternize  ?       Oh  !    the    faintest 

sound  140 

From   time's   light   footfall,  the   minutest 

wave 
That  swells  the  flood  of  ages,  whelms  in 

nothing 
The  unsubstantial  bubble.     Ay  !  to-day 
Stern  is  the  tyrant's  mandate,  red  the  gaze 
That  flashes  desolation,  strong  the  arm 
That     scatters    multitudes.      To  -  morrow 

comes  ! 
That  mandate  is  a  thunder-peal  that  died 
In  ages  past  ;  that  gaze,  a  transient  flash 
On  whicli  the  midnight  closed  ;  and  on  that 
arm  149 

The  worm  has  made  bis  meal. 

The  virtuous  man, 
Who,  great  in  his  humility  as  kings 
Are  little  in  their  grandeur;  he  who  leads 
Invincibly  a  life  of  resolute  good 
And  stands  amid  the  silent  dungeon-depths 
More  free  and  fearless  than  the  trembling 

judge 
Who,  clothed  in  venal  power,  vainly  strove 
To  bind  the  impassive  spirit;  —  when  he 

falls, 
His  mild  eye  beams  benevolence  no  more; 
Withered  the  hand  outstretched  but  to  re- 
lieve; 159 
Sunk  reason's  simple  eloquence  that  rolled 
But  to  appall  the  guilty.     Yes!  the  grave 
Hath  quenched  that  eye  and  death's  relent- 
less frost 
Withered  that  arm;  but  the  unfading  fame 
Which  virtue  hangs  upon  its  votary's  tomb, 
The  deathless  memory  of  that  man  whom 

kings 
Call  to  their  minds  and  tremble,  the  re- 
membrance 
With  which  the  hnppy  spirit  contemplates 


QUEEN  MAB 


II 


Its  well-spent  pilgrimage  on  earth, 
Shall  never  pass  away. 


169 


•  Nature  rejects  the  monarch,  not  the  man; 
The  subject,  not  the  citizen;  for  kings 
And  subjects,  mutual  foes,  forever  play 
A  losing  game  into  each  other's  hands, 
Whose  stakes  are  vice  and  misery.  The  man 
Of  virtuous  soul  commands  not,  nor  obeys. 
Power,  like  a  desolating  pestilence, 
Pollutes  whate'er  it  touches;  and  obedience, 
Bane  of  all  genius,  virtue,  freedom,  truth. 
Makes  slaves  of  men,  and  of  the  human 
frame  1-9 

A  mechanized  automaton. 

When  Nero 
High  over  flaming  Rome  with  savage  joy 
Lowered  like  a  fiend,  drank   with  enrap- 
tured ear 
The  slirieks  of  agonizing  death,  beheld 
The  frightful  desolation  spread,  and  felt 
A  new-created  sense  within  his  soul 
Thrill   to   the   sight   and    vibrate    to    the 

sound,  — 
Thinkest  thou  his  grandeur  had  not  over- 
come 
The  force  of  bnman  kindness  ?    And  when 

Rome 
With  one  stern  blow  hurled  not  the  tyrant 

down. 
Crushed  not  the  arm  red  with  her  dearest 
blood,  190 

Had  not  submissive  abjectness  destroyed 
Nature's  suggestions  ? 

Look  on  yonder  earth : 
The  golden  harvests  spring;  the  unfailing 

sun 
Sheds  light  and  life;  the  fruits,  the  flowers, 

the  trees. 
Arise  in  due  succession ;  all  things  speak 
Peace,  harmony  and  love.     The  universe. 
In  Nature's  silent  eloquence,  declares 
That  all  f  idfil  the  works  of  love  and  joy,  — 
All  but  the  outcast,  Man.     He  fabricates 
The    sword    which   stabs    his    peace;    he 

cherisheth  200 

The  snakes  that  gnaw  his  heart;  he  raiseth 

The  tyrant  whose  delight  is  in  his  woe, 
Whose  sport  is  in  his  agony.  Yon  sun, 
Lights   it   the   great   alone  ?     Yon   silver 

beams, 
Sleep  they  less  sweetly  on  the  cottage  thatch 


Than  on  the  dome  of  kings  ?     Is  mother 

earth 
A  step-dame  to  her  numerous  sons  who  earn 
Her  unshared  gifts  with  unremitting  toil; 
A  mother  only  to  those  puling  babes        209 
Who,  nursed  iu  ease  and  luxury,  make  men 
The  playthings  of  their  babyhood  and  mar 
In  self-important  childishness  that  peace 
Which  men  alone  appreciate  ? 

'  Spirit  of  Nature,  no  ! 
The  pure  diffusion  of  thy  essence  throbs 
Alike  in  every  human  heart. 

Thou  aye  erectest  there 
Thy  throne  of  power  unappealable; 
Thou  art  the  judge  beneath  whose  nod 
Man's  brief  and  frail  authority  22a 

Is  powerless  as  the  wind 

That  passeth  idly  by; 
Thine  the  tribunal  which  surpasseth 

The  show  of  human  justice 

As  God  surpasses  man! 

'  Spirit  of  Nature!  thou 
Life  of  interminable  multitudes; 

Soul  of  those  mighty  spheres 
Whose  changeless  paths  through  Heaven's 
deep  silence  lie; 
Soul  of  that  smallest  being,  230 

The  dwelling  of  whose  life 
Is  one  faint  April  sun-gleam ;  — 
Man,  like  these  passive  things. 
Thy  will  unconsciously  fulfilleth; 

Like  theirs,  his  age  of  endless  peace. 
Which  time  is  fast  maturing, 
Will  swiftly,  surely,  come; 
And  the  unbounded  frame  which  thou  per- 
vadest. 
Will  be  without  a  flaw 
Marring  its  perfect  symmetry!  240 


'  How  beautiful  this  night !   the  balmiest 

sigh. 
Which  vernal  zephyrs  breathe  in  evening's 

ear. 
Were  discord  to  the  speaking  quietude 
That  wraps  this  moveless  scene.    Heaven's 

ebon  vault, 
Studded  with  stars  unutterably  bright, 
Through  which  the  moon's  unclouded  gran- 
deur rolls, 
Seems  like  a  canopy  which  love  had  spread 
To  curtain  her  sleeping  world.    Yon  gentle 
hills. 


12 


QUEEN  MAB 


Robed  in  a  garment  of  untrodden  snow;  9 
Yon  darksome  rocks,  whence  icicles  de{)end 
So  stainless  tliat  their  white  aud  glittering 

spires 
Tinge  uot  the  moon^s  pure  beam  ;    yon 

castled  steep 
Whose  banner  hangeth  o'er  the  time-worn 

tower 
So  idly  that  rapt  fancy  deemeth  it 
A  metaphor  of  peace ;  —  all  form  a  scene 
Where  musing  solitude  might  love  to  lift 
Her  soul  above  this  sphere  of  earthliuess; 
Where   silence   undisturbed   might   watch 

alone  — 
So  cold,  so  bright,  so  still. 

The  orb  of  day 
In  southern  climes  o'er  ocean's   wavcless 

field  20 

Sinks  sweetly  smiling ;    not  the   faintest 

breath 
Steals  o'er  the  unruffled  deep  ;  the  clouds 

of  eve 
Reflect  unmoved  the  lingering  beam  of  day ; 
And  Vesper's  image  on  the  western  main 
Is  beautifully  still.     To-morrow  comes: 
Cloud  upon  cloud,  in  dark  aud  deepening 

mass, 
Roll  o'er  the  blackened  waters;  the  deep 

roar 
Of  distant  thunder  mutters  awfully; 
Tempest  unfolds  its  pinion  o'er  the  gloom 
That  shrouds  the  boiling  surge;  the  pitiless 

fiend,  30 

With  all  his  winds  and  lightnings,  tracks 

his  prey; 
The  torn  deep  yawns,  —  the  vessel  finds  a 

grave 
Beneath  its  jagged  gulf. 

Ah  !  whence  yon  glare 

That  fires  the  arch  of  heaven  ?  that  dft-k 
red  smoke 

Blotting  the  silver  moon  ?  The  stars  are 
quenched 

In  darkness,  and  the  pure  and  spangling 
snow 

Gleams  faintly  through  the  gloom  that 
gatliers  round. 

Hark  to  that  roar  whose  swift  and  deafen- 
ing peals 

In  countless  echoes  through  the  mountains 

Startling  pale  Midnight  on  her  starry 
throne !  40 


Now  swells  the  intermingling  din;  the  jap 
Frequent     and   frightful   of   the   bursting 

bomb; 
The  falling  beam,  the  shriek,  the  groan, 

the  shout. 
The  ceaseless  clangor,  and  the  rush  of  men 
Inebriate  with  rage:  —  loud  and  more  loud 
The  discord   grows;  till  pale  Death  shuts 

the  scene 
And  o'er  the  conqueror  and  the  conquered 

draws 
His  cold  and  bloody  shroud.  —  Of  all  the 

men 
Whom  day's  departing  beam  saw  blooming 

there 
In  proud  and  vigorous  health;  of  all  the 

hearts  50 

That  beat  with  anxious  life  at  sunset  there; 
How  few    survive,  how  few  are  beating 

now  ! 
All  is  deep  silence,  like  the  fearful  calm 
That  slumbers   in   the  storm's  porteutous 

pause; 
Save  when  the  frantic  wail  of  widowed  love 
Comes  shuddering  on  the  blast,  or  the  faint 

moan 
With   which   some  soul  bursts  from   the 

frame  of  clay 
Wrapt  round  its  struggling  powers. 

The  gray  mom 
Dawns  on  the  mournful  scene;  the  sulphur- 
ous smoke 
Before  the  icy  wind  slow  rolls  away,  60 

And  the  bright  beams  of  frosty  morning 

dance 
Along  the  spangling  snow.     There  tracks 

of  blood 
Even  to  the  forest's  depth,  and  scattered 

arms. 
And  lifeless    warriors,  whose   hard   linea- 
ments 
Death's  self  could  change  not,  mark  the 

dreadful  path 
Of  the  outsallying  victors;  far  behind 
Black  ashes  note  where  their  proud  city 

stood. 
Within  yon  forest  is  a  gloomy  glen  — 
Each  tree  which  guards  its  darkness  from 
the  day,  69 

Waves  o'er  a  warrior's  tomb. 

I  see  thee  shrink, 
Surpassing    Spirit  I  —  wert    thou    human 
ebe? 


QUEEN   MAB 


13 


I  see  a  shade  of  doubt  and  horror  fleet 

Across  thy  staiuless  features;  yet  feax  not; 

This  is  uo  unconnected  misery. 

Nor  stands  uncaused  and  irretrievable. 

Man's  evil  nature,  that  apology 

Which  kings  who  rule,  and  cowards  who 

crouch,  set  up 
For  their  unnumbered   crimes,  sheds  not 

the  blood 
Which  desolates  the  discord- wasted  land. 
From  kings  and  priests  and  statesmen  war 

arose,  80 

Whose  safety  is  man's  deep  unbettered 

woe, 
Whose  grandeur  his  debasement.     Let  the 

axe 
Strike  at  the  root,  the  poison-tree  will  fall; 
And  where  its  venomed  exhalations  spread 
Ruin,  and  death,  and  woe,  where  millions 

lay 
Quenching  the  serpent's  famine,  and  their 

bones 
Bleaching  unburied  in  the  putrid  blast, 
A  garden  shall  arise,  in  loveliness 
Surpassing  fabled  Eden. 

Hath  Nature's  soul,  — 
That  formed  this  world  so  beautiful,  that 

spread  90 

Earth's  lap  with  plenty,  and  life's  smallest 

chord 
Strung  to  unchanging  unison,  that  gave 
The    happy   birds    their   dwelling   in   the 

grove, 
That  yielded  to  the  wanderers  of  the  deep 
The  lovely  silence  of  the  unfathomed  main, 
And  filled  the  meanest  worm  that  crawls  in 

dust 
With  spirit,  thought  and  love,  —  on  Man 

alone, 
Partial  in  causeless  malice,  wantonly 
Heaped  ruin,  vice,  and  slavery;  his  soul    99 
Blasted  with  withering  curses;  placed  afar 
The  meteor-happiness,  that  shuns  his  grasp, 
But  serving  on  the  frightful  gulf  to  glare 
Rent  wide  beneath  his  footsteps  ? 

Nature  !  —  no  ! 

Kings,  priests  and  statesmen  blast  the  hu- 
man flower 

Even  in  its  tender  bud;  their  influence 
darts 

Like  subtle  poison  through  the  bloodless 
veins 

Of  desolate  society.     The  child, 


Ere  he  can  lisp  his  mother's  sacred  name. 
Swells  with  the  unnatural  pride  of  crime, 

and  lifts 
His  baby-sword  even  in  a  hero's  mood,    no 
This    infant   arm    becomes    the    bloodiest 

scourge 
Of  devastated  earth ;  whilst  specious  names, 
Learnt   in    soft    childhood's   misuspecting 

hour, 
Serve  as  the  sophisms  with  which  manhood 

dims 
Bright  reason's  ray  and  sanctifies  the  sword 
Upraised   to     shed   a    brother's     innocent 

blood. 
Let  priest-led  slaves  cease  to  proclaim  that 

man 
Inherits  vice  and  misery,  when  force 
And  falsehood  hang  even  o'er  the  cradled 

babe,  1 19 

Stifling  with  rudest  grasp  all  natural  good. 

*  Ah  !    to  the   stranger-soul,  when   first  it 

peeps 
From  its  new  tenement  and  looks  abroad 
For  happiness  and  sympathy,  how  stern 
And  desolate  a  tract  is  this  wide  world  ! 
How  withered  all  the  buds  of  natural  good  ! 
No  shade,  no   shelter  from  the  sweeping 

storms 
Of  pitiless  power  !    On  its  wretched  frame 
Poisoned,   perchance,   by  the  disease   and 

woe 
Heaped  on  the  wretched  parent  whence  it 

sprung  129 

By  morals,  law  and  custom,  the  pure  winds 
Of  heaven,  that  renovate  the  insect  tribes. 
May  breathe  not.     The  untainting  light  of 

day 
May  visit  not  its  longings.     It  is  bound 
Ere   it   has  life;   yea,  all  the   chains  are 

forged 
Long  ere  its  being;  all  liberty  and  love 
And  peace  is  torn  from  its  defencelessness; 
Cursed  from  its  birth,  even  from  its  cradle 

doomed 
To  abjectness  and  bondage  ! 

'  Throughout  this  varied  and  eternal  world 
Soul  is  the  only  element,  the  block  140 

That  for  uncounted  ages  has  remained. 
The  moveless  pillar  of  a  mountain's  weight 
Is  active  living  spirit.     Every  grain 
Is  sentient  both  in  unity  and  part. 
And  the  minutest  atom  comprehends 
A  world  of  loves  and  hatreds;  these  beget 


'4 


QUEEN   MAB 


Evil  and  good;  hence  truth  and  falsehood 

spring; 
Hence  will  and  thought  and  action,  all  the 

germs 
Of  pain  or  pleasure,  sympathy  or  hate. 
That  variegate  the  eternal  universe.         150 
Soul  is  not  more  polluted  than  the  beams 
Of  heaven's  pure  orb  ere  round  their  rapid 

lines 
The  taint  of  earth-born  atmospheres  arise. 

*  Man  is  of  soul  and  body,  formed  for  deeds 
Of  high  resolve;  on  fancy's  boldest  wing 
To  soar  unwearied,  fearlessly  to  turn 

The   keenest  pangs  to   peacefulness,  and 

taste 
The  joys  which  mingled  sense  and  spirit 

yield; 
Or  he  is  formed  for  abjectness  and  woe, 
To  grovel  on  the  dunghill  of  his  fears,     160 
To  shrink  at  every  sound,  to  quench  the 

flame 
Of  natural  love  in  sensualism,  to  know 
That  hour  as  blest  when  on  his  worthless 

days 
The  frozen  hand  of  death  shall  set  its  seal, 
Yet  fear  the  cure,  though  hating  the  disease. 
The  one  is  man  that  shall  hereafter  be; 
The  other,  man  as  vice  has  made  him  now. 

*  War  is  the  statesman's  game,  the  priest's 

delight, 
The  lawyer's  jest,  the  hired  assassin's  trade, 
And  to  those  royal  murderers  whose  mean 

thrones  170 

Are  bought  by  crimes  of  treachery  and  gore. 
The  bread  they  eat,  the  staff  on  which  they 

lean. 
Guards,  garbed  in  blood-red   livery,  sur- 
round 
Their  palaces,  participate  the  crimes 
That  force  defends  and  from  a  nation's  rage 
Secures  the  crown,  which  all   the  curses 

reach 
That    famine,    frenzy,    woe    and    penury 

breathe. 
These  are  the  hired  bravos  who  defend 
The  tyrant's  throne — the  bullies  of  his  fear; 
These  are  the  sinks  and  channels  of  worst 

vice,  180 

The  refuse  of  society,  the  dregs 
Of  all  that  is  most  vile;  their  cold  hearts 

blend 
Deceit  with  sternness,  ignorance  with  pride, 
All  that  is  mean  and  villainous  with  rage 


Which  hopelessness  of  good  and  self-con- 
tempt 
Alone  might  kindle;  they  are  decked  in 

wealth. 
Honor  and  power,  then  are  sent  abroad 
To  do  their  work.     The   pestilence  that 

stalks 
In  gloomy  triumph  throTigh  some  eastern 
land  1S9 

Is  less  destroying.     They  cajole  with  gold 
And  promises  of  fame  the  thoughtless  youth 
Already  crushed  with  servitude;  he  knows 
His  wretchedness  too  late,  and  cherishes 
Repentance  for  his  ruin,  when  his  doom 
Is  sealed  in  gold  and  blood  ! 
Those  too  the  tyrant  serve,  who,  skilled  to 

snare 
The  feet  of  justice  in  the  toils  of  law, 
Stand  ready  to  oppress  the  weaker  still, 
And  right  or  wrong  will  vindicate  for  gold, 
Sneering  at  public  virtue,  which  b(  neatli 
Their  pitiless  tread  lies  torn  and  trampled 
where  201 

Honor  sits  smiling  at  the  sale  of  truth. 

'  Then  grave  and  hoary-headed  hypocrites, 
Without  a  hope,  a  passion  or  a  love, 
Who  through  a  life  of  luxury  and  lies 
Have  crept  by  flattery  to  the  seats  of  power. 
Support  the  system  whence  their  honors 

flow. 
They  have  three  words  —  well  tyrants  know 

their  use, 
Well  pay  them  for  the  loan  with  usury 
Torn  from  a  bleeding  world  !  —  God,  Hell 

and  Heaven:  2 to 

A  vengeful,  pitiless,  and  almighty  fiend, 
Whose  mercy  is  a  nickname  for  the  rage 
Of  tameless  tigers  hungering  for  blood; 
Hell,  a  red  gulf  of  everlasting  fire, 
Where  poisonous  and  undying  worms  pro- 
long 
Eternal  misery  to  those  hapless  slaves 
Whose   life   has   been   a  penance   for  its 

crimes; 
And  Heaven,  a  meed  for  those  who  dare 

belie 
Their  human  nature,  quake,  believe  and 

cringe 
Before  the  mockeries  of  earthly  power,  no 

'These  tools  the  tyrant  tempers  to  bis 
work, 

Wields  in  his  wrath,  and  as  he  wills  de- 
stroys, 


QUEEN   MAB 


»5 


Omnipotent  in  wiokedness;  the  while 
Youth    springs,    age    moulders,    luanhood 

tamely  does 
His  bidding,  bribed  by  short-lived  joys  to 

lend 
Force  to  the    weakness  of  his   trembling 

arm. 
They  rise,  they  fall;  one  generation  comes 
Yielding  its  harvest  to  destruction's  scythe. 
It  fades,  another  blossoms;  yet  behold  ! 
Red  glows  the  tyrant's  stamp-mark  on  its 

bloom,  230 

Withering  and  cankering  deep  its  passive 

prime. 
He  has  invented  lying  words  and  modes, 
Empty  and  vain  as  his  own  coreless  lieart; 
Evasive  meanings,  nothings  of  much  sound, 
To  lure  the  heedless  victim  to  the  toils 
Spread  round  the  valley  of  its  paradise. 

*  Look    to    thyself,    priest,    conqueror    or 

prince! 
Whether  thy  trade  is  falsehood,  and  thy 

lusts 
Deep  wallow  in  the  earnings  of  the  poor. 
With  whom  thy  master  was;  or  thou  de- 

light'st  240 

In  numbering  o'er  the  myriads  of  thy  slain, 
All  misery  weighing  nothing  in  the  scale 
Against  thy  short-lived  fame;  or  thou  dost 

load 
With  cowardice   and  crime  the   groaning 

land, 
A  pomp-fed  king.     Look  to  thy  wretched 

self! 
Ay,  art  thou  not  the  veriest  slave  that  e'er 
Crawled  on  the  loathing  earth  ?     Are  not 

thy  days 
Days  of  unsatisfying  listlessness  ? 
Dost  thou  not  cry,  ere  night's  long  rack  is 

o'er, 
"  When  will  the  morning  come  ?  "     Is  not 

thy  youth  250 

A  vain  and  feverish  dream  of  sensualism  ? 
Thy  manhood  blighted  with  unripe  disease  ? 
Are  not  thy  views  of  unregretted  death 
Drear,    comfortless    and    horrible  ?      Thy 

mind. 
Is  it  not  morbid  as  thy  nerveless  frame, 
Incapable  of  judgment,  hope  or  love  ? 
And  dost  thou  wish  the  errors  to  survive, 
That  bar  thee  from  all  sympathies  of  good. 
After  the  miserable  interest 
Thou  hold'st  in  their  protraction  ?     When 

the  gravo  a6o 


Has  swallowed  up  thy  memory  and  thyself, 
Dost   thou   desire    the   bane   that   poisons 

earth 
To  twine  its  roots  around  thy  coffined  clay, 
Spring  from  thy  bones,  and  blossom  on  ihy 

tomb, 
That  of  its  fruit  thy  babes  may  eat  and 

die? 


'  Thus  do  the  generations  of  the  earth 
Go  to  the  grave  and  issue  from  the  womb, 
Surviving  still  the  imperishable  change 
That  renovates  the    world ;  even  as   the 

leaves 
Which  the  keen  frost-wind  of  the  waning 

year 
Has  scattered  on  the  forest-soil  and  heaped 
For  many  seasons  there  —  though  long  they 

choke. 
Loading  with  loathsome  rottenness  the  land. 
All  germs  of  promise,  yet  when  the  tall 

trees 
From  which  they  fell,  shorn  of  their  lovely 

shapes,  la 

Lie  level  with  the  earth  to  moulder  there, 
They  fertilize  the  land  they  long  deformed; 
Till   from    the    breathing    lawn    a    forest 

springs 
Of  youth,  integrity  and  loveliness. 
Like  that  which  gave  it  life,  to  spring  and 

die. 
Thus  snicidal  selfishness,  that  blights 
The  fairest  feelings  of  the  opening  heart. 
Is  destined  to  decay,  whilst  from  the  soil 
Shall  spring  all  virtue,  all  delight,  all  love, 
And   judgment   cease   to  wage   unnatural 

war  20 

With  passion's  unsubdnable  array. 
Twin-sister  of  Religion,  Selfishness  ! 
Rival  in  crime  and  falsehood,  aping  all 
The  wanton  horrors  of  her  bloody  play; 
Yet  frozen,  nnimpassioned,  spiritless. 
Shunning   the   light,  and   owning   not   its 

name, 
Compelled  by  its  deformity  to  screen 
With  flimsy  veil  of  justice  and  of  right 
Its  imattractive  lineaments  that  scare 
All  save  the  brood  of  ignorance;  at  once   3a 
The  cause  and  the  efPect  of  tyranny; 
Unblushing,  hardened,  sensual  and  vile; 
Dead  to  all  love  but  of  its  abjectness; 
With  heart  impassive  by  more  noble  powers 
Than  unshared  pleasure,  sordid  gain,  oz 

fame; 


x6 


QUEEN   MAB 


Despising  its  own  miserable  being, 
Which  still  it  longs,  yet  fears,  to  disen- 
thrall. 

*  Hence  commerce  springs,  the  venal  inter- 
change 
Of  all  that  human  art  or  Nature  yield  ; 
Which  wealth   should   purchase    not,    but 
want  demand,  40 

And  natural  kindness  hasten  to  supply 
From  the   full   fountain  of   its    boundless 

love. 
Forever  stifled,  drained  and  tainted  now. 
Commerce  !  beneath   whose  poison-breath- 
ing shade 
No  solitary  virtue  dares  to  spring, 
But  povertj'  and  wealth  with  equal  hand 
Scatter  their  withering  curses,  and  unfold 
The  doors  of  premature  and  violent  death 
To  pining  famine  and  full-fed  disease, 
To  all  that  shares  the  lot  of  human  life,    50 
Which,   poisoned    body    and    soul,   scarce 

drags  the  chain 
That  lengthens  as  it  goes  and  clanks  be- 
hind. 

♦Commerce  has  set  the  mark  of  selfishness, 
Tbe  signet  of  its  all-enslaving  power. 
Upon  a  shining  ore,  and  called  it  gold  ; 
Before  whose  image  bow  the  vulgar  great, 
The  vainly  rich,  the  miserable  proud, 
The  mob  of  peasants,  nobles,  priests  and 

kings. 
And    with    blind   feelings    reverence    the 

power 
That  grinds  them  to  the  dust  of  misery.  60 
But  in  the  temple  of  their  hireling  hearts 
Gold  is  a  living  god  and  rules  in  scorn 
All  earthly  things  but  virtue. 

'  Since  tyrants  by  the  sale  of  human  life 
Heap   luxuries   to    their  sensualism,   and 

fame 
To  their  wide-wasting  and  insatiate  pride. 
Success  has  sanctioned  to  a  credulous  world 
The  ruin,  the  disgrace,  the  woe  of  war. 
His  hosts  of  blind  and  unresisting  dupes 
The  despot  numbers  ;  from  his  cabinet     70 
These  puppets  of  his  schemes  he  moves  at 

will, 
Even   as   the   slaves   by  force  or  famine 

driven. 
Beneath  a  vulgar  master,  to  perform 
A  task  of  cold  and  brutal  drudgery  ;  — 
Hardened  to  hope,  insensible  to  fear, 


Scarce  living  pulleys  of  a  dead  machine. 
Mere  wheels  of  work  and  articles  of  trade, 
That  grace  the  proud  and  noisy  pomp  of 
wealth  1 

*  The  harmony  and  happiness  of  man 
Yields  to  the  wealth  of  nations;  that  which 
lifts  80 

His  nature  to  the  heaven  of  its  pride. 
Is  bartered  for  the  poison  of  his  soul; 
The  weight  that  drags  to  earth  his  tower- 
ing hopes. 
Blighting  all  prospect  but  of  selfish  gain, 
Withering  all  passion  but  of  slavish  fear. 
Extinguishing  all  free  and  generous  love 
Of  enterprise  and  daring,  even  the  pulse 
That  fancy  kindles  in  the  beating  heart 
To  mingle  with  sensation,  it  destroys,  — 
Leaves    nothing    but    the    sordid    lust   of 
self,  90 

The  grovelling  hope  of  interest  and  gold, 
Unqualified,  unmiugled,  unredeemed 
Even  by  hypocrisy. 

And  statesmen  boast 
Of    wealth !     The   wordy   eloquence    that 

lives 
After  the  ruin  of  their  hearts,  can  gild 
The  bitter  poison  of  a  nation's  woe ; 
Can  turn  the  worship  of  the  servile  mob 
To  their  corrupt  and  glaring  idol,  fame, 
From  virtue,  trampled  bj'  its  iron  tread,  — 
Although  its  dazzling  pedestal  be  raised  loo 
Amid  the  horrors  of  a  limb-strewn  field, 
With  desolated  dwellings  smoking  round. 
The  man  of  ease,  who,  by  his  warm  fire- 
side. 
To  deeds  of  charitable  intercourse 
And  bare  fulfilment  of  the  common  laws 
Of  decency  and  prejudice  confines 
The  struggling  nature  of  his  human  heart, 
Ts  duped  by  their  cold  sophistry;  he  sheds 
A  passing  tear  perchance  upon  the  wreck 
Of  earthly  peace,  when  near  his  dwelling's 

door  no 

The  frightful  waves  are  driven,  —  when  his 

son 
Is  murdered  by  the  tyrant,  or  religion 
Drives  his  wife  raving  mad.     But  tbe  poor 

man 
Whose  life  is  misery,  and  fear  and  care; 
Whom  the  morn  wakens  but  to  frnitless 

toil; 
Who  ever  hears  his  famished  offspring's 

scream: 


QUEEN   MAB 


17 


Whom  their  pale  mother's  uncomplaining 

gaze 
Forever  meets,  and  the  proud  rich  man's 

eye 
Flashing  command,  and  the  heart-breaking 

scene 
Of  thousands  like  himself  ;  —  he  little  heeds 
The  rhetoric  of  tyranny  ;  his  hate  121 

Is  quenchless  as  his  wrongs  ;  he  laughs  to 

scorn 
The  vain  and  bitter  mockery  of  words, 
Feeling  the  horror  of  the  tyrant's  deeds, 
And  unrestrained  but  by  the  arm  of  power, 
That  knows  and  dreads  his  enmity. 

'  The  iron  rod  of  penury  still  compels 
Her  wretched  slave  to   bow  the  knee   to 

wealth, 
And  poison,  with  unprofitable  toil, 
A  life  too  void  of  solace  to  confirm  130 

The  very  chains  that  bind  him  to  his  doom. 
Nature,  impartial  in  munificence. 
Has  gifted  man  with  all-subdiiiug  will. 
Matter,  with  all  its  transitory  shapes. 
Lies  subjected  and  plastic  at  his  feet, 
That,  weak  from  bondage,  tremble  as  they 

tread. 
How  many  a  rustic  Milton  has  passed  by. 
Stifling  the  speecldess  longings  of  his  heart. 
In  unremitting  drudgery  and  care  ! 
How  many  a  vulgar  Cato  has  compelled    140 
His  energies,  no  longer  tameless  then, 
To  mould  a  pin  or  fabricate  a  nail  ! 
How  many  a  Newton,  to  whose  passive  ken 
Those  mighty  spheres  that  gem  infinity 
Were  only  specks  of  tinsel  fixed  in  heaven 
To  light  the  midnights  of  his  native  town  ! 

'  Yet    every    heart    contains    perfection's 

germ. 
The  wisest  of  the  sages  of  the  earth, 
That  ever  from  the  stores  of  reason  drew 
Science  and  truth,  and  virtue's  dreadless 
tone,  150 

Were  but  a  weak  and  inexperienced  boy. 
Proud,  sensual,  unimpassioned,  unimbued 
With  pure  desire  and  universal  love, 
Compared  to  that  high  being,  of  cloudless 

brain. 
Untainted  passion,  elevated  will. 
Which  death  (who  even  would  linger  long 

in  awe 
Within  his  noble  presence  and  beneath 
His  changeless  eye-beam)  might  alone  sub- 
due. 


Him,  every  slave   now  dragging  through 

the  filth 
Of  some  corrupted  city  his  sad  life,         160 
Pining  with  famine,  swoln  with  luxury, 
Blunting  the  keenness  of  his  spiritual  sense 
With    narrow    schemings    and    unworthy 

cares, 
Or  madly  rushing  through  all  violent  crime 
To  move  the  deep  stagnation  of  his  soul,  — 
Might  imitate  and  equal. 

But  mean  lust 
Has  bound  its  chains  so  tight  about  the 

earth 
That  all  within  it  but  the  virtuous  man 
Is  venal  ;  gold  or  fume  will  surely  reach 
The  price  prefixed  by  Selfishness  to  all    170 
But  him  of  resolute  and  unchanging  will  ; 
Whom  nor  the  plaudits  of  a  servile  crowd, 
Nor  the  vile  joys  of  tainting  luxury, 
Can  bribe  to  yield  his  elevated  soul 
To   Tyranny   or  Falsehood,    though   they 

wield 
With  blood-red  hand  the   sceptre  of  the 

world. 

'  All   things   are   sold  :   the   very  light  of 

heaven 
Is  venal  ;  earth's  unsparing  gifts  of  love, 
The  smallest  and  most  despicable  things 
That  lurk  in  the  abysses  of  the  deep,       180 
All  objects  of  our  life,  even  life  itself. 
And  the  poor  pittance  which  the  laws  al- 
low 
Of  liberty,  the  fellowship  of  man. 
Those  duties  which  his  heart  of  human  love 
Should  urge  him  to  perform  instinctively, 
Are  bought  and  sold  as  in  a  public  mart 
Of  undisguising  Selfishness,  that  sets 
On  each  its  price,  the  stamp-mark  of  her 

reign. 
Even  love  is  sold  ;  the  solace  of  all  woe 
Is  turned  to  deadliest  agony,  old  age        190 
Shivers  in  selfish  beauty's  loathing  arms. 
And  youth's  corrupted  impulses  prepare 
A  life  of  horror  from  the  blighting  bane 
Of  commerce  ;  whilst  the  pestilence  that 

springs 
From  unenjoying  sensualism,  has  filled 
All  human  life  with  hydra-headed  woes. 

*  Falsehood  demands  but  gold  to  pay  the 

pangs 
Of  outraged   conscience;    for   the   slavish 

priest 


i8 


QUEEN   MAB 


Sets  no  great  value  on  his  hireling  faith  ; 
A    little     passing     pomp,     some     servile 

souls,  200 

Whom  cowardice  itself  might  safely  chain 
Or  the  spare  mite  of  avarice  could  bribe 
To  deck  the  triumph  of  their  languid  zeal, 
Can  make  him  minister  to  tyranny. 
More  daring  crime  requires  a  loftier  meed. 
Without  a  shudder  the  slave-soldier  lends 
His  arm  to  murderous  deeds,  and  steels  his 

heart. 
When  the  dread  eloquence  of  dying  men, 
Low  mingling  on  the  lonely  field  of  fame. 
Assails   tliat   nature    whose    applause    he 

sells  210 

For  the  gross  blessings  of  the  patriot  mob, 
For  the  vile  gratitude  of  heartless  kings. 
And  for  a  cold  world's  good  word,  —  viler 

still ! 

*  There  is  a  nobler  glory  which  survives 
Until  our  being  fades,  and,  solacing 

All  human  care,  accompanies  its  change; 
Deserts  not  virtue  in  the  dungeon's  gloom. 
And  in  the  precincts  of  the  palace  guides 
Its   footsteps    through    that   labyrinth    of 

crime  ; 
Imbues    his    lineaments    with    dauntless- 

ness,  220 

Even  w^hen  from  power's  avenging  band  he 

takes 
Its  sweetest,  last  and  noblest  title  —  death  ; 
—  The  consciousness  of  good,  which  neither 

gold, 
Nor   sordid  fame,   nor   hope   of   heavenly 

bliss, 
Can  purchase  ;  but  a  life  of  resolute  good, 
Unalterable  will,  quenchless  desire 
Of  universal  happiness,  the  heart 
That  beats  with  it  in  unison,  the  brain 
Whose  ever-wakeful  wisdom  toils  to  change 
Reason's  rich  stores  for  its  eternal  weal.    230 

*  This  commerce  of  sincerest  virtue  needs 
No  meditative  signs  of  selfishness, 

No  jealous  intercourse  of  wretched  gain, 
No  balancings  of  prudence,  cold  and  long  ; 
In  just  and  equal  measure  all  is  weighed. 
One  scale  contains  the  sum  of  human  weal, 
And  one,  the  good  man's  heart. 

How  vainly  seek 
The  selfish  for  that  happiness  denied 
To  uught  but  virtue  !     Blind  and  hardened, 
they, 


Who  hope  for  peace  amid  the  storms  of 
care,  240 

Who  covet  power  they  know  not  how  to 
use. 

And  sigh  for  pleasure  they  refuse  to  give,  — 

Madly  they  frustrate  still  their  own  de- 
signs; 

And,  where  they  hope  that  quiet  to  en- 

Which  virtue  pictures,  bitterness  of  soul, 
Pining  regrets,  and  vain  repentances, 
Disease,  disgust  and  lassitude  pervade 
Their  valueless  and  miserable  lives. 

'  But  hoary-headed  selfishness  has  felt 

Its    death-blow    and  is    tottering    to   the 

grave;  250 

A  brighter  morn  awaits  the  hnman  day, 
When    every   transfer  of  earth's    natural 

gifts 
Shall  be  a  commerce  of  good  words  and 

works ; 
When   poverty   and  wealth,  the  thirst  of 

fame, 
The  fear  of  infamy,  disease  and  woe, 
War  with  its  million   horrors,  and  fierce 

hell, 
Shall  live  but  in  the  memory  of  time. 
Who,  like  a  penitent  libertine,  shall  start. 
Look   back,   and   shudder  at  his   younger 

years.' 

VI 

All  touch,  all  eye,  all  ear. 

The  Spirit  felt  the  Fairy's  burning  speech. 

O'er  the  thin  texture  of  its  frame 
The    varying    periods     painted    changing 
glows. 

As  on  a  summer  even. 
When  soul-enfolding  music  floats  around, 
The  stainless  mirror  of  the  lake 
Re-images  the  eastern  gloom. 
Mingling  convulsively  its  purple  hues 

With  sunset's  burnished  gold.     10 
Then  thus  the  Spirit  spoke  : 
'  It  is  a  wild  and  miserable  world  ! 
Thorny,  and  full  of  care, 
Which  every  fiend  can  make  his  prey  at 
will ! 
O  Fairy  !  in  the  lapse  of  years, 
Is  there  no  hope  in  store  ? 
Will  yon  vast  suns  roll  on 
Interminably,  still  illuming 
The  night  of  so  many  wretched  souls, 
And  see  no  hope  for  them  ?        30 


QUEEN   MAB 


19 


Will  uot  the  universal  Spirit  e'er 
Revivify  this  withered  limb  of  Heaven  ? ' 

The  Fairy  calmly  smiled 
In  comfort,  and  a  kindling  gleam  of  hope 

Suffused  the  Spirit's  lineaments. 
•Oh  !  rest  thee  tranquil;  chase  those  fear- 
ful doubts 
Which  ne'er  could  rack  an  everlasting  soul 
That  sees  the  chains  which  bind  it  to  its 

doom. 
Yes  1  crime  and  misery  are  in  yonder  earth, 
Falsehood,  mistake  and  lust;       30 
But  the  eternal  world 
Contains  at  once  the  evil  and  the  cure. 
Some  eminent  in  virtue  shall  start  up, 

Even  in  perversest  time; 
The  truths  of  their  pure  lips,  that  never 

die, 
Shall  bind  the  scorpion  falsehood  with  a 
wreath 

Of  ever-living  flame. 
Until  the  monster  sting  itself  to  death. 

*  How  sweet  a  scene  will  earth  become  ! 
Of  purest  spirits  a  pure  dwelling-place,    40 
Syniphonious  with  the  planetary  spheres; 
When  man,  with  changeless   Nature  coa- 
lescing, 
Will  undertake  regeneration's  work, 
When  its  imgenial  poles  no  longer  poiut 
To  the  red  and  baleful  sun 
That  faintly  twinkles  there  ! 

'  Spirit,  on  yonder  earth, 
Falsehood  now  triumphs;  deadly  power 
Has  fixed  its  seal  upon  the  lip  of  truth  ! 

Madness  and  misery  are  there  !  50 

The  happiest  is  most  wretched  !     Yet  con- 
fide 
Until  pure  health-drops   from  the   cup  of 

.  joy 

Fall  like  a  dew  of  balm  upon  the  world. 
Now,  to  the  scene  I  show,  in  silence  turn, 
And  read  the  blood-stained  charter  of  all 

woe. 
Which  Nature  soon  with  recreating  hand 
Will  blot  in  mercy  from  the  book  of  earth. 
How  bold  the  flight  of  passion's  wandering 

wing. 
How  swift  the  step  of  reason's  firmer  tread. 
How  calm  and  sweet  the  victories  of  life. 
How  terrorless  the  ti-iumph  of  the  grave  ! 
How  powerless   were   the  mightiest  mon- 
arch's arm,  63 


Vain   his   loud   threat,   and    impotent  his 

frown  ! 
How  ludicrous  the  priest's  dogmatic  roar  1 
The  weight  of  his  exterminating  curse 
How  light  1  and  his  affected  charity, 
To  suit  the  pressure  of  the  changing  times. 
What  palpable  deceit !  —  but  for  thy  aid, 
Religion  !  but  for  thee,  prolific  fiend, 
Who  peoplest  earth  with  demons,  hell  with 

men,  70 

And  heaven  with  slaves  I 

*  Thou  taintest  all  thou  lookest  upon !  — 

the  stars. 
Which  on  thy  cradle  beamed  so  brightly 

sweet, 
Were  gods  to  the  distempered  playfulness 
Of  thy  untutored  infancy;  the  trees. 
The  grass,  the  clouds,  the  mountains  and  the 

sea. 
All  living  things  that  walk,  swim,  creep  or 

fly, 

Were  gods;  the  sun  had  homage,  and  the 

moon 
Her  worshipper.     Then  thou .  becamest,  a 

boy,  79 

More  daring  in  thy  frenzies;  every  shape, 
Monstrous  or  vast,  or  beautifully  wild. 
Which  from  sensation's  relics  fancy  culls; 
The  spirits  of  the  air,  the  shuddering  ghost. 
The  genii  of  the  elements,  the  powers 
That    give   a    shape    to    Nature's   varied 

works. 
Had  life  and  place  in  the  corrupt  belief 
Of  thy  blind  heart;  yet  still  thy  youthM 

hands 
Were  ptire  of  human  blood.     Then  man- 
hood gave 
Its    strength   and   ardor   to   thy   frenzied 

brain ; 
Thine  eager  gaze  scanned  the  stupendous 

scene,  90 

Whose  wonders  mocked  the  knowledge  of 

thy  pride; 
Their  everlasting  and  unchanging  laws 
Reproached  thine  ignorance.     Awhile  thou 

stood'st 
BafSed  and  gloomy;  then  thon  didst  sum 

^         "P 

The  elements  of  all  that  thou  didst  know; 

The    changing    seasons,    winter's    leafless 

reign. 
The  budding  of  the  heaven-breathing  trees, 
The  eternal  orbs  that  beautify  the  night. 
The  sunrise,  and  the  setting  of  the  mooiif 


20 


QUEEN  MAB 


Earthqaakes  and   wars,  and  poisons  and 

disease,  loo 

And  all  their  causes,  to  an  abstract  point 
Converging  thou  didst  bend,  and  called  it 

God! 
The  self-sufficing,  the  omnipotent. 
The  merciful,  and  the  avenging  God  I 
Who,  prototype  of  human  misrule,  sits 
High   in    heaven's  realm,   upon   a  golden 

throne. 
Even  like  an  earthly  king;  and  whose  dread 

work, 
Hell,  gapes  forever  for  the  unhappy  slaves 
Of  fate,  whom  he  created  in  his  sport 
To  triumph  in  their  torments  when  they 

fell ! 
Earth  heard  the  name;  earth  trembled  as 

the  smoke 
Of  his  revenge  ascended  up  to  heaven, 
Blotting  the  constellations;  and  the  cries 
Of  millions  butchered  in  sweet  confidence 
And   unsuspecting   peace,   even  when    the 

bonds 
Of  safety  were  confirmed  by  wordy  oaths 
Sworn  in  his  dreadful  name,  rung  through 

the  land; 
Whilst  innocent  babes  writhed  on  thy  stub- 
born spear. 
And  thou  didst  laugh  to  hear  the  mother's 

shriek 
Of  maniac  gladness,  as  the  sacred  steel  120 
Felt  cold  in  her  torn  entrails  ! 

♦Religion  !  thou   wert  then  in  manhood's 

prime; 
But  age  crept  on;  one  God  would  not  suf- 
fice 
For  senile  puerility;  thou  framedst 
A  tale  to  suit  thy  dotage  and  to  glut 
Thy  misery-thirsting  soul,  that  the   mad 

fiend 
Thy  wickedness  had  pictured  might  afford 
A  plea  for  sating  the  unnatural  thirst 
For  murder,  rapine,  violence  and  crime,  129 
That  still  consumed  thy  being,  even  when 
Thou  heard 'st  the  step  of  fate;  that  flames 

might  light 
Thy  funeral  scene;  and  the  shrill  horrent 

shrieks 
Of  parents  dying  on  the  pile  that  bnrned 
To  light  their  children  to  thy  paths,  the  roar 
Of  the  encircling  flames,  the  exulting  cries 
Of  thine  apostles  loud  commingling  there, 
Might  sate  thine  hungry  ear 
Even  on  the  bed  of  death  I 


'  But  now  contempt  is  mocking  thy  gray 

hairs; 
Thou    art    descending    to    the    darksome 

grave,  14a 

Unhonored  and  unpitied  but  by  those 
Whose  pride  is  passing  by  like  thine,  and 

sheds. 
Like  thine,  a  glare  that  fades  before  the 

sun 
Of  truth,  and  shines  but  in  the  dreadful 

night 
That  long  has  lowered  above  the  mined 

world. 

*  Throughout  these  infinite  orbs  of  mingling 

Of  whicli  yon  earth  is  one,  is  wide  diffused 
A  Spirit  of  activity  and  life. 
That  knows  no  term,  cessation  or  decay; 
That  fades  not  when  the  lamp  of  earthly 
life,  150 

Extinguished  in  the  dampness  of  the  grave, 
Awhile   there  slumbers,  more  than  when 

the  babe 
In  the  dim  newness  of  its  being  feels 
The  impulses  of  sublunary  things. 
And  all  is  wonder  to  unpractised  sense; 
But,  active,  steadfast  and  eternal,  still 
Guides  the  fierce  whirlwind,  in  the  tempest 

roars. 
Cheers  in  the  day,  breathes  in  the  balmy 

groves, 
Strengthens  in  health,  and  poisons  in  dis- 
ease ; 
And  in  the  storm  of  change,  that  cease- 
lessly 160 
Rolls  round  the  eternal  universe  and  shakes 
Its  undecaying  battlement,  presides, 
Apportioning  with  irresistible  law 
The  place  each  spring  of  its  macliine  shall 

fill; 
So  that,  when  waves  on  waves  tumultuous 

heap 
Confusion  to  the  clouds,  and  fiercely  driven 
Heaven's   lightnings   scorch  the   uprooted 

ocean-fords  — 
Whilst,  to  the  eye  of  shipwrecked  mariner, 
Lone  sitting  on  the  bare  and  shuddering 

rock. 
All     seems     unlinked     contingency     and 
chance  —  170 

No  atom  of  this  turbulence  fulfils 
A  vague  and  unuecessitated  task 
Or  acts  but  as  it  must  and  ought  to  act. 
Even  the  minutest  molecule  of  light. 


QUEEN  MAB 


21 


That  iu  an  April  sunbeam's  fleeting  glow 
Fnlfils  its  destined  though  invisible  work, 
The  universal  Spirit  guides;  nor  less 
When  merciless  ambition,  or  mad  zeal. 
Has  led  two  hosts  of  dupes  to  battle-field, 
That,  blind,  they  there  may  dig  each  other's 

graves  i8o 

And  call  the  sad  work  glory,  does  it  rule 
All  passions;    not  a  thought,  a   will,  an 

act. 
No  working  of  the  tyrant's  moody  mind. 
Nor  one  misgiving  of  the  slaves  who  boast 
Their   servitude    to   hide  the  shame   they 

feel, 
Nor  the  events  enchaining  every  will. 
That  from  the  depths  of  unrecorded  time 
Have  drawn  all-influencing  virtue,  pass 
Unrecognized  or  unforeseen  by  thee, 
Soul  of  the  Universe  !  eternal  spring        190 
Of  life  and  death,  of  happiness  and  woe, 
Of  all  that  chequers  the  phantasmal  scene 
That  floats   before   our  eyes  iu  wavering 

light. 
Which  gleams  but  on  the  darkness  of  our 

prison 
Whose  chains  and  massy  walls 
We  feel  but  cannot  see. 

*  Spirit  of  Nature  !  all-sufficing  Power, 
Necessity  !  thou  mother  of  the  world  ! 
Unlike  the  God  of  human  error,  thou 
Requirest  no  prayers  or  praises;  the  ca- 
price 200 
Of  man's  weak  will  belongs  no  more  to 

thee 
Than    do    the    changeful   passions   of  his 

breast 
To  thy  unvarying  harmony;  the  slave. 
Whose   horrible  lusts   spread   misery  o'er 

the  world. 
And  the  good  man,  who  lifts  with  virtuous 

pride 
His  being  in  the  sight  of  happiness 
That  springs   from    his   own   works;   the 

poison-tree. 
Beneath  whose  shade  all  life  is  withered 

up. 
And  the  fair  oak,  whose  leafy  dome  affords 
A  temple  where  the  vows  of  happy  love   210 
Are  registered,  are  equal  in  thy  sight; 
No  love,  no  hate  thou  cherishest;  revenge 
And  favoritism,  and  worst  desire  of  fame 
Thou  knowest  not;  all  that  the  wide  world 

contains 
Are  but  thy  passive  instruments,  and  thou 


Regard'st  them  all  with  an  impartial  eye, 
Whose  joy  or  pain  thy  nature  cannot  feel, 
Because  thou  hast  not  human  sense, 
Because  thou  art  not  human  mind. 

'  Yes !     when    the    sweeping    storm  of 

time  220 

Has  sung  its  death-dirge  o'er  the  ruined 

fanes 
And  broken  altars  of  the  almighty  fiend, 
Whose  name  usurps  thy  honors,  and  the 

blood 
Through  centuries  clotted  there  has  floated 

down 
The  tainted  flood  of  ages,  shalt  thou  live 
Unchangeable!     A  shrine  is  raised  to  thee, 
Which  nor  the  tempest  breath  of  time, 
Nor  the  interminable  flood 
Over  earth's  slight  pageant  rolling, 

Availeth  to  destroy,  —  230 

The  sensitive  extension  of  the  world; 

That  wondrous  and  eternal  fane, 
Where  pain  and  pleasure,  good  and  evil 

join. 
To  do  the  will  of  strong  necessity. 

And  life,  in  nniltitudinous  shapes, 
Still  pressing  forward  where  no  term  can  be. 

Like  hungry  and  unresting  flame 
Curls   round  the   eternal   columns   of   its 
strength.' 

VII 

SPIBIT 

'  I  was  an  infant  when  my  mother  went 

To  see  an  atheist  burned.  She  took  me 
there. 

The  dark-robed  priests  were  met  around 
the  pile; 

The  multitude  was  gazing  silently; 

And  as  the  culprit  passed  with  dauntless 
mien. 

Tempered  disdain  in  his  unaltering  eye. 

Mixed  with  a  quiet  smile,  shone  calmly 
forth; 

The  thirsty  fire  crept  round  his  manly 
limbs; 

His  resolute  eyes  were  scorched  to  blind- 
ness soon; 

His  death-pang  rent  my  heart!  the  insen- 
sate mob  10 

Uttered  a  cry  of  triumph,  and  I  wept 

"  Weep  not,  child!  "  cried  my  mother,  "  f<a 
that  man 

Has  said,  There  is  no  God."  ' 


za 


QUEEN  MAB 


FAIKT 

'  There  is  no  God ! 
Nature  confirms  the  faith  his  death-groan 

sealed. 
Let  heaven  and  earth,  let  man's  revolving 

race, 
His  ceaseless  generations,  tell  their  tale; 
Let  every  part  depending  on  the  chain 
That   links  it  to  the  whole,  point   to   the 

hand 
That  grasps  its  term!     Let  every  seed  that 

falls 
In  silent  eloquence  unfold  its  store  20 

Of  argument;  infinity  within. 
Infinity  without,  belie  creation; 
The  exterminable  spirit  it  contains 
Is  Nature's  only  God;  but  human  pride 
Is  skilful  to  invent  most  serious  names 
To  hide  its  ignorance. 

'  The  name  of  God 
Has  fenced  about  all  crime  with  holiness, 
Himself  the  creature  of  his  worshippers. 
Whose  names  and  attributes  and  passions 
change,  29 

Seeva,  Buddh,  Fob,  Jehovah,  God,  or  Lord, 
Even  with  the  human  dupes  who  build  his 

shrines, 
Still  serving  o'er  the  war-polluted  world 
For  desolation's  watchword;  whether  hosts 
Stain  his  death-blushing  chariot-wheels,  as 

on 
Triumphantly  they  roll,  whilst   Brahmins 

raise 
A  sacred  hymn  to  mingle  with  the  groans; 
Or  countless  partners  of  his  power  divide 
His  tyranny  to  weakness;  or  the  smoke 
Of  burning  towns,  the  cries  of  female  help- 
lessness, 39 
Unarmed  old  age,  and  youth,  and  infancy. 
Horribly  massacred,  ascend  to  heaven 
In  honor  of  his  name;  or,  last  and  wor^-t. 
Earth  groans  beneatli  religion's  iron  age. 
And  priests  dare  babble  of  a  God  of  peace, 
Even  whilst  their  hands  are  red  with  guilt- 
less blood, 
Murdering  the  while,  uprooting  every  germ 
Of  truth,  exterminating,  spoiling  all. 
Making  the  earth  a  slaughter-house! 

'  O  Spirit!  through  the  sense 
By  which  thy  inner  nature  was  apprised  50 
Of  outward  shows,  vague  dreams  have 

rolled, 
And  varied  reminiscences  have  waked 


Tablets  that  never  fade; 
All  things  have  been  imprinted  there, 
The  stars,  the  sea,  the  earth,  the  sky, 
Even  the  unshapeliest  lineaments 
Of  wild  and  fleeting  visions 

Have  left  a  record  there 

To  testify  of  earth. 

'  These  are  my  empire,  for  to  me  is  given  6a 
The  wonders  of  the  human  world  to  keep, 
And  fancy's  thin  creations  to  endow 
With  manner,  being  and  reality; 
Therefore  a  wondrous  phantom  from  tho 

dreams 
Of  human  error's  dense  and  purblind  faith 
I  will  evoke,  to  meet  thy  questioning. 
Ahasuerus,  rise!' 

A  strange  and  woe-worn  wight 
Arose  beside  the  battlement, 

And  stood  uumoving  there.         70 
His  inessential  figure  cast  no  shade 

Upon  the  golden  floor; 
His   port   and  mien  bore  mark  of   many 

years, 
And  chronicles  of  imtold  ancientness 
Were  legible  within  his  beamless  eye; 

Yet  his  cheek  bore  the  mark  of  youth; 
Freshness  and  vigor  knit  his  manly  frame; 
The  wisdom  of  old  age  was  mingled  there 
With  j'outh's  primeval  dauntlessuess; 
And  inexpressible  woe,  8* 

Chastened  by  fearless  resignation,  gave 
An  awful  grace  to  his  all-speaking  brow. 

SPIRIT 

'Is  there  a  God?' 

AHASUERUS 

*Is  there  a  God!  —  ay,  an  almighty  God, 
And  vengeful  as  almighty!    Once  liis  voice 
Was  heard  on  earth;   earth  shuddered  at 

the  sound; 
The  fiery-visaged  firmament  expressed 
Abhorrence,    and    the    grave    of    Nature 

yawned 
To  swallow  all  the  dauntless  and  the  good 
That  dared  to  hurl  defiance  at  his  throne, 
Girt   as   it   was   with   power.      None   but 

slaves  91 

Survived,  —  cold-blooded  slaves,  who  did 

the  work 
Of  tyrannous  omnipotence;  whose  soulfc 
No  honest  indignation  ever  urged 
To  elevated  daiiug,  to  one  deed 


QUEEN   MAB 


23 


Which  gross  and  sensual  self  did  not  pol- 
lute. 
These  slaves  built  temples  for  the  omnipo- 
tent fiend, 
Gorgeous  and  vast ;  the  costly  altars  smoked 
With  human  blood,  and  hideous  paeans  rung 
Through  all  the  long-drawu  aisles.    A  mur- 
derer heard  100 
His  voice  in  Eg^'pt,  one  whose  gifts  and  arts 
Had  raised  him  to  his  eminence  in  power, 
Accomplice  of  omnipotence  in  crime 
And  confidant  of  the  all-knowing  one. 
These  were  Jehovah's  words. 

* "  From  an  eternity  of  idleness 

I,  God,  awoke  ;  in  seven  days'  toil  made 

earth 
From  nothing;  rested,  and  created  man; 
I  placed  him  in  a  paradise,  and  there 
Planted  the  tree  of  evil,  so  that  he  no 

Might  eat  and  perish,  and  my  soul  procure 
Wherewith  to  sate  its  malice  and  to  turn. 
Even   like   a   heartless   conqueror   of   the 

earth, 
All  misery  to  my  fame.     The  race  of  men, 
Chosen  to  my  honor,  with  impunity 
May  sate  the  lusts  I  planted  in  their  heart. 
Here  I  command  thee  hence  to  lead  them 

on. 
Until  with  hardened  feet  their  conquering 

troops 
Wade  on  the  promised  soil  through  wo- 
man's blood. 
And  make  my  name  be  dreaded  through 

the  land.  120 

Yet  ever-burning  flame  and  ceaseless  woe 
Shall  be  the  doom  of  their  eternal  souls, 
With  every  soul  on  this  imgrateful  eartli, 
Virtuous    or   vicious,    weak   or   strong,  — 

even  all 
Shall  perish,  to  fulfil  the  blind  revenge 
(Which  you,  to  men,  call  justice)  of  their 

God." 

*  The  murderer's  brow 
Quivered  with  horror. 

'  "  God  omnipotent, 
Is  there  no  mercy  ?  must  our  punishment 
Be  endless  ?  will  long  ages  roll  away,      130 
And  see  no  term  ?     Oh  !   wherefore  hast 

thou  made 
In  mockery  and  wrath  this  evil  earth  ? 
Mercy  becomes  the  powerful  —  be  but  just ! 
O  God  !  repent  and  save  !  " 


* "  One  way  remains: 
I  will  beget  a  son  and  he  shall  bear 
The  sins  of  all  the  world;  he  shall  arise 
In  an  unnoticed  corner  of  the  earth. 
And  there  shall  die  upon  a  cross,  and  purge 
The  universal  crime;  so  that  the  few 
On  whom  my  grace  descends,  those  who  are 

marked  140 

As  vessels  to  the  honor  of  their  God, 
May  credit  this  strange  sacrifice  and  save 
Their  souls  alive.     Millions  shall  live  and 

die. 
Who  ne'er  shall  call  upon  their  Saviour's 

name. 
But,  unredeemed,  go  to  the  gaping  grave. 
Thousands  shall  deem  it  an  old  woman's 

tale. 
Such  as  the  nurses  frighten  babes  withal; 
These  in  a  gulf  of  anguish  and  of  flame 
Shall  curse  their  reprobation  endlessly. 
Yet   tenfold   pangs    shall    force    them    to 

avow,  150 

Even  on  their  beds  of  torment  where  they 

howl, 
My  honor  and  the  justice  of  their  doom. 
What  then  avail  their  virtuous  deeds,  their 

thoughts 
Of  purity,  with  radiant  genius  bright 
Or  lit  with  human  reason's  earthly  ray  ? 
Many  are  called,  but  few  will  I  elect. 
Do  thou  my  bidding,  Moses  ! " 

'  Even  the  murderer's  cheek 
Was  blanched  with  horror,  and  his  quiver- 
ing lips 
Scarce  faintly  uttered  —  "  O  almighty  one, 
I  tremble  and  obey  ! "  160 

*  O  Spirit !  centuries  have  set  their  seal 
On  this  heart  of  many  wounds,  and  loaded 

brain. 
Since  the  Incarnate  came  ;  humbly  he  came, 
Veiling  his  horrible  Godhead  in  the  shape 
Of  man,  scorned  by  the  world,  his  name 

imheard 
Save  by  the  rabble  of  his  native  town. 
Even  as  a  parish  demagogue.     He  led 
The  crowd  ;  he  taught  them  justice,  truth 

and  peace. 
In  semblance  ;  but  he  lit  within  their  souls 
The  quenchless  flames  of  zeal,  and  blessed 

the  sword  ryo 

He  brought  on  earth  to  satiate  with  the 

blood 
Of  truth  and  freedom  his  malignant  soul 


*4 


QUEEN   MAB 


At  length  bis  mortal   frame   was  led  to 

death. 
I  stood  beside  him ;  on  the  torturing  cross 
No  pain  assailed  his  unterrestrial  sense; 
And  yet  he  groaned.   Indignantly  I  summed 
The  massacres  and  miseries  wbieh  his  name 
Had  sanctioned  in  my  country,  and  I  cried, 
"  Go  !  go  !  "  in  mockery. 
A  smile  of  godlike  malice  reillumined     i8o 
His  fading  lineaments.     "I  go,"  he  cried, 
'*But  thou  shalt  wander  o'er  the  unquiet 

earth 
Eternally."     The  dampness  of  the  grave 
Bathed  my  imperishable  front.     I  fell. 
And  long  lay  tranced  upon  the  charmed 

soil. 
When  I  awoke  hell  burned  within  my  brain 
Which  staggered  on  its  seat;  for  all  around 
The  mouldering  relics  of  my  kindred  lay, 
Even  as  the  Almighty's  ire  arrested  them, 
And  in  their  various  attitudes  of  death    190 
My  murdered  children's  mute  and  eyeless 

skulls 
Glared  ghastily  upon  me. 

But  my  soul, 
From  sight  and  sense  of  the  polluting  woe 
Of  tyranny,  had  long  learned  to  prefer 
Hell's  freedom  to  the  servitude  of  heaven. 
Thei-efore  I  rose,  and  dauntlessly  began 
My  lonely  and  unending  pilgrimage. 
Resolved  to  wage  unweariable  war 
With  my  almighty  tyrant  and  to  hurl 
Defiance  at  his  impotence  to  harm  200 

Beyond  the  curse  I  bore.     The  very  hand. 
That  barred  my  passage  to  the  peaceful 

grave. 
Has  crushed  the  earth  to  misery,  and  given 
Its  empire  to  the  chosen  of  his  slaves. 
These  I  have  seen,  even  from  the  earliest 

dawn 
Of  weak,  unstabla  and  precarious  power. 
Then  preaching  pf  ace,  as  now  they  practise 

war; 
So,  when  they  turned  but  from  the  mas- 
sacre 
Of  unoffending  infidels  to  quench 
Their  thirst  for  ruin  in  the  very  blood     210 
That  flowed  in  their  own  veins,  and  pitiless 

zeal 
Froze  every  human  feeling  as  the  wife 
Sheathed  in  her  husband's  heart  the  sacred 

steel, 
Even  whilst  its  hopes  were  dreaming  of  her 

love; 


And  friends  to  friends,  brothers  to  brothers 

stood 
Opposed  in  bloodiest  battle-field,  and  war, 
Scarce  satiable  by  fate's  last  death-draught, 

waged. 
Drunk    from   the   wine-press  of   the   Al- 
mighty's wrath; 
Whilst  the  red  cross,  in  mockery  of  peace, 
Pointed  to  victory!     When  the  fray  was 
done,  320 

No  remnant  of  the  exterminated  faith 
Survived  to  tell  its  ruin,  but  the  flesh. 
With  putrid  smoke   poisoning  the   atmo- 
sphere, 
That  rotted  on  the  half-extinguished  pile. 

'  Yes  !  I  have  seen  God's  worshippers  un- 
sheathe 

The  sword  of  his  revenge,  when  grace  de- 
scended. 

Confirming  all  unnatural  impulses, 

To  sanctify  their  desolating  deeds; 

And  frantic  priests  waved  the  ill-omened 
cross 

O'er  the  unhappy  earth  ;  then  shone  the 
sun  330 

On  showers  of  gore  from  the  upflashing 
steel 

Of  safe  assassination,  and  all  crime 

Made  stingless  by  the  spirits  of  the  Lord, 

And  blood-red  rainbows  canopied  the  land. 

'  Spirit!  no  year  of  my  eventful  being 
Has  passed  unstained  by  crime  and  misery. 
Which  flows  from  God's  own  faith.     I  've 

marked  his  slaves 
With  tongues,  whose   lies  are  venomous, 

beguile 
The  insensate  mob,  and,  whilst  one  band 

was  red  239 

With  murder,  feign  to  stretch  the  other  out 
For  brotherhood  and  peace;  and  that  they 

now 
Babble  of  love  and  mercy,  whilst  their  deeds 
Are  marked  with  all  the  narrowness  and 

crime 
That  freedom's  young  arm  dare  not  yet 

chastise. 
Reason  may  claim  our  gratitude,  who  now, 
Establishing  the  imperishable  throne 
Of  truth  and  stubborn  virtue,  maketh  vain 
The  unprevailing  malice  of  my  foe, 
Whose  bootless  rage  heaps  torments  for  the 

brave, 
Adds  impotent  eternities  to  pain,  350 


QUEEN   MAB 


25 


Whilst   keenest  disappointment  racks  his 

breast 
To  see  the  smiles  of  peace  around  them 

play, 
To  frustrate  or  to  sanctify  their  doom. 

*  Thus  have  I  stood,  —  through  a  wild  waste 

of  years 
Struggling  with  whirlwinds  of  mad  agony, 
Yet    peaceful,    and    serene,    and    self-en- 
shrined. 
Mocking   my   powerless   tyrant's   horrible 

curse 
With  stubborn  and  unalterable  will, 
Even  as  a  giant  oak,  which  heaven's  fierce 

flame 
Had  scathed  in  the  wilderness,  to  stand  260 
A  monument  of  fadeless  ruin  there ; 
Yet  peacefully  and  movelessly  it  braves 
The  midnight  conflict  of  the  wintry  storm, 
As  in  the  sunlight's  calm  it  spreads 
Its  worn  and  withered  arms  on  high 
To  meet  the  quiet  of  a  summer's  noon.' 

The  Fairy  waved  her  wand; 
Ahasuerus  fled 

Fast  as  the  shapes  of  mingled  shade  and 
mist,  269 

That  lurk  in  the  glens  of  a  twilight  grove, 
Flee  from  the  morning  beam ;  — 
The  matter  of  which  dreams  are  made 
Not  more  endowed  with  actual  life 
Than  this  phantasmal  portraiture 
Of  wandering  human  thought. 

VIII 
THE    FAIRT 

*  The  present  and  the  past  thou  hast  beheld. 
It  was  a  desolate  sight.   Now,  Spirit,  learn, 

The  secrets  of  the  future.  —  Time! 
Unfold  the  brooding  pinion  of  thy  gloom, 
Render  thou  up  thy  half-devoured  babes, 
And  from  the  cradles  of  eternity. 
Where  millions  lie  lulled  to  their  portioned 

sleep 
By  the  deep  murmuring  stream  of  passing 

things, 
Tear  thou   that   gloomy  shroud.  —  Spirit, 

behold 
Thy  glorious  destiny!*  10 

Joy  to  the  Spirit  came. 
Through  the  wide  rent  in  Time's  eternal 
veil. 


Hope  was  seen  beaming  through  the  mists 
of  fear; 
Earth  was  no  longer  hell; 
Love,  freedom,  health  had  given 
Their  ripeness  to  the  manhood  of  its  prime. 

And  all  its  pulses  beat 
Symphonious  to  the  planetary  spheres; 

Then  dulcet  music  swelled  19 

Concordant  with  the  life-strings  of  the  soul; 
It  throbbed  in  sweet  and  languid  beatings 

there, 
Catching  new  life  from  transitory  death; 
Like  the  vague  sighings  of  a  wind  at  even 
That  wakes  the  wavelets  of  the  slumbering 

sea 
And  dies  on  the  creation  of  its  breath, 
Anfl  sinks  and  rises,  falls  and   swells  by 
fits. 
Was  the  pure  stream  of  feeling 
That  sprung  from  these  sweet  notes. 
And  o'er  the  Spirit's  human  sympathies    29 
With  mild  and  gentle  motion  calmly  flowed. 

Joy  to  the  Spirit  came,  — 

Such  joy  as  when  a  lover  sees 

The  chosen  of  his  soul  in  happiness 

And  witnesses  her  peace 
Whose  woe  to  him  were  bitterer  than  death; 

Sees  her  unfaded  cheek 
Glow  mantling  in  first  luxury  of  health, 

Thrills  with  her  lovely  eyes. 
Which  like  two  stars   amid   the  heaving 
main 

Sparkle  through  liquid  bliss.  40 

Then  in  her  triumph  spoke  the  Fairy  Queen 

*  I  will  not  call  the  ghost  of  ages  gone 

To    unfold    the    frightful    secrets   of  its 

lore; 
The  present  now  is  past. 
And  those  events  that  desolate  the  earth 
Have  faded  from  the  memory  of  Time, 
Who  dares  not  give  reality  to  that 
Whose  being  I  annul.     To  me  is  given 
The  wonders  of  the  human  world  to  keep, 
Space,  matter,  time  and  mind.    Futurity  50 
Exposes  now  its  treasure;  let  the  sight 
Renew  and  strengthen  all  thy  failing  hope. 
O  human  Spirit!  spur  thee  to  the  goal 
Where  virtue  fixes  universal  peace, 
And,  'midst  the  ebb  and  flow  of  human 

things, 
Show  somewhat  stable,  somewhat  certain 

still, 
A  light-house  o'er  the  wild  of  dreary  waves. 


t6 


QUEEN   MAB 


*  The  habitable  earth  is  full  of  bliss ; 
Those  wastes  of  fi-ozeu  billows  that  were 

hurled 
By    everlasting     snow-storms    round    the 

poles,  60 

Where  matter  dared  not  vegetate  or  live, 
But  ceaseless  frost  romid  the  vast  solitude 
Bound  its  broad  zone  of  stillness,  are  uu- 

loosed; 
And  fragrant    zephyrs  there   from   spicy 

isles 
Ruffle  the  placid  ocean-deep,  that  rolls 
Its  broad,  bright  surges  to  the  sloping  sand, 
Whose  roar  is  wakened  into  echoiugs  sweet 
To  murmur  through  the  heaven-breathing 

groves 
And    melodize  with    man's   blest    natbre 

there. 

*  Those  deserts  of  immeasurable  sand,       70 
W^hose  age-collected  fervors  scarce  allowed 
A  bird  to  live,  a  blade  of  grass  to  spring, 
Where  the  shrill  chirp  of  the  green  lizard's 

love 
Broke  on  the  sultry  silentness  alone, 
Now  teem  with  countless  rills  and  shady 

woods, 
Cornfields  and  pastures  and  white  cottages; 
And  where  the  startled  wilderness  beheld 
A    savage   conqueror    stained   in   kindred 

blood, 
A  tigress  sating  with  the  flesh  of  lambs 
The    unnatural    famine    of   her    toothless 

cubs,  80 

Whilst  shouts  and  bowlings  through  the 

desert  rang,  — 
Sloping    and    smooth    the  daisy-spangled 

lawn. 
Offering  sweet  incense  to  the  sunrise,  smiles 
To  see  a  babe  before  his  mother's  door, 
Sharing  his  morning's  meal 
With  the  green  and  golden  basilisk 
That  comes  to  lick  his  feet. 

•  Those  trackless  deeps,  where  many  a  weary 

sail 

Has  seen  above  the  illimitable  plain 

Morning  on  night  and  night  on  morning 
rise,  90 

Whilst  still  no  land  to  g^eet  the  wanderer 
spread 

Its  shadowy  mountains  on  the  sun-bright 
sea, 

Where  the  loud  roarings  of  the  tempest- 
waves 


So  long  have  miugled  with  the  gusty  wind 
In  melancholy  loneliness,  and  swept 
The  desert  of  those  ocean  solitudes 
But  vocal  to  the  sea-bird's  liairowiug  shriek. 
The  bellowing   monster,  and   the  rushing 

storm ; 
Now   to   the    sweet   and    many  -  mingling 

sounds 
Of  kindliest  human  impulses  respond.      100 
Those    lonely   realms    bright   garden-isles 

begem, 
With  lightsome   clouds   and  shining  seas 

between. 
And  fertile  valleys,  resonant  with  bliss. 
Whilst  green  woods  overcanopy  the  wave, 
Which    like   a  toil-worn  laborer  leaps  to 

shore 
To  meet  the  kisses  of  the  flowrets  there. 

*  All  things  are  recreated,  and  the  flame 
Of  consentaneous  love  inspires  all  life. 
The  fertile  bosom  of  the  earth  gives  suck 
To   myriads,  who  still  grow  beneath  her 

care,  1 10 

Rewarding  her  with  their  pure  perfectness; 
The  balmy  breathings  of  tlie  wind  inhale 
Her  virtues  and  diffuse  them  all  abroad; 
Health  floats  amid  the  gentle  atmosphere, 
Glows   in  the   fruits  and  mantles  on  the 

stream ; 
No  storms   deform  the  beaming  brow  of 

heaven. 
Nor  scatter  in  the  freshness  of  its  pride 
The  foliage  of  the  ever- verdant  trees; 
But  fruits  are  ever  ripe,  flowers  ever  fair, 
And  autumn    proudly  bears    her   matron 

grace,  120 

Kindling  a  flush  on  the  fair  cheek  of  spring, 
Whose  virgin  bloom   beneath  the  ruddy 

fruit 
Reflects  its  tint  and  blushes  into  love. 

'  The  lion  now  forgets  to  thirst  for  blood ; 

Tliere  might  you  see  him  sporting  in  the 
sun 

Beside  the  dreadless  kid;  his  claws  are 
sheathed, 

His  teeth  are  harmless,  custom's  force  has 
made 

His  nature  as  the  nature  of  a  Iamb. 

Like  passion's  fruit,  the  nightshade's  tempt- 
ing bane 

Poisons  no  more  the  pleasure  it  be- 
stows ;  i3« 

All  bitterness  is  past;  the  cup  of  joy 


QUEEN   MAB 


27 


TJnniingled  mantles  to  the  goblet's  brim 
And  courts  the  thirsty  lips  it  fled  before. 

But  chief,  ambiguous  man,  he  that  can 

kuow 
More  misery,  and  dream  more   joy  than 

all; 
Whose   keen    sensations  thrill   within  his 

breast 
To  mingle  with  a  loftier  instinct  there, 
Lending   their   power  to  pleasure  and  to 

pain. 
Yet  raising,  sharpening,  and  refining  each; 
Who  stands  amid  the  ever- varying  world. 
The  burden  or  the  glory  of  the  earth;      141 
He  chief  perceives  the  change;  his  being 

notes 
The  gradual  renovation  and  defines 
Each   movement   of   its   progress    on    his 

mind. 

•  Man,  where  the  gloom  of  the  long  polar 

night 
Lowers    o'er    the    snow -clad    rocks    and 

frozen  soil, 
Where  scarce  the  hardiest  herb  that  braves 

the  frost 
Basks  in  the  moonlight's  ineffectual  glow. 
Shrank  with  the  plants,  and  darkened  with 

the  night; 
His    chilled     and     narrow     energies,    his 

heart  150 

Insensible  to  courage,  truth  or  love. 
His  stunted  stature  and  imbecile  frame, 
Marked  him  for  some  abortion  of  the  earth, 
Fit    compeer    of   the   bears   that   roamed 

around. 
Whose    habits    and    enjoyments  were  his 

own; 
His  life  a  feverish  dream  of  stagnant  woe. 
Whose    meagre    wants,   but   scantily   ful- 
filled. 
Apprised  him  ever  of  the  joyless  length 
Which  his  short  being's  wretchedness  had 

reached ; 
His  death  a  pang  which  famine,  cold  and 

toil  160 

Long  on  the  mind,   whilst  yet  the   vital 

spark 
Clung  to  the  body  stubbornly,  had  brought: 
All  was  inflicted  here  that  earth's  revenge 
Could  wreak  on  the  infringers  of  her  law; 
One  curse  alone  was  spared  —  the  name  of 

God. 


*  Nor,  where  the  tropics  bound  the  realms 

of  day 
With  a  broad  belt  of  mingling  cloud  and 

flame, 
Where  blue  mists  through  the  unmoving 

atmosphere 
Scattered  the  seeds  of  pestilence  and  fed 
Unnatural  vegetation,  where  the  land      170 
Teemed  with  all  earthquake,  tempest  and 

disease. 
Was  man  a  nobler  being;  slavery 
Had  crushed  him  to  his  country's  blood- 
stained dust; 
Or  he  was  bartered  for  the  fame  of  power. 
Which,  all  internal  impulses  destroying, 
Makes  human  will  an  article  of  trade; 
Or  he  was  changed  with  Christians  for  their 

gold 
And  dragged  to  distant  isles,  where  to  the 

sound 
Of  the  flesh-mangling  scourge  Tie  does  the 

work 
Of  all-polluting  luxury  and  wealth,  180 

Which  doubly  visits  on  the  tyrants'  heads 
The  long-protracted  fulness  of  their  woe; 
Or  he  was  led  to  legal  butchery. 
To  turn  to  worms  beneath  that  burning  sun 
Where  kings  first  leagued  against  the  rights 

of  men 
And  priests  first  traded  with  the  name  of 

God. 

'  Even  where  the  milder  zone  afforded  man 
A  seeming  shelter,  yet  contagion  there, 
Blighting  his  being  with  unnumbered  ills. 
Spread  like  a  quenchless  fire;  nor  truth  tUl 

late  190 

Availed  to  arrest  its  progress  or  create 
That  peace  which  first  in  bloodless  victory 

waved 
Her  snowy  standard  o'er  this  favored  clime; 
There  man  was  long  the  train-bearer  of 

slaves. 
The  mimic  of  surrounding  misery, 
The  jackal  of  ambition's  lion-rage, 
The  bloodhound  of  religion's  hungry  zeal. 

'  Here  now  the  baman  being  stands  adorn- 
ing 

This  loveliest  earth  with  taintless  body  and 
mind; 

Blest  from  his  birth  with  all  bland  im- 
pulses, iM 

Which  gently  in  his  noble  bosom  wake 


«8 


QUEEN   MAB 


All  kindly  passions  and  all  pure  desires. 
Him,  still  from  hope  to  hope  the  bliss  pur- 
suing 
Which  from  the  exhaustless  store  of  human 

weal 
Draws  on  the  virtuous  mind,  the  thoughts 

that  rise 
In  time-destroying  infiniteness  g^ft 
With  self-enshrined  eternity,  that  mocks 
The  unprevailing  hoariness  of  age ; 
And  man,  once  fleeting  o'er  the  transient 

scene 
Swift  as  an  unremembered  vision,  stands  210 
Immortal  upon  earth;  no  longer  now 
He  slays  the  lamb  that  looks  him  in  the 

face. 
And  horribly  devours  his  mangled  flesh, 
Which,    stiU    avenging    Nature's    broken 

law, 
Kindled  all  putrid  humors  in  his  frame, 
All  evil  passions  and  all  vain  belief. 
Hatred,  despair  and  loathing  in  his  mind. 
The  germs  of  misery,  death,  disease  and 

crime. 
No  longer  now  the  winged  habitants, 
That  in  the  woods  their  sweet  lives  sing 

away,  220 

Flee  from  the  form  of  man  ;  but  gather 

round. 
And  prune   their  sunny  feathers   on  the 

hands 
Which  little   children  stretch  in  friendly 

sport 
Towards  these  dreadless  partners  of  their 

play. 
All  things  are  void  of  terror;  man  has 

lost 
His  terrible  prerogative,  and  stands 
An  equal  amidst  equals;  happiness 
And  science  dawn,  though  late,  upon  the 

earth ; 
Peace  cheers  the  mind,  health   renovates 

the  frame;  229 

Disease  and  pleasure  cease  to  mingle  here. 
Reason  and  passion  cease  to  combat  there ; 
Whilst  each  unfettered  o'er  the  earth  ex- 
tend 
Their  all-subduing  energies,  and  wield 
The  sceptre  of  a  vast  dominion  there; 
Whilst  every  shape  and  mode  of  matter 

lends 
Its  force  to  the  omnipotence  of  mind. 
Which  from  its  dark  mine  drags  the  gem 

of  truth 
To  decorate  its  paradise  of  peace.' 


IX 

*0  happy  Earth,  reality  of  Heaven! 

To  which  those  restless  souls  that  cease- 
lessly 

Throng  through  the  human  universe,  aspirel 

Thou  consummation  of  all  mortal  hope! 

Thou  glorious  prize  of  blindly  working  will. 

Whose  rays,  diffused  throughout  all  space 
and  time, 

Verge  to  one  point  and  blend  forever  there! 

Of  purest  spirits  thou  pure  dwelling-place 

Where  care  and  sorrow,  impotence  and 
crime. 

Languor,  disease  and  ignoi-ance  dare  not 
come!  10 

O  happy  Earth,  reality  of  Heaven! 

'Genius   has   seen  thee  in  her  passionate 

dreams; 
And  dim  forebodings  of  thy  loveliness. 
Haunting  the  human  heart,  have  there  en- 
twined 
Those  rooted  hopes  of  some  sweet  place  of 

bliss, 
Where  friends  and  lovers  meet  to  part  no 

more. 
Thou  art  the  end  of  all  desire  and  will. 
The  product  of  all  action;  and  the  souls, 
That  by  the  paths  of  an  aspiring  change   19 
Have  reached  thy  haven  of  perpetual  peace, 
There  rest  from  the  eternity  of  toil 
That  framed  the  fabric  of  thy  perfectness. 

'  Even  Time,  the  conqueror,  fled  thee  in  his 

fear; 
That  hoary  giant,  who  in  lonely  pride 
So  long  had  ruled  the  world  that  nations 

fell 
Beneath  his  silent  footstep.     Pyramids, 
That  for  millenniums  had  withstood  the  tide 
Of  human  things,  his  storm-breath  drove  in 

sand 
Across  that  desert  where  their  stones  sur- 
vived 
The  name  of  him  whose  pride  had  heaped 

them  there.  ja 

Yon  monarch,  in  his  solitary  pomp, 
Was  but  the  mushroom  of  a  summer  day, 
That  his  light-wingfed  footstep  pressed  to 

dust; 
Time  was  the  king  of  earth ;  all  things  g^ve 

way 
Before  him  but  the  fixed  and  virtuous  will, 
The  sacred  sympathies  of  soul  and  sense, 
That  mocked  his  fury  and  prepared  his  fall 


QUEEN   MAB 


29 


•Yet  slow  and  gradual  dawned  the  morn  of 
love; 

Long  lay  the  clouds  of  darkness  o'er  tlie 
scene, 

Till  from  its  native  heaven  they  rolled 
away :  4° 

First,  crime  triumphant  o'er  all  hope  ca- 
reered 

Unblushing,  undisguising,  bold  and  strong, 

Whilst  falsehood,  tricked  in  virtue's  attri- 
butes. 

Long  sanctified  all  deeds  of  vice  and  woe, 

Till,  done  by  her  own  venomous  sting  to 
death. 

She  left  the  moral  world  without  a  law. 

No  longer  fettering  passion's  fearless  wing. 

Nor  searing  reason  with  the  brand  of  God. 

Then  steadily  the  happy  ferment  worked; 

Reason  was  free;  and  wild  though  passion 
went  50 

Through  tangled  glens  and  wood-embos- 
omed meads. 

Gathering  a  garland  of  the  strangest  flow- 
ers. 

Yet,  like  the  bee  returning  to  her  queen, 

She  bound  the  sweetest  on  her  sister's  brow. 

Who  meek  and  sober  kissed  the  sportive 
child. 

No  longer  trembling  at  the  broken  rod. 

*  Mild  was  the  slow  necessity  of  death. 
The  tranquil  spirit  failed  beneath  its  grasp. 
Without  a  groan,  almost  without  a  fear. 
Calm  as  a  voyager  to  some  distant  land,  60 
And  full  of  wonder,  full  of  hope  as  he. 
The  deadly  germs  of  languor  and  disease 
Died  in  the  human  frame,  and  purity 
Blessed  with  all  gifts  her  earthly  worship- 
pers. 
How  vigorous  then  the   athletic  form  of 

age  ! 
How  clear  its  open  and  unwrinkled  brow  ! 
Where  neither  avarice,  cunning,  pride  or 

care 
Had  stamped  the  seal  of  gray  deformity 
On  all  the  mingling  lineaments  of  time. 
How  lovely  the  intrepid  front  of  youth,    70 
Which    meek-eyed  courage   decked  with 

freshest  grace; 
Courage  of  soul,  that  dreaded  not  a  name, 
And  elevated  will,  that  journeyed  on 
Through  life's  phantasmal  scene  in  fear- 
lessness, 
With  virtue,  love  and  pleasure,  hand  in 
hand  ! 


'  Then,  that  sweet  bondage  which  is  free- 
dom's self. 
And  rivets  with  sensation's  softest  tie 
The  kindred  sympathies  of  human  souls, 
Needed  no  fetters  of  tyrannic  law. 
Those  delicate  and  timid  impulses  80 

In  Nature's  primal  modesty  arose, 
And  with  undoubting  confidence  disclosed 
The  growing  longings  of  its  dawning  love, 
Unchecked  by  dull  and  selfish  chastity, 
That  virtue  of  the  cheaply  virtuous, 
Who  pride  themselves  in  senselessness  and 

frost. 
No  longer  prostitution's  venomed  bane 
Poisoned    the    springs    of    happiness   and 

life; 
Woman  and  man,  in  confidence  and  love. 
Equal  and  free  and  pure  together  trod      90 
The   mountain  -  paths  of  virtue,  which  no 

more 
Were  stained  with  blood  from  many  a  pil' 
grim's  feet. 

'  Then,  where,  through  distant  ages,  long 

in  pride 
The   palace    of    the    monarch  -  slave    had 

mocked 
Famine's  faint  groan  and  penury's  silent 

tear, 
A   heap    of   crumbling    ruins    stood,  and 

threw 
Year  after  year  their  stones  upon  the  field, 
Wakening  a  lonely  echo;  and  the  leaves 
Of  the  old  thorn,  that  on  the  topmost  tower 
Usurped  the  royal  ensign's  grandeur,  shook 
In  the  stern  storm  that  swayed  the  topmost 
tower,  10 1 

And  whispered  strange  tales  in  the  whirl- 
wind's ear. 

*  Low  through  the  lone  cathedral's  roofless 

aisles 
The  melancholy  winds  a  death-dirge  sung. 
It  were  a  sight  of  awfnlness  to  see 
The  works  of  faith  and  slavery,  so  vast. 
So  sumptuous,  yet  so  perishing  withal. 
Even  as  the  corpse  that  rests  beneath  its 

wall! 
A  thousand   mourners  deck  the  pomp  of 

death  105 

To-day,  the  breathing  marble  glows  above 
To  decorate  its  memory,  and  tongues 
Are  busy  of  its  life;  to-morrow,  worms 
In    silence   and    in   darkness    seize    their 

prey. 


3«> 


QUEEN  MAB 


*  Within   the    massy  prison's    mouldering 

courts, 
Fearless  and  free  the  ruddy  children  played, 
Weaving   gay  chaplets   for  their  innocent 

brows 
With  the  green  ivy  and  the  red  wall-flower 
That  mock  the  dungeon's  unavailing  gloom; 
The    ponderous    chains   and    gratings    of 

strong  iron  119 

There  rusted  amid  heaps  of  broken  stone 
That    mingled  slowly   with    their    native 

earth ; 
There  the  broad  beam  of  day,  which  feebly 

once 
Lighted  the  cheek  of  lean  captivity 
With  a  pale  and  sickly  glare,  then  freely 

shone 
On  the  pure  smiles  of  infant  playfulness; 
No  more  the  shuddering  voice  of  hoarse 

despair 
Pealed   through    the    echoing  vaults,  but 

soothing  notes 
Of  ivy-fingered  winds  and  gladsome  birds 
And  merriment  were  resonant  around.     129 

'  These  ruins  soon  left  not  a  wreck  behind ; 

Their  elements,  wide-scattered  o'er  the 
globe, 

To  happier  shapes  were  moulded,  and  be- 
came 

Ministrant  to  all  blissful  impulses; 

Thus  human  things  were  perfected,  and 
earth, 

Even  as  a  child  beneath  its  mother's  love, 

Was  strengthened  in  all  excellence,  and 
grew 

Fairer  and  nobler  with  each  passing  year. 

'Now  Time  his  dusky  pennons  o'er  the 
scene 

Closes  in  steadfast  darkness,  and  the  past 

Fades  from  our  charmed  sight.  My  task 
is  done;  140 

Thy  lore  is  learned.  Earth's  wonders  are 
thine  own 

With  all  the  fear  and  all  the  hope  they 
bring. 

My  spells  are  passed;  the  present  now  re- 
curs. 

Ah  me  !  a  pathless  wilderness  remains 

Yet  unsubdued  by  man's  reclaiming  hand. 

'Yet,    human    Spirit!    bravely  hold    thy 

course; 
Let  virtue  teach  thee  firmly  to  pursue 


The  gradual  paths  of  an  aspiring  change ; 
For   birth   and   life   and   death,  and   that 

strange  state  149 

Before  the  naked  soul  has  found  its  home, 
All  tend  to  perfect  happiness,  and  urge 
The    restless    wheels   of   being    on    their 

way. 
Whose  flashing  spokes,  instinct  with  infi- 
nite life. 
Bicker  and   burn  to  gain  their  destined 

goal; 
For  birth  but  wakes  the  spirit  to  the  sense 
Of   outward  shows,  whose  unexperienced 

shape 
New  modes  of  passion  to  its  frame  may 

lend ; 
Life  is  its  state  of  action,  and  the  store 
Of  all  events  is  aggregated  there 
That  variegate  the  eternal  universe;         160 
Death  is  a  gate  of  dreariness  and  gloom, 
That    leads  to   azure  isles  and   beaming 

skies 
And  happy  regions  of  eternal  hope. 
Tlierefore,  O  Spirit !  fearlessly  bear  on. 
Though  storms  may  break  the  primrose  on 

its  stalk. 
Though  frosts  maj'  blight  the  freshness  of 

its  bloom. 
Yet  spring's  awakening  breath   will  woo 

the  earth 
To  feed  with  kindliest  dews  its  favorite 

flower. 
That  blooms  in  mossy  bank  and  darksome 

glens, 
Lighting  the  greenwood   with  its    sunny 

smile.  170 

*  Fear  not  then.  Spirit,  death's  disrobing 

hand. 
So  welcome  when  the  tyrant  is  awake. 
So   welcome   when   the   bigot's   hell-torch 

burns ; 
'T  is  but  the  voyage  of  a  darksome  hour, 
The   transient   gulf-dream   of   a   startling 

sleep. 
Death  is  no  foe  to  virtue;  earth  has  seen 
Love's  brightest  roses  on  the  scaffold  bloom, 
Mingling  with  freedom's  fadeless  laurels 

there. 
And  presaging  the  truth  of  visioned  bliss. 
Are  there  not  hopes  within  thee,  which  this 

scene  180 

Of  linked  and  gradual  being  has  confirmed  ? 
Whose  stingings  bade  thy  heart  look  further 

still, 


ALASTOR 


3» 


When,  to  the  moonlight  walk  by  Henry  led, 
Sweetly  and  sadly  thou  didst  talk  of  death  ? 
And  wilt  thou  rudely  tear  them  from  thy 

breast, 
Listening  supinely  to  a  bigot's  creed, 
Or  tamely  crouching  to  the  tyrant's  rod, 
Whose  iron   thongs  are  red  with   human 

gore  ? 
Never  :  but  bravely  bearing  on,  thy  will 
Is  destined  an  eternal  war  to  wage  190 

With  tyranny  and  falsehood,  and  uproot 
The  germs  of  misery  from  the  human  heart. 
Thine  is  the  hand  whose  piety  would  soothe 
The  thorny  pillow  of  unhappy  crime, 
Whose  impotence  an  easy  pardon  gains. 
Watching  its  wanderings  as  a  friend's  dis- 
ease ; 
Thine  is  the  brow  whose  mildness  would 

defy 
Its   fiercest  rage,   and  brave   its  sternest 

will. 
When  fenced  by  power  and  master  of  the 

world. 
Thou  art  sincere   and  good  ;  of  resolute 
mind,  200 

Free  from  heart-withering  custom's  cold 

control. 
Of  passion  lofty,  pure  and  unsubdiied. 
Earth's  pride  and  meanness  could  not  van- 
quish thee. 
And  therefore  art  thou  worthy  of  the  boon 
Which  thou  hast  now  received;  virtue  shall 

keep 
Thy  footsteps  in  the  path  that  thou  hast 

trod. 
And  many  days  of  beaming  hope  shall  bless 
Thy  spotless  life  of  sweet  and  sacred  love. 
Go,  happy  one,  and  give  that  bosom  joy, 
Whose  sleepless  spirit  waits  to  catch    210 
Light,  life  and  rapture  from  thy  smile  ! ' 


The  Fairy  waves  her  wand  of  charm. 
Speechless  with  bliss  the  Spirit  mounts  the 
car. 
That  rolled  beside  the  battlement. 
Bending  her  beamy  eyes  in  thankfulness. 
Again  the  enchanted  steeds  were  yoked ; 
Again  the  burning  wheels  inflame 
The  steep  descent  of  heaven's  untrodden 
way. 
Fast  and  far  the  chariot  flew; 
The  vast  and  fiery  globes  that  rolled    220 
Around  the  Fairy's  palace-gate 
Lessened  by   slow  degrees,  and  soon  ap- 
peared 
Such  tiny  twinklers  as  the  planet  orbs 
That  there  attendant  on  the  solar  power 
With  borrowed  light  pursued  their  nar- 
rower way. 

Earth  floated  then  below; 
The  chariot  paused  a  moment  there; 
The  Spirit  then  descended; 
The  restless  coursers  pawed  the  ungenial 

soil. 
Snuffed  the  gross  air,  and  then,  their  errand 
done,  250 

Unfurled    their    pinions  to  the   winds   of 
heaven. 

The  Body  and  the  Soul  united  then, 
A  gentle  start  convulsed  lanthe's  frame; 
Her  veiny  eyelids  quietly  unclosed; 
Moveless   awhile   the   dark  blue  orbs  re- 
mained. 
She  looked  around  in  wonder,  and  beheld 
Henry,  who  kneeled  in  silence  by  her  couch, 
Watching  her  sleep  with  looks  of  speech- 
less love, 
And  the  bright  beaming  stars 
That  through  the  casement  shone.    240 


ALASTOR 

OR 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  SOLITUDE 

Nondum  atnabam,  et  amare  amabam, 
quxrebam  quid  amarem,  amans  amare. 

Coftfesi.  St,  August. 


Alastor  was  published  nearly  three  years 
after  the  issue  of  Queen  Mab,  in  1816,  in  a  thin 
volume  with  a  few  other  poems.  It  is  strongly 
opposed  to  the  earlier  poem,  and  begins  that 
series  of  ideal  portraits,  -^  in  the  main,  incar- 


nations of  Shelley's  own  aspiring  and  melan> 
cholj'  spirit,  —  which  contain  his  personal  charm 
and  shadow  forth  his  own  history  of  isolation 
in  the  world ;  they  are  interpretations  of  the 
hero  rather  than  pronunciamentos  of  the  cause. 


32 


ALASTOR 


aud  are  free  from  the  entanglements  of  politi- 
cal and  social  reform  and  religfious  strife.  The 
poetical  antecedents  of  Alastor  are  Wordsworth 
and  Coleridg-e.  The  deepening  of  the  poet's  self- 
consciousness  is  evident  in  every  line,  and  the 
growth  of  his  genius  in  grace  and  strength,  in 
the  element  of  expression,  is  so  marked  as  to  give 
a  different  cadence  to  his  verse.  He  composed 
the  poem  in  the  autumn  of  1815,  when  he  was 
twenty-three  years  old  and  after  the  earlier 
misfortunes  of  his  life  had  befallen  him.  Mrs. 
Shelley's  account  of  the  poem  is  the  best,  and 
nothing  has  since  been  added  to  it : 

'  Alastor  is  written  in  a  very  different  tone 
from  Queen  Mab.  In  the  latter,  Shelley  poured 
out  all  the  cherished  speculations  of  his  youth 
—  all  the  irrepressible  emotions  of  sympathy, 
censure,  and  hope,  to  which  the  present  suffer- 
ing, and  what  he  considers  the  proper  destiny 
of  his  fellow  -  creatures,  gave  birth.  Alastor, 
on  the  contrary,  contains  an  individual  interest 
only.  A  very  few  years,  with  their  attendant 
events,  had  checked  the  ardor  of  Shelley's 
hopes,  though  he  still  thought  them  well- 
grounded,  and  that  to  advance  their  fulfilment 
was  the  noblest  task  man  could  achieve. 

'  This  is  neither  the  time  nor  place  to  speak 
of  the  misfortunes  that  checkered  his  life.  It 
will  be  sufficient  to  say,  that  in  all  he  did,  he 
at  the  time  of  doing  it  believed  himself  justi- 
fied to  his  own  conscience  ;  while  the  various 
ills  of  poverty  and  loss  of  friends  brought  home 
to  him  the  sad  realities  of  life.  Physical  suf- 
fering had  also  considerable  influence  in  caus- 
ing him  to  turn  his  eyes  inward  ;  inclining  him 
rather  to  brood  over  the  thoughts  and  emotions 
of  his  own  soul,  than  to  glance  abroad,  and  to 
make,  as  in  Queen  Mab.  the  whole  universe  the 
object  and  subject  of  his  song.  In  the  spring 
of  181-5,  an  eminent  physician  pronounced  that 
he  was  dying  rapidly  of  a  consumption ;  ab- 
scesses were  foi-med  on  his  lungfs,  and  he  suf- 
fered acute  spasms.  Suddenly  a  complete 
change  took  place  ;  and  though  through  life  he 
was  a  martyr  to  pain  and  debility,  every  symp- 
tom of  pulmonary  disease  vanished.  His  nerves, 
which  nature  had  formed  sensitive  to  an  unex- 
ampled degree,  were  rendered  still  more  suscep- 
tible by  the  state  of  his  health. 

'  As  soon  as  the  peace  of  1814  had  opened 
the  Continent,  he  went  abroad.  He  visited 
some  of  the  more  magnificent  scenes  of  Swit- 
zerland, and  returned  to  England  from  Lucerne 
by  the  Reuss  and  the  Rhine.  This  river-navi- 
gation enchanted  him.  In  his  favorite  poem 
of  Thalaba  his  imagination  had  been  excited 
by  a  description  of  such  a  voyage.  In  the 
summer  of  1815,  after  a  tour  along  the  south- 
ern coast  of  Devonshire  and  a  visit  to  Clifton, 
he  rented  a  house  on  Bishopgate  Heath,  on  the 
borders  of  Windsor  Forest,  'where  he  enjoyed 


several  months  of  comparative  health  and  tran- 
quil happiness.  The  later  summer  months 
were  warm  and  dry.  Accompanied  by  a  few 
friends,  he  visited  the  source  of  the  Thames, 
making  a  voyage  in  a  wherry  from  Windsor  to 
Crichlade.  His  beautiful  stanzas  in  the  church- 
yard of  Leclilade  were  written  on  that  occa- 
sion. Alastor  was  composed  on  his  return.  He 
spent  his  days  under  the  oak-shades  of  Wind- 
sor Great  Park  ;  and  the  magnificent  woodland 
was  a  fitting  study  to  inspire  the  various  de- 
scriptions of  forest  scenery  we  find  in  the 
poem. 

'  None  of  Shelley's  poems  is  more  character- 
istic than  this.  The  solenm  spirit  that  reig^ 
throughout,  the  worship  of  the  majesty  of 
nature,  the  brooding-s  of  a  poet's  heart  in  soli- 
tude—  the  mingling  of  the  exulting  joy  which 
the  various  aspect  of  the  visible  universe  in- 
spires, with  the  sad  and  struggling  pang^  which 
human  passion  imparts,  give  a  touching  interest 
to  the  whole.  The  death  which  he  had  often 
contemplated  during  the  last  months  as  certain 
and  near,  he  here  represented  in  such  colors  as 
had,  in  his  lonely  musings,  soothed  his  soul  to 
peace.  The  versification  sustains  the  solemn 
spirit  which  breathes  throughout :  it  is  pecu- 
liarly melodious.  The  poem  ought  rather  to 
be  considered  didactic  than  narrative :  it  was 
the  outpouring  of  his  own  emotions,  embodied 
in  the  purest  form  he  could  conceive,  painted 
in  the  ideal  hues  which  his  brilliant  imagina- 
tion inspired,  and  softened  by  the  recent  antici- 
pation of  death.' 

Peacock  explains  the  title :  '  At  this  time 
Shelley  wrote  his  Alastor.  He  was  at  a  loss 
for  a  title,  and  I  proposed  that  which  he 
adopted :  Alastor ;  or,  the  Spirit  of  Solitude. 
The  Greek  word,  ^AKdaraip,  is  an  evil  genius, 
KaKoSalfiuv,  though  the  sense  of  the  two  words 
is  somewhat  different,  as  in  the  ♦ov«ls  ^AXdarup 
■fj  KaKos  Sal/xuv  irodtv  of  ^schylus.  The  poem 
treated  the  spirit  of  solitude  as  a  spirit  of  evil. 
I  mention  the  true  meaning  of  the  word  because 
many  have  supposed  Alastor  to  be  the  name  of 
the  hero  of  the  poem.' 

In  his  Preface  Shelley  thus  describes  the  main 
character,  and  draws  its  moral : 

'  The  poem  entitled  Alastor  may  be  con- 
sidered as  allegorical  of  one  of  the  most  inter- 
esting situations  of  the  human  mind.  It  re- 
presents a  youth  of  uncorrupted  feelings  and 
adventurous  genius  led  forth  by  an  imagination 
inflamed  and  purified  through  familiarity  with 
all  that  is  excellent  and  majestic  to  the  con- 
templation of  the  universe.  He  drinks  deep 
of  the  fountains  of  knowledge  and  is  still  in- 
satiate. The  magnificence  and  beauty  of  the 
external  world  sinks  profoundly  into  the  frame 
of  his  conceptions  and  affords  to  their  modifi- 
cations a  variety  not  to  be  exhausted.    So  long 


ALASTOR 


33 


as  it  is  possible  for  his  desires  to  point  towards 
objects  thus  infinite  and  unmeasured,  he  is 
joyous  and  tranquil  and  self-possessed.  But 
the  period  arrives  when  these  objects  cease 
to  suffice.  His  mind  is  at  length  suddenly 
awakened  and  thirsts  for  intercourse  with  an 
intelligence  similar  to  itself.  He  images  to 
himself  the  Being  whom  he  loves.  Conversant 
with  speculations  of  the  sublimest  and  most 
perfect  natures,  the  vision  in  which  he  em- 
bodies his  own  imaginations  unites  all  of  won- 
derful or  wise  or  beautiful,  which  the  poet, 
the  philosopher  or  the  lover  could  depicture. 
The  intellectual  faculties,  the  imagination, 
the  functions  of  sense  have  their  respective  re- 
quisitions on  the  sympathy  of  corresponding 
powers  in  other  human  beings.  The  Poet  is 
represented  as  uniting  these  requisitions  and 
attaching  them  to  a  single  image.  He  seeks 
in  vain  for  a  prototype  of  his  conception. 
Blasted  by  his  disappointment,  he  descends  to 
an  untimely  grave. 

'  The  picture  is  not  barren  of  instruction  to 
actual  men.  The  Poet's  self-centred  seclusion 
was  avenged  by  the  furies  of  an  irresistible 
passion  pursuing  him  to  speedy  ruin.  But  that 
Power,  which  strikes  the  luminaries  of  the 
world  with  sudden  darkness  and  extinction  by 
awakening  them  to  too  exquisite  a  perception 
of  its  influences,  dooms  to  a  slow  and  poisonous 
decay  those  meaner  spirits  that  dare  to  abjure 


its  dominion.  Their  destiny  is  more  abject 
and  inglorious  as  their  delinquency  is  more 
contemptible  and  pernicious.  They  who,  de- 
luded by  no  generous  error,  instigated  by  no 
sacred  thirst  of  doubtful  knowledge,  duped  by 
no  illustrious  superstition,  loving  nothing  on 
this  earth,  and  cherishing  no  hopes  beyond, 
yet  keep  aloof  from  sympathies  with  their  kind, 
rejoicing  neither  in  human  joy  nor  mourning 
with  human  grief ;  these,  and  such  as  they, 
have  their  apportioned  curse.  Tliey  languish, 
because  none  feel  with  them  their  common 
nature.  They  are  morally  dead.  They  are 
neither  friends,  nor  lovers,  nor  fathers,  nor 
citizens  of  the  world,  nor  benefactors  of  their 
country.  Among  those  who  attempt  to  exist 
without  human  sympathy,  the  pure  and  tender- 
hearted perish  through  the  intensity  and  pas- 
sion of  their  search  after  its  communities,  wlien 
the  vacancy  of  their  spirit  suddenly  makes 
itself  felt.  AU  else,  selfish,  blind  and  torpid, 
are  those  unforeseeing  multitudes  who  con- 
stitute, together  with  their  own,  the  lasting 
misery  and  loneliness  of  the  world.  Those  who 
love  not  their  fellow-beings  live  unfruitful 
lives  and  prepare  for  their  old  age  a  miserable 
grave. 

'  The  good  die  first, 
And  those  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 
Burn  to  the  socket  1 

*  December  li,  1815.' 


Earth,  Ocean,  Air,  beloved  brotherhood! 
If  our  great  Mother  has  imbued  my  soul 
With  aught  of  natural  piety  to  feel 
Your  love,  and  recompense  the  boon  with 

mine; 
If  dewy  morn,  and  odorous  noon,  and  even, 
With  sunset  and  its  gorgeous  ministers, 
And    solemn    midnight's    tingling    silent- 

ness; 
If  Autumn's  hollow  sighs  in  the  sere  wood. 
And  Winter  robing   with  pure   snow  and 

crowns 
Of  starry   ice   the   gray    grass   and   bare 
boughs ;  lo 

If  Spring's  voluptuous  pantings  when  she 

breathes 
Her  first  sweet  kisses,  —  have  been  dear  to 

me; 
If  no  bright  bird,  insect,  or  gentle  beast 
I  conscioisly  have  injured,  but  still  loved 
And  cherished  these  my  kindred;  then  for- 
give 
This   boast,  belovM   brethren,    and   with- 
draw 
No  portion  of  your  wonted  favor  nowP 


Mother  of  this  unfathomable  world! 
Favor  my  solemn  song,  for  I  have  loved  ig 
Thee  ever,  and  thee  only;  I  have  watched 
Thy  shadow,  and  the  darkness  oi  thy  steps, 
And  my  heart  ever  gazes  on  the  depth 
Of  thy  deep  mysteries.     I  have  made  my 

bed 
In  charnels   and   on  coffins,   where   black 

death 
Keeps  record  of   the   trophies    won   from 

thee. 
Hoping  to  still  these  obstinate  questionings 
Of   thee   and  thine,  by  forcing  some  lone 

ghost, 
Thy  messenger,  to  render  up  the  tale 
Of  what  we  are.     In  lone  and  silent  hours. 
When   night  makes  a  weird  sound  of  its 

own  stillness,  30 

Like  an  inspired  and  desperate  alchemist 
Staking  his  very  life  on  some  dark  hope. 
Have  I  mixed  awful  talk  and  asking  looks 
With  my  most  innocent  love,  until  strange 

tears. 
Uniting  with  those  breathless  kisses,  made 
Such  magic  as  compels  the  charmed  night 


34 


ALASTOR 


To    render  up    thy   charge;  aud,   though 

ne'er  yet 
Thou  hast  unveiled  thy  inmost  sanctuary, 
Enough  from  incommunicable  dream, 
And  twilight  phantasms,  and  deep  noonday 

thought,  40 

Has  shone  within  me,  that  serenely  now 
And  moveless,  as  a  long-forgotten  lyre 
Suspended  in  the  solitary  dome 
Of  some  mysterious  and  deserted  fane, 
I  wait  thy  breath,  Great  Parent,  that  my 

strain 
May  modulate  with  murmurs  of  the  air, 
And  motions  of  the  forests  and  the  sea. 
And  voice   of    living   beings,   aud   woven 

hymns 
Of  night  and  day,  and  the  deep  heart  of 

man.  49 

There  was  a  Poet  whose  untimely  tomb 

No  human  hands  with  pious  reverence 
reared. 

But  the  charmed  eddies  of  autumnal  winds 

Built  o'er  his  mouldering  bones  a  pyra- 
mid 

Of  mouldering  leaves  in  the  waste  wilder- 
ness : 

A  lovely  youth,  —  no  mourning  maiden 
decked 

With  weeping  flowers,  or  votive  cypress 
wreath, 

The  lone  couch  of  his  everlasting  sleep  : 

Gentle,  and  brave,  and  generous,  —  no  lorn 
bard 

Breathed  o'er  his  dark  fate  one  melodious 
sigh  : 

He  lived,  he  died,  he  song  in  solitude.       60 

Strangers  have  wept  to  hear  his  passionate 
notes. 

And  virgins,  as  unknown  he  passed,  have 
pined 

And  wasted  for  fond  love  of  his  wild  eyes. 

The  fire  of  those  soft  orbs  has  ceased  to 
burn, 

And  Silence,  too  enamoured  of  that  voice, 

Locks  its  mute  musio  in  her  rugged  cell. 

By  solemn  vision  and  bright  silver  dream 
His  infancy  was  nurtured.     Every  sight 
And  sound  from  the  vast  earth  and  ambient 

air 
Sent  to  his  heart  its  choicest  impulses.      70 
The  fountains  of  divine  philosophy 
Fled  not  his  thirsting  lips,  and  all  of  great, 
Or  good,  or  lovely,  which  the  sacred  past 


In  truth  or  fable  consecrates,  he  felt 

And  knew.    When  early  youth  had  passed, 

he  left 
His  cold  fireside  and  alienated  home 
To   seek   strange    truths    in   undiscovered 

lands. 
Many  a  wide  waste  and  tangled  wilder- 
ness 
Has  lured  his  fearless  steps;  and  he  has 

bought 
With  his  sweet  voice  and  eyes,  from  savage 
men,  80 

His  rest  aud  food.     Nature's  most  secret 

steps 
He  like  her  shadow  has  pursued,  where'er 
The  red  volcano  overcanopies 
Its  fields  of  snow  and  pinnacles  of  ice 
With   burning  smoke,   or  where   bitumen 

lakes 
On  black  bare  pointed  islets  ever  beat 
With  sluggish  surge,  or  where  the  secret 

caves. 
Rugged    and    dark,  winding    among   the 

springs 
Of  fire  and  poison,  inaccessible 
To  avarice  or  pride,  their  starry  domes     90 
Of  diamond  and  of  gold  expand  above 
Numberless  and  immeasurable  halls, 
Frequent  with  crystal  column,   aud  clear 

shrines 
Of  pearl,  and  thrones  radiant  with  chryso- 
lite. 
Nor  had  that  scene  of  ampler  majesty 
Than  gems  or  gold,   the    varying  roof  of 

heaven 
And  the  green  earth,  lost  in  his  heart  its 

claims 
To  love  and  wonder;  he  would  linger  long 
In   lonesome   vales,  making   the  wild   his 

home, 
Until  the  doves  and  squirrels  would  par- 
take 100 
From  his  innocuous  hand  his  bloodless  food. 
Lured  by  the  gentle  meaning  of  his  looks, 
And  the  wild  antelope,  that  starts  when- 
e'er 
The  dry  leaf  rustles  in  tlie  brake,  suspend 
Her  timid  steps,  to  gaze  upon  a  form 
More  graceful  than  her  own. 

His  wandering  step, 
Obedient  to  high  thoughts,  has  visited 
The  awful  ruins  of  the  days  of  old  : 
Athens,   and  Tyre,   aud   Balbec,  and   the 
waste  109 


ALASTOR 


35 


Where  stood  Jerusalem,  the  fallen  towers 
Of  Babylou,  the  eternal  pyramids, 
Memphis   and  Thebes,  and   whatsoe'er  of 

strange, 
Sculptured  on  alabaster  obelisk 
Or  jasper  tomb  or  mutilated  sphin^C, 
Dark  ^Ethiopia  in  her  desert  hills 
Conceals.       Among     the    ruined    temples 

there, 
Stupendous  columns,  and  wild  images 
Of  more  tlian  man,  where  marble  daemons 

watch 
The   Zodiac's   brazen  mystery,   and  dead 

men 
Hang  their  mute   thoughts  on  the   mute 

walls  around,  120 

He  lingered,  poring  on  memorials 
Of   the    world's   youth:  through  the   long 

burning  day 
Gazed   on   those   speechless    shapes;    nor, 

when  the  moon 
Filled  the   mysterious  halls  with  floating 

shades 
Suspended  he  that  task,  but  ever  gazed 
And    gazed,  till    meaning   on   his   vacant 

mind 
Flashed  like  strong  inspiration,  and  he  saw 
The  thrilling  secrets  of  the  birth  of  time. 

Meanwhile  an  Arab  maiden  brought  his 
food,  129 

Her  daily  portion,  from  her  father's  tent, 
And  spread  her  matting  for  his  couch,  and 

stole 
From  duties  and  repose  to  tend  his  steps. 
Enamoured,  yet  not  daring  for  deep  awe 
To  speak  her  love,  and  watched  his  nightly 

sleep. 
Sleepless  herself,  to  gaze  upon  his  lips 
Parted    in    slumber,   whence   the    regular 

breath 
Of  innocent  dreams  arose;  then,  when  red 

morn 
Made   paler  the   pale   moon,  to   her  cold 

home 
Wildered,  and  wan,  and  panting,  she  re- 
turned. 

The   Poet,  wandering  on,  through  Ara- 
bic, 140 
And  Persia,  and  the  wild  Carmanian  waste. 
And  o'er  tlie  aerial  mountains  which  pour 

down 
Indus  and  Oxus  from  their  icy  caves, 
In  joy  and  exultation  held  his  way; 


Till  in  the  vale  of  Cashmire,  far  within 
Its  loneliest  dell,  where  odorous  plants  en* 

twine 
Beneath  the  hollow  rocks  a  natural  bower, 
Beside  a  sparkling  rivulet  he  stretched 
His  languid  limbs.     A  vision  on  his  sleep 
There  came,  a  dream  of  hopes  that  never 

yet  _  15a 

Had   flushed  his  cheek.     He   dreamed  a 

veiled  maid 
Sate  near  him,  talking  in  low  solemn  tones. 
Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  of  his  own 

soul 
Heard  in   the  calm  of  thought;  its  music 

long, 
Like  woven  sounds  of  streams  and  breezes, 

held 
His  inmost  sense  suspended  in  its  web 
Of  many-colored  woof  and  shifting  hues. 
Knowledge  and  truth  and  virtue  were  her 

theme. 
And  lofty  hopes  of  divine  liberty,  159 

Thoughts  the  most  dear  to  him,  and  poesy. 
Herself  a  poet.     Soon  the  solemn  mood 
Of  her  pure  mind  kindled  through  all  her 

frame 
A  permeating  fire;  wild  numbers  then 
She  raised,  with  voice  stifled  in  tremulous 

sobs 
Subdued  by  its  own  pathos;  her  fair  hands 
Were   bare    alone,   sweeping    from    some 

strange  harp 
Strange  symphony,  and  in  their  branching 

veins 
The  eloquent  blood  told  an  inefPable  tale. 
The  beating  of  her  heart  was  heard  to  fill 
The  pauses  of  her  music,  and  her  breath 
Tumultuously  accorded  with  those  fits     171 
Of  intermitted  song.     Sudden  she  rose, 
As  if  her  heart  impatiently  endured 
Its  bursting  burden ;  at  the  sound  he  turned, 
And  saw  by  the  warm  light  of  their  own 

life 
Her  glowing  limbs  beneath  the  sinuous  veil 
Of  woven  wind,  her  outspread  arms  now 

bare, 
Her  dark  locks  floating  in  the  breath  of 

night. 
Her  beamy  bending  eyes,  her  parted  lips 
Outstretched,    and    pale,    and     quivering 

eagerly.  18a 

His  strong  heart  sunk  and  sickened  vrith 

excess 
Of  love.     He  reared  his  shuddering  limbs, 

and  quelled 


36 


ALASTOR 


Hb  gasping  breath,  and  spread  bis  arms  to 

lueet 
Her    panting    bosom  :  —  she    drew    back 

awhile, 
Then,  yielding  to  the  irresistible  joy, 
With  frantic  gesture  and  short  breathless 

cry 
Folded  his  frame  in  her  dissolving  arms. 
Now  blackness  veiled  his  dizzy  eyes,  and 

night 
Involved    and    swallowed   up   the   vision; 

sleep,  189 

Like  a  dark  flood  suspended  in  its  course. 
Rolled  back  its  impulse  on  his  vacant  brain. 

Boused  by  the  shock,  he  started  from  bis 

trance  — 
The  cold  white  light  of  morning,  the  blue 

moon 
Low  in  the  west,  the  clear  and  garish  hills, 
The  distinct  valley  and  the  vacant  woods, 
Spread  round  hiiu  where  he  stood.  Whither 

have  fled 
The   hues   of    heaven    that   canopied    his 

bower 
Of  yesternight  ?    The  sounds  that  soothed 

his  sleep, 
The  mystery  and  the  majesty  of  Earth, 
The  joy,  the  exultation  ?    His  wan  eyes   200 
Gaze  on  the  empty  scene  as  vacantly 
As   ocean's   moon  looks  on  the  moon  in 

heaven. 
The  spirit  of  sweet  human  love  has  sent 
A  vision  to  the  sleep  of  liim  who  spurned 
Her  choicest  gifts.     He  eagerly  pursues 
Beyond  the  realms  of  dream  that  fleeting 

shade ; 
He  overleaps  the  bounds.     Alas  !  alas  ! 
Were  limbs  and  breath  and  being  inter- 
twined 
Thus  treacherously  ?     Lost,   lost,   forever 

lost  309 

In  the  wide  pathless  desert  of  dim  sleep. 
That  beautiful  shape  !    Does  the  dark  gate 

of  death 
Conduct  to  thy  mysterious  paradise, 
O  Sleep  ?     Does  the  bright  arch  of  rain- 
bow clouds 
And  pendent  mountains  seen  in  the  calm 

lake 
Lead  only  to  a  black  and  watery  depth, 
While   death's   blue  vault  with   loathliest 

vapors  hung, 
Where  every  shade  which  the  foul  grave 
ezhales 


Hides  its  dead  eye  from  the  detested  day, 
Conducts,  O  Sleep,  to  thy  delightful  realms? 
This  doubt  with  sudden  tide  flowed  on  his 

heart;  220 

The    insatiate   hope   which    it    awakened 

stung 
His  brain  even  like  despair. 

While  daylight  held 
The  skj",  the  Poet  kept  mute  conference 
With  his  still  soul.     At  night  the  passion 

came. 
Like    the   fierce   fiend  of   a  distempered 

dream. 
And  shook  him  from  his  rest,  and  led  him 

forth 
Into  the  darkness.     As  an  eagle,  grasped 
In  folds  of  the  green  serpent,   feels  her 

breast 
Burn  with  the  poison,  and  precipitates 
Through  night  and  day,  tempest,  and  calm, 

and  cloud,  230 

Frantic  with  dizzying  anguish,  her  blind 

flight 
O'er  the  wide  aery  wilderness:  thus  driven 
By  the  bright  shadow  of  that  lovely  dream. 
Beneath    the   cold   glare  of   the   desolate 

night. 
Through  tangled  swamps  and  deep  preci- 
pitous dells. 
Startling  with  careless  step  the  moon-light 

snake. 
He  fled.     Red  morning  dawned  upon  his 

flight. 
Shedding  the  mockery  of  its  vital  hues  . 
Upon  his  cheek  of  death.     He   wandered 

on  239 

Till  vast  Aornos  seen  from  Petra's  steep 
Hung  o'er  the  low  horizon  like  a  cloud; 
Through  Balk,  and  where   the   desolated 

tombs 
Of  Parthian  kings  scatter  to  every  wind 
Their  wasting  dust,  wildly  he  wandered  on, 
Day  after  day,  a  weary  waste  of  hours. 
Bearing  within  his  life  the  brooding  care 
That  ever  fed  on  its  decaying  flame. 
And  now  his  limbs  were  lean;  his  scattered 

hair, 
Sered  by  the  autumn  of  strange  suffering, 
Sung  dirges  in  the  wind;  his  listlf>ss  liand 
Hung  like  dead  bone  within  its  withered 

skin;  251 

Life,   and    the    lustre    that  consumed    it, 

shone. 
As  in  a  furnace  burning  secretly, 


ALASTOR 


37 


From  his  dark  eyes  alone.     The  cottagers, 

Who  ministered  with  human  charity 

His  human  wants,  beheld  with  wondering 

awe 
Their  fleeting  visitant.     The  mountaineer, 
Encountering  on  some  dizzy  precipice 
That  spectral  form,  deemed  that  the  Spirit 

of  Wind, 
With  lightning  eyes,  and  eager  breath,  and 

feet  260 

Disturbing  not  the  drifted  snow,  had  paused 
In  its  career;  the  infant  would  conceal 
His  troubled  visage  in  his  mother's  robe 
In  terror  at  the  glare  of  those  wild  eyes. 
To  remember  their  strange  light  in  many  a 

dream 
Of   after   times  ;    but    youthful    maidens, 

taught 
By  nature,  would  interpret  half  the  woe 
That  wasted  him,  would  call  him  with  false 

names 
Brother  and  friend,  would  press  his  pallid 

hand 
At  parting,  and  watch,  dim  through  tears, 

the  path  270 

Of  his  departure  from  their  father's  door. 

At  length  upon  the  lone  Chorasmian  shore 
He  paused,  a  wide  and  melancholy  waste 
Of  putrid  marshes.  A  strong  impulse  urged 
His  steps  to  the  sea-sliore.     A  swan  was 

there. 
Beside  a  sluggish  stream  among  the  reeds. 
It  rose  as  he  approached,  and,  with  strong 

wings 
Scaling   the  upward  sky,   bent  its   bright 

course 
High  over  the  immeasurable  main. 
His  eyes  pursued  its  flight:  — '  Thou  hast  a 

home,  280 

Beautiful   bird  !    thou   voyagest   to   thine 

home. 
Where  thy  sweet  mate  will  twine  her  downy 

neck 
With  thine,  and  welcome  thy  return  with 

eyes 
Bright  in  the  lustre  of  their  own  fond  joy. 
And  what  am  I  that  I  should  linger  here. 
With   voice    far   sweeter   than   thy  dying 

notes. 
Spirit  more  vast  than  thine,  frame  more 

attuned 
To  beauty,  wasting  these  surpassing  powers 
In   the   deaf  air,  to  the  blind  earth,  and 

heaven 


That  echoes  not  my  thoughts  ?  '    A  gloomy 

smile  29c 

Of  desperate  hope  wrinkled  his  quivering 

lips. 
For  sleep,  he  knew,  kept  most  relentlessly 
Its  precious  charge,  and  silent  death  ex- 
posed. 
Faithless  perhaps  as  sleep,  a  shadowy  lure. 
With  doubtful  smile  mocking  its  own 
strange  charms. 

Startled  by  his  own  thoughts,  he  looked 

around. 
There  was  no  fair  fiend  near  him,  not  a 

sight 
Or  sound  of  awe  but  in  his  own  deep  mind. 
A  little  shallop  floating  near  the  shore 
Caught    the    impatient   wandering   of    his 

gaze.  300 

It  had  been  long  abandoned,  for  its  sides 
Gaped  wide  with  many  a  rift,  and  its  frail 

joints 
Swayed  with  the  undulations  of  the  tide. 
A  restless  impulse  urged  him  to  embark 
And  meet  lone  Death  on  the  drear  ocean's 

waste ; 
For   well   he   knew  that   mighty  Shadow 

loves 
The  slimy  caverns  of  the  populous  deep. 

The  day  was  fair  and  sunny;  sea  and  sky 
Drank  its  inspiring  radiance,  and  the  wind 
Swept  strongly  from  the  shore,  blackening 

the  waves.  310 

Following  his  eager  soul,  the  wanderer 
Leaped  in  the  boat  ;  he  spread  his  cloak 

aloft 
On  the  bare  mast,  and  took  his  lonely  seat, 
And  felt  the  boat  speed  o'er  the  tranquil 

sea 
Like  a  torn  cloud  before  the  hurricane. 

As  one  that  in  a  silver  vision  floats 
Obedient  to  the  sweep  of  odorous  winds 
Upon  resplendent  clouds,  so  rapidly 
Along  the  dark  and  ruffled  waters  fled 
The  straining  boat.     A  whirlwind  swept  it 

on,  320 

With  fierce  gusts  and  precipitating  force, 
Through  the  white  ridges  of  the  chafed  sea. 
The  waves  arose.     Higher  and  higher  still 
Their    fierce   necks    writhed   beneath   the 

tempest's  scourge 
Like    serpents    struggling   in  a  vulture's 

grasp. 


38 


ALASTOR 


Calm  and  rejoicing  in  the  fearful  war 

Of  wave  ruining  on  wave,  and  blast  on  blast 

Descending,  and  black  flood  on  whirlpool 

driven 
With  dark  obliterating  course,  he  sate: 
As  if  their  genii  were  the  ministers  330 

Appointed  to  conduct  him  to  the  light 
Of  those  beloved  eyes,  the  Poet  sate. 
Holding  the  steady  helm.     Evening  came 

on; 
The  beams  of  sunset  hung  their  rainbow 

hues 
High  'raid  the  shifting  domes  of  sheeted 

spray 
That  canopied  his  path  o'er  the  waste  deep; 
Twilight,  ascending  slowly  from  the  east, 
Entwined  in  duskier  wreaths  her  braided 

locks 
O'er  the  fair  front  and  radiant  eyes  of  Day; 
Night  followed,  clad  with  stars.     On  every 

side  340 

More  horribly  the  multitudinous  streams 
Of  ocean's  mountainous  waste  to  mutual 

war 
Kushed  in  dark  tumult  thundering,  as  to 

mock 
The  calm  and   spangled  sky.     The   little 

boat 
Still  6ed  before  the  storm;  still  fled,  like 

foam 
Down  the  steep  cataract  of  a  wintry  river; 
Now  pausing  on  the  edge  of  the  riven  wave; 
Now  leaving  far  behind  the  bursting  mass 
That  fell,  convulsing  ocean;  safely  fled  — 
As  if  that  frail  and  wasted  human  form  350 
Had  been  an  elemental  god. 

At  midnight 
The  moon  arose;  and  lo!  the  ethereal  cliffs 
Of  Caucasus,  whose  icy  summits  shone 
Among  the  stars  like  sunlight,  and  around 
Whose  caverned  base  the  whirlpools  and 

the  waves 
Bursting  and  eddying  irresistibly 
Rage  and   resound  forever.  —  Who  shall 

save  ?  — 
The    boat  fled   on,  —  the    boiling   torrent 

drove, — 
The  crags  closed  round  with  black  and 

jagged  arms,  359 

The  shattered  mountain  overhung  the  sea, 
And  faster  still,  beyond  all  human  speed. 
Suspended   on   the  sweep   of   the  smooth 

wave, 
The  little  boat  was  driven.    A  oavem  there 


Yawned,  and  amid  its  slant  and  winding 

depths 
Ingulfed  the  rushing  sea.    The  boat  fled  on 
With    unrelaxing    speed.  —  '  Vision    and 

Love  ! ' 
The  Poet  cried  aloud,  '  I  have  beheld 
The   path   of   thy    departure.     Sleep   and 

death 
Shall  not  divide  us  long.' 

The  boat  pursued 
The   windings   of  the   cavern.      Daylight 

shone  370 

At  length  upon  that  gloomy  river's  flow; 
Now,  where  the  fiercest  war  among   the 

waves 
Is  calm,  on  the  unfathomable  stream 
The  boat  moved  slowly.    Where  the  moun- 
tain, riven, 
Exposed  those  black  depths  to  the  azure 

sky. 
Ere  yet  the  flood's  enormous  volume  fell 
Even  to  the  base  of  Caucasus,  with  sound 
That  shook  the  everlasting  rocks,  the  mass 
Filled  with  one   whirlpool  all  that  ample 

chasm:  379 

Stair  above  stair  the  eddying  waters  rose, 
Circling  immeasurably  fast,  and  laved 
With  alternating  dash  the  gnarled  roots 
Of  mighty  trees,  that  stretched  their  giant 

arms 
In  darkness  over  it.     I'  the  midst  was  left, 
Reflecting  yet  distorting  every  cloud, 
A   pool    of   treacherous   and    tremendous 

calm. 
Seized  by  the  sway  of  the  ascending  stream, 
With  dizzy  swiftness,  round  and  round  and 

round, 
Ridge  after  ridge  the  straining  boat  arose, 
Till  on  the  verge  of  the  extremest  curve. 
Where  through  an  opening  of  the  rocky 

bank  391 

The  waters  overflow,  and  a  smooth  spot 
Of  glassy  quiet  'mid  those  battling  tides 
Is    left,    the   boat   paused   shuddering. — 

Shall  it  sink 
Down    the    abyss  ?     Shall    the    reverting 

stress 
Of  that  resistless  gulf  embosom  it  ? 
Now  shall  it  fall  ?  —  A  wandering  stream 

of  wind 
Breathed   from  the  west,  has  caught  the 

expanded  sail, 
And,  lo  !  with  gentle  motion  between  banks 
Of  mossy  slope,  and  on  a  placid  stream,  40c 


ALASTOR 


39 


Beneath  a  woven  grove,  it  sails,  and,  hark  ! 
The  ghastly  torrent  mingles  its  far  roar 
With  the  breeze  murmuring  in  the  musical 

woods. 
Where  the  embowering  trees  recede,  and 

leave 
A  little  space  of  green  expanse,  the  cove 
Is  closed  by  meeting  banks,  whose  yellow 

flowers 
Forever  gaze  on  their  own  drooping  eyes, 
Reflected  in  the  crystal  calm.     The  wave 
Of  the  boat's  motion  marred  their  pensive 

task. 
Which  naught  but  vagrant  bird,  or  wanton 

wiuf],  410 

Or  falling  spear-grass,  or  their  own  decay 
jlad    e'er    disturbed    before.     The    Poet 

longed 
To  deck  with  their  bright  hues  his  withered 

hair, 
But  on  his  heart  its  solitude  returned, 
And  he  forbore.     Not  the  strong  impulse 

hid 
In  those  flushed    cheeks,   bent  eyes,  and 

shadowy  frame. 
Had  yet  performed  its  ministry;  it  hung 
Upon  his  life,  as  lightning  in  a  cloud 
Gleams,  hovering  ere  it   vanish,  ere   the 

floods  419 

Of  night  close  over  it. 

The  noonday  sun 
Now  shone  upon  the  forest,  one  vast  mass 
Of  mingling  shade,  whose  brown  magnifi- 
cence 
A  narrow  vale   embosoms.     There,   huge 

caves. 
Scooped  in   the  dark  base   of   their  aery 

rocks, 
Mocking  its  moans,  respond  and  roar  for- 
ever. 
The  meeting  boughs  and  implicated  leaves 
Wove  twilight  o'er  the  Poet's  path,  as,  led 
By   love,   or  dream,  or  god,   or  mightier 

Death, 
He  sought  in  Nature's  dearest  haunt  some 
bank,  429 

Her  cradle  and  his  sepulchre.     More  dark 
And  dark  the  shades  accumulate.  The  oak. 
Expanding  its  immense  and  knotty  arms, 
Embraces  the  light  beech.     The  pyramids 
Of  the  tall  cedar  overarching  frame 
Most  solemn  domes  within,  and  far  below. 
Like  clouds  suspended  in  an  emerald  sky, 
The  ash  and  the  acacia  floating  hang 


Tremulous    and    pale.     Like   restless  ser- 
pents, clothed 
In  rainbow  and  in  fire,  the  parasites, 
Starred  with  ten  thousand  blossoms,  flow 

around  440 

The  gray  trunks,  and,  as  gamesome  infants' 

eyes. 
With  gentle  meanings,  and  most  innocent 

wiles, 
Fold  their  beams  round  the  hearts  of  those 

that  love. 
These  twine  their  tendrils  with  the  wedded 

boughs. 
Uniting  their  close  union;  the  woven  leaves 
Make  network  of  the  dark  blue  light  of  day 
And  the  night's  noontide  clearness,  mutable 
As  shapes  in  the  weird  clouds.     Soft  mossy 

lawns 
Beneath  these  canopies  extend  their  swells, 
Fragrant  with  perfumed  herbs,  and  eyed 

with  blooms  450 

Minute  yet  beautiful.     One  darkest  glen 
Sends  from  its  woods  of  musk-rose  twined 

with  jasmine 
A  soul-dissolving  odor  to  invite 
To  some  more  lovely  mystery.     Through 

the  dell 
Silence   and   Twilight    here,    twin-sisters, 

keep 
Their  noonday  watch,  and  sail  among  the 

shades. 
Like  vaporous  shapes  half-seen;  beyond,  a 

well. 
Dark,  gleaming,  and  of  most  translucent 

wave. 
Images  all  the  woven  boughs  above,        459 
And  each  depending  leaf,  and  every  speck 
Of  azure  sky  darting  between  their  chasms; 
Nor  aught  else  in  the  liquid  mirror  laves 
Its  portraiture,  but  some  inconstant  star. 
Between  one  foliaged  lattice  twinkling  fair, 
Or  painted  bird,  sleeping  beneath  the  moon, 
Or  gorgeous  insect  floating  motionless, 
Unconscious  of  the  day,  ere  yet  his  wings 
Have  spread  their  glories  to  the  gaze  of 

noon. 

Hither  the  Poet  came.     His  eyes  beheld 
Their  own  wan  light  through  the  reflected 

lines  470 

Of  his  thin  hair,  distinct  in  the  dark  depth 
Of  that  still  fountain;  as  the  human  heart, 
Gazing  in  dreams  over  the  gloomy  grave, 
Sees  its  own  treacherous  likeness  there.  He 

heard 


40 


ALASTOR 


The  motion  of  the  leaves  —  the  g^ass  that 

sprung 
Startled  and  glanced  and  trembled  even  to 

feel 
An  unaccustomed  presence  —  and  the  sound 
Of  the  sweet  brook  that  from  the  secret 

springs 
Of  that  dark    fountain    rose.      A   Spirit 

seemed 
To  stand  beside  him  —  clothed  in  no  bright 

robes  480 

Of  shadowy  silver  or  enshrining  light, 
Borrowed   from  aught  the   visible   world 

affords 
Of  grace,  or  majesty,  or  mystery; 
But  undulating  woods,  and  silent  well. 
And  leaping  rivulet,  and  evening  gloom 
Now  deepening  the  dark  shades,  for  speech 

assuming. 
Held  commune  with  him,  as  if  he  and  it 
Were  all  that  was;  only  —  when  his  regard 
Was  raised  by  intense  pensiveuess  —  two 

eyes, 
Two   starry   eyes,  hung   in   the   gloom  of 

thought,  490 

And  seemed  with  their  serene  and  azure 

smiles 
To  beckon  him. 

Obedient  to  the  light 
That  shone  within  his  soul,  he  went,  pur- 
suing 
The  windings  of  the  dell.     The  rivulet, 
Wanton  and  wild,  through  many  a  green 

ravine 
Beneath  the  forest  flowed.     Sometimes  it 

fell 
Among  the  moss  with  hollow  harmony 
Dark  and  profound.     Now  on  the  polished 

stones 
It  danced,  like  childhood  laughing  as  it 

went ; 
Then,  through  the  plain  in  tranquil  wan- 
derings crept,  500 
Reflecting  every  herb  and  drooping  bud 
Tliat  overlumg  its  quietness.  —  '  O  stream  ! 
Whose  source  is  inaccessibly  profound. 
Whither  do  thy  mysterious  waters  tend  ? 
Thou  imagest  my  life.   Thy  darksome  still- 
ness. 
Thy  dazzling  waves,  thy  loud  and  hollow 

gulfs, 
Thy  searchless  fountain  and  invisible  course. 
Have  each  their  type  in  me  ;  and  the  wide 
sky 


And  measureless  ocean  may  declare  as  soon 
What    oozy    cavern    or    what    wandering 

cloud  510 

Contains  thy  waters,  as  the  universe 
Tell  where   these   living  thoughts  reside, 

when  stretched 
Upon  thy  flowers  my  bloodless  limbs  shall 

waste 
I'  the  passing  wind  ! ' 

Beside  the  grassy  shore 
Of  the  small  stream  he  went ;  he  did  im- 
press 
On  the  green  moss  his  tremulous  step,  that 

caught 
Strong  shuddering  from  his  burning  limbs. 

As  one 
Roused  by  some  joyous  madness  from  the 

couch 
Of  fever,  he  did  move  ;  yet  not  like  him 
Forgetful  of  the  grave,  where,  when  the 

flame  520 

Of  his  frail  exultation  shall  be  spent, 
He  must  descend.     With  rapid  steps  he 

went 
Beneath  the  shade  of  trees,  beside  tlie  flow 
Of  the  wild  babbling  rivulet ;  and  now 
The  forest's  solemn  canopies  were  changed 
For  the  uniform  and  lightsome  evening  sky. 
Gray  rocks  did  peep  from  the  spare  moss, 

and  stemmed 
The  struggling  brook  ;  tall  spires  of  win- 

dlestrae 
Threw  their  thin  shadows  down  the  rugged 

slope, 
And  nought  but  gnarlfed  roots  of  ancient 

pines  530 

Branchless     and     blasted,    clenched    with 

gras])ing  roots 
The  unwilling  soil.    A  gradual  change  was 

here 
Yet  ghastly.    For,  as  fast  years  flow  away. 
The  smooth   brow  gathers,  and   the   hair 

grows  thin 
And  white,  and  where  irradiate  dewy  eyes 
Had  shone,  gleam  stony  orbs  :  —  so  from 

his  steps 
Briglit  flowers  departed,  and  the  beautiful 

shade 
Of  the  green  groves,  with  all  their  odorous 

winds 
And  musical  motions.     Calm  he  still  pur- 
sued 
The   stream,  that  with  a  larger  volume 

now  B4» 


ALASTOR 


41 


Rolled  through  the  labyrinthine  dell  ;  and 

there 
Fretted    a   path    through    its    descending 

curves 
With  its  wintry  speed.    On  every  side  now 

rose 
Rocks,  which,  in  unimaginable  forms. 
Lifted  their  black  and  barren  pinnacles 
In   the   light   of    evening,    and   its   preci- 
pice 
Obscuring  the  ravine,  disclosed  above, 
'Mid  toppling  stones,  black  gulfs  and  yawn- 
ing caves, 
Whose  windings  gave  ten  thousand  various 

tongues 
To  the  loud  stream.     Lo !  where  the  pass 

expands  550 

Its  stony  jaws,  the  abrupt  mountain  breaks. 
And  seems  with  its  accumulated  crags 
To  overhang  the  world  ;  for  wide  expand 
Beneath  the  wan  stars  and  descending  moon 
Islanded    seas,    blue     mountains,    mighty 

streams. 
Dim  tracts  and  vast,  robed  in  the  lustrous 

gloom 
Of  leaden-colored  even,  and  fiery  hills 
Mingling  their  flames  with  twilight,  on  the 

verge 
Of  the  remote  horizon.     The  near  scene. 
In  naked  and  severe  simplicity,  560 

Made  contrast  with  the  universe.     A  pine. 
Rock-rooted,  stretched  athwart  the  vacancy 
Its  swinging  boughs,  to  each  inconstant  blast 
Yielding  one  only  response  at  each  pause 
In  most  familiar  cadence,  with  the  howl, 
The   thunder   and    the    hiss    of    homeless 

streams 
Mingling  its  solemn  song,  whilst  the  broad 

river 
Foaming  and  hurrying  o'er  its  rugged  path, 
Fell  into  that  immeasurable  void. 
Scattering     its     waters     to     the     passing 

winds.  570 

Yet  the  gray  precipice  and  solemn  pine 
And  torrent  were  not  all;  —  one  silent  nook 
Was  there.    Even  on  the  edge  of  that  vast 

mountain. 
Upheld  by  knotty  roots  and  fallen  rocks. 
It  overlooked  iu  its  serenity 
The  dark  earth  and  the  bending  vault  of 

stars. 
It  was  a  tranquil  spot  that  seemed  to  smile 
Even  in  the  lap  of  horror.     Ivy  clasped 
The  fissured  stones  with  its  entwining  arms, 


And    did    embower    with    leaves    forever 

green  58a 

And   berries   dark   the   smooth  and   even 

space 
Of  its  iuviolated  floor  ;  and  here 
The  children  of   the  autumnal  whirlwind 

bore 
In  wanton  sport  those  bright  leaves  whose 

decay, 
Red,  yellow,  or  ethereally  pale, 
Rivals  the  pride  of  summer.    'T  is  the  haunt 
Of   every  gentle   wind   whose   breath  can 

teach 
The  wilds  to  love  tranquillity.     One  step, 
One  human  step  alone,  has  ever  broken 
The  stillness  of  its  solitude  ;  one  voice    590 
Alone  inspired  its  echoes  ;  —  even  that  voice 
Which   hither   came,  floating   among   the 

winds. 
And  led  the  loveliest  among  human  forms 
To  make  their  wild  haunts  the  depository 
Of  all  the  grace  and  beauty  tliat  endued 
Its  motions,  render  up  its  majesty, 
Scatter  its  music  on  the  unfeeling  storm. 
And  to  the  damp  leaves  and  blue  cavern 

mould. 
Nurses  of  rainbow  flowers  and  branching 

moss. 
Commit  the  colors  of  that  varying  cheek,  6co 
That  snowy  breast,  those  dark  and  droop- 
ing ej'es. 

The  dim  and  horned  moon  hnng  low,  and 

poured 
A  sea  of  lustre  on  the  horizon's  verge 
That    overflowed    its    mountains.     Yellow 

mist 
Filled    the    unbounded    atmosphere,    and 

drank 
Wan  moonlight  even  to  fulness  ;  not  a  star 
Shone,  not  a  sound  was  heard  ;   the  very 

winds, 
Danger's  grim  playmates,  on  that  precipice 
Slept,  clasped  in  his  embrace.  —  O  storm 

of  death. 
Whose  sightless  speed  divides  this  sullen 

night !  610 

And  thou,  colossal  Skeleton,  that,  still 
Guiding  its  irresistible  career 
In  thy  devastating  omnipotence, 
Art  king  of  this  frail  world  !  from  the  red 

field 
Of  slaughter,  from  the  reeking  hospital, 
The  patriot's  sacred  couch,  the  snowy  bed 
Of  innocence,  the  scaffold  and  the  tlu'one, 


42 


ALASTOR 


A  mighty  voice  iovokes  thee  !  Ruin  calls 
His  brother  Death  !  A  rare  and  regal  prey 
He   hath   prepared,   prowling   around   the 

world ;  620 

Glutted  with  which  thou  mayst  repose,  and 

men 
Gro  to  their  graves  like  flowers  or  creeping 

worms, 
Nor  ever  more  offer  at  thy  dark  shrine 
The  unheeded  tribute  of  a  broken  heart. 

When  on  the   threshold  of   the   green 

recess 
The  wanderer's  footsteps  fell,  he  knew  that 

death 
Was  on  him.     Yet  a  little,  ere  it  fled. 
Did  he  resign  his  high  and  holy  soul 
To  images  of  the  majestic  past,  629 

That  paused  within  his  passive  being  now. 
Like  winds   that  bear  sweet  music,   when 

they  breathe 
Through  some  dim  latticed  chamber.     He 

did  place 
His  pale  lean  hand  upon  the  rugged  trunk 
Of  the  old  pine;  upon  an  ivied  stone 
Reclined  his  languid  head;  his  limbs   did 

rest, 
Diffused   and   motionless,  on   the  smooth 

brink 
Of  that  obscurest  chasm;  —  and   thus  he 

lay. 
Surrendering  to  their  final  impulses 
The  hovering  powers   of  life.     Hope  and 

Despair, 
The   torturers,   slept;   no   mortal   pain   or 

fear  640 

Marred  his  repose ;  the  influxes  of  sense 
And  his  own  being,  unalloyed  by  pain. 
Yet  feebler  and  more  feeble,  calmly  fed 
The  stream  of  thought,  till  he  lay  breath- 
ing there 
At  peace,  and   faintly  smiling.     His  last 

sight 
Was  the  great  moon,  which  o'er  the  western 

line 
Of  the  wide  world  her  mighty  horn  sus- 
pended. 
With  whose  dun  beams  inwoven  darkness 

seemed 
To  mingle.     Now  npon  the  jagged  hills 
It  rests;  and  still  as  the  divided  frame    650 
Of  the  vast  meteor  sunk,  the  Poet's  blood. 
That  ever  beat  in  mystic  sympathy 
With  Nature's  ebb  and  flow,  grew  feebler 

still; 


And   when   two  lessening  points  of  ligh 

alone 
Gleamed  through  the  darkness,  the  altei 

nate  gasp 
Of  his  faint  respiration  scarce  did  stir 
The  stagnate  night :  —  till  the  minutest  ray 
Was  quenched,  the  pulse  yet  lingered  in 

his  heart. 
It   paused  —  it  fluttered.     But  when  hea- 
ven remained  659 
Utterly  black,  the  murky  shades  involved 
An  image  silent,  cold,  and  motionless. 
As  their  own  voiceless  earth  and  vacant 

air. 
Even  as  a  vapor  fed  with  golden  beams 
That  ministered  on  sunlight,  ere  the  west 
E^clipses  it,  was  now  that  wondrous  frame  — 
No  sense,  no  motion,  no  divinity  — 
A  fragile  lute,  on  whose  harmonious  strings 
The  breath  of  heaven  did  wander  —  a  bright 

stream 
Once    fed   with    many-voicfed   waves  —  a 

dream 
Of    youth,   which    night    and    time   have 

quenched  forever —  670 

Still,   dark,  and   dry,  and  unremembered 

now. 

Oh,  for  Medea's  wondrons  alchemy, 
Which  wheresoe'er  it  fell  made  the  earth 

gleam 
With  bright  flowers,  and  the  wintry  boughs 

exhale 
From  vernal  blooms  fresh  fragrance  !    Oh, 

that  God, 
Profuse    of    poisons,   would    concede   the 

chalice 
Which  but  one  living  man  has  drained,  whc 

now. 
Vessel  of  deathless  wrath,  a  slave  that  feelt 
No  proud  exemption  in  the  blighting  curse 
He  bears,  over  the  world  wanders  for- 
ever, 6S0 
Lone  as   incarnate  death  !     Oh,   that  the 

dream 
Of  dark  magician  in  his  visioned  cave, 
Raking  the  cinders  of  a  crucible 
For  life  and  power,  even  when  his  feeble 

hand 
Shakes  in  its  last  decay,  were  the  true  law 
Of  this  so  lovely  worlvi  !    But  thou  art  fled, 
Like  some  frail  exhalation,  which  the  dawn 
Robes  in   its    golden   beams,  —  ah  !    thou 

hast  fled  I 
The  brave,  the  gentle  and  the  beautiful, 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM:   INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 


43 


The  child  of  grace  and  genius.  Heartless 
things  690 

Are  done  and  said  i'  the  world,  and  many 
worms 

And  beasts  and  men  live  on,  and  mighty 
Earth 

From  sea  and  mountain,  city  and  wilder- 
ness. 

In  vesper  low  or  joyous  orison, 

Lifts  still  its  solemu  voice  :  —  but  thou  art 
fled  — 

Thou  canst  no  longer  know  or  love  the 
shapes 

Of  this  phantasmal  scene,  who  have  to  thee 

Been  purest  ministers,  who  are,  alas  ! 

Now  thou  art  not  !     Upon  those  pallid  lips 

So  sweet  even  in  their  silence,  on  those 
eyes  700 

That  image  sleep  in  death,  upon  that  form 

Yet  safe  from  the  worm's  outrage,  let  no 
tear 

Be  shed  —  not  even  in  thought.  Nor,  when 
those  hues 

Are  gone,  and  those  divinest  lineaments, 

Worn  by  the  senseless  wind,  shall  live  alone 


In  the  frail  pauses  of  this  simple  strain. 
Let  not  high  verse,  mourning  the  memory 
Of   that  wliich  is  no  more,  or   painting's 

woe 
Or  sculpture,  speak  in  feeble  imagery 
Their   own    cold   powers.     Art    and    elo- 
quence, 710 
And  all  the  shows  o'  the  world,  are  frail 

and  vain 
To  weep  a  loss  that  turns  their  lights  to 

shade. 
It   is  a  woe  "too  deep  for  tears,"  whei 

all 
Is   reft   at   once,   when    some    surpassing 

Spirit, 
Whose  light  adorned  the  world  around  it„ 

leaves 
Those   who    remain   behind,   not    sobs   or 

groans. 
The  passionate  tumult  of  a  clinging  hope; 
But  pale  despair  and  cold  tranquillity. 
Nature's  vast   frame,  the  web   of   human 

things. 
Birth  and  the  grave,  that  are  not  as  they 

were.  720 


THE   REVOLT   OF   ISLAM 


A  POEM 


IN  TWELVE  CANTOS 


02AI2  AE   BPOTON   E®N02  AFAAIAIS   AHTOMESeA, 

HEPAINEI  nP02  E2XAT0N 
HAOON-  NAY2I  A   OYTE  HEZOS  IliX  AN  EYP0I2 
E2  YHEPBOPEON  ArONA  ©AYMATAN  OAON. 

Pindar,  Pyth.  X. 


The.  Bevolt  of  Islam  is  a  return  to  the  social 
and  political  propaganda  of  Queen  Mab,  though 
the  narrative  element  is  stronger  and  the  ideal 
characterization  is  along  the  more  human  lines 
of  Alastor.  It  belongs  distinctly  in  the  class 
of  reform  poems  and  obeys  a  didactic  motive 
in  the  same  way  as  does  the  Faerie  Queene,  in 
the  stanza  of  which  it  is  written.  It  was  com- 
posed in  the  spring  and  summer  of  1817,  and 
embodies  the  opinions  of  Shelley  nearly  as 
completely  as  Queen  Mab  had  done,  five  years 
earlier.  It  was  printed  under  the  title  Laon 
and  Cythna ;  or,  The  Revolution  of  the  Golden 
City :  A  Vision  of  the  Nineteenth  Century ;  a 
few  copies  only  were  issued,  when  the  pub- 
lisher refused  to  proceed  with  the  work  unless 
radical  alterations  were  made  in  the  text. 
Shelley  reluctantly  consented  to  this,  and  made 
the  required  changes.     The  title  was  altered, 


and  the  work  published.  The  circurastanceg 
under  which  the  poem  was  written  are  told  by 
Mrs.  Shelley,  with  a  word  upou  the  main 
characters : 

'  He  chose  for  his  hero  a  youth  nourished  in 
dreams  of  liberty,  some  of  whose  actions  are 
in  direct  opposition  to  the  opinions  of  the 
world,  but  who  is  animated  throughout  by  an 
ardent  love  of  virtue,  and  a  resolution  to  confer 
the  boons  of  political  and  intellectual  freedom 
on  his  fellow-creatures.  He  created  for  this 
youth  a  woman  such  as  he  delighted  to  imagine 
—  full  of  enthusiasm  for  the  same  objects; 
and  they  both,  with  will  unvanquished  and  the 
deepest  sense  of  the  justice  of  their  cause,  met 
adversity  and  death.  There  exists  in  this  poem 
a  memorial  of  a  friend  of  his  youth.  The 
character  of  the  old  man  wlio  liberates  Laon 
from  his  tower  prison,  and  tends  on  him  in 


44 


THE  REVOLT  OF   ISLAM 


sickness,  is  founded  on  that  of  Doctor  Lind, 
who,  when  fShelley  was  at  Eton,  had  often 
stood  by  to  befriend  and  support  him,  and 
whose  name  he  never  mentioned  without  love 
and  veneration. 

'  During  the  year  1817  we  were  established 
at  Marlow,  in  Buckinghamshire.  Shelley's 
choica  of  abode  was  fixed  chiefly  by  tliis  town 
being  at  no  great  distance  from  London,  and 
its  neighborhood  to  the  Thames.  The  poem 
was  written  in  his  boat,  as  it  floated  under  the 
beech  groves  of  Bisham,  or  during  wanderings 
in  the  neighboring  country,  which  is  distin- 
guished for  peculiar  beauty.  The  chalk  hills 
break  into  cliffs  that  overhang  the  Thames,  or 
form  valleys  clothed  with  beech ;  the  wilder 
portion  of  the  country  is  rendered  beautiful  by 
exuberant  vegetation  ;  and  the  cultivated  part 
is  peculiarly  fertile.  With  all  this  wealth  of 
nature  which,  either  in  the  form  of  gentle- 
men's parks  or  soil  dedicated  to  agriculture, 
flourishes  around,  Marlow  was  inliabited  (I 
hope  it  is  altered  now)  by  a  very  poor  ix>pu- 
lation.  The  women  are  laceraakers,  and  lose 
their  health  by  sedentary  labor,  for  which  they 
were  very  ill  paid.  The  poor-laws  ground  to 
the  dust  not  only  the  paupers,  but  those  who 
had  risen  just  above  that  state,  and  were 
obliged  to  pay  poor-rates.  The  changes  pro- 
duced by  peace  following  a  long  war,  and  a 
bad  harvest,  brought  with  them  the  most 
heart-rending  evils  to  the  poor.  Shelley  af- 
forded what  alleviation  he  could.  In  the  winter, 
while  bringing  out  his  poem,  he  had  a  severe 
attack  of  ophthalmia,  caught  while  visiting  the 
poor  cottages.  I  mention  these  things,  —  for 
this  minute  and  active  sympathy  with  his 
fellow-creatures  gives  a  thousand-fold  interest 
to  his  speculations,  and  stamps  with  reality  liis 
pleadings  for  the  human  race.' 

Shelley  himself  gave  two  accounts  of  the 
poem,  of  which  the  most  interesting  occurs  in 
a  letter  to  Godwin,  December  11,  1817: 

'  The  Poem  was  produced  by  a  series  of 
thoughts  which  filled  my  mind  with  unbounded 
and  sostained  enthusiasm.  I  felt  the  preca- 
rionsness  of  my  life,  and  I  engaged  in  this 
t-osk,  resolved  to  leave  some  record  of  myself. 
Much  of  what  the  volume  contains  was  written 
with  the  same  feeling,  as  real,  though  not.  so 
prophetic,  as  the  communications  of  a  dying 
man.  I  never  presumed  indeed  to  consider  it 
anything  approaching  to  faultless ;  but  when  I 
consider  contemporary  productions  of  the  same 
apparent  pretensions,  I  own  I  was  filled  with 
confidence.  I  felt  that  it  was  in  many  respects 
a  genuine  picture  of  my  own  mind.  I  felt  th.at 
the  sentiments  were  true,  not  assumed.  And 
in  this  have  I  long  believed  that  my  power 
consists;    in  sympathy  and  that  part  of  the 


imagination  which  relates  to  sentiment  and 
contemplation.  I  am  formed,  if  for  anything 
not  in  common  with  the  herd  of  mankind,  to 
apprehend  minute  and  remote  distinctions  of 
feeling,  whether  relative  to  external  nature  or 
the  living  beings  which  surround  us,  and  to 
communicat*  the  conceptions  which  result  from 
considering  either  the  moral  or  the  material 
universe  as  a  whole.  Of  course,  I  believe  these 
faculties,  which  perhaps  comprehend  all  that 
is  sublime  in  man,  to  exist  very  imperfectly  in 
my  own  mind.' 

The  second  is  contained  in  an  earlier  letter 
to  a  publisher,  October  1'^,  1817  : 

'  The  whole  poem,  with  the  exception  of  the 
first  canto  and  part  of  the  last,  is  a  mere 
human  story  without  the  smallest  intermixture 
of  supernatural  interference.  The  first  canto 
is,  indeed,  in  some  measure  a  distinct  poem, 
though  very  necessary  to  the  wholeness  of  the 
work.  I  say  this  because,  if  it  were  all  written 
in  the  manner  of  the  first  canto,  I  could  not 
expect  that  it  would  be  interesting  to  any 
great  number  of  people.  I  have  attempted  in 
the  progi-ess  of  my  work  to  speak  to  the  com' 
mon  elementary  emotions  of  the  human  heart, 
80  that,  though  it  is  the  story  of  violence  and 
revolution,  it  is  relieved  by  milder  pictures  of 
friendship  and  love  and  natural  affections.  The 
scene  is  supposed  to  be  laid  in  Constantinople 
and  modem  Greece,  but  without  much  attempt 
at  minute  delineation  of  M.ihometan  manners. 
It  is.  in  fact,  a  tale  illustrative  of  such  a  revo- 
lution as  might  bo  supposed  to  take  place  in 
an  European  nation,  acted  upon  by  the  opinions 
of  what  has  been  called  (erroneously,  as  I 
think)  the  modem  philosophy,  and  contend- 
ing with  ancient  notions  and  the  supposed 
advantage  derived  from  them  to  those  who 
support  them.  It  is  a  Revolution  of  this  kind 
that  is  the  beau  ideal,  as  it  were,  of  the  French 
Revolution,  but  produced  by  the  influence  of 
individual  genius  and  out  of  general  know- 
ledge.' 

Peacock  supplements  Mrs.  Shelley's  note, 
with  some  details  of  the  revision  : 

'  In  the  summer  of  1817  he  wrote  TTie  Revolt 
of  Islam,  chiefly  on  a  seat  on  a  high  promi- 
nence in  Bisham  Wood  where  he  passed  whole 
mornings  with  a  blank  book  and  a  pencil. 
This  work  when  completed  was  printed  under 
the  title  of  Laon  and  Ci/thna.  In  this  poem 
he  had  carried  the  expression  of  his  opinions, 
moral,  political,  and  theological,  beyond  the 
bounds  of  discretion.  The  terror  which,  in 
those  days  of  persecution  of  the  press,  the 
perusal  of  the  book  inspired  in  Mr.  Oilier,  the 
publisher,  induced  him  to  solicit  the  alteration 
of  many  passages  which  be  had  marked. 
Shelley  was  for  some  time  inflexible  ;  but  Mr. 
Ollier's  refusal  to  publish  the  poem  as  it  was, 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE 


4^ 


backed  by  the  advice  of  all  his  friends,  induced 
him  to  submit  to  the  required  changes.' 

Shelley  subsequently  revised  the  poem  still 
more,  in  expectation  of  a  second  edition,  but 
the  changes  so  made  are  now  unknown. 

PREFACE 

The  Poem  which  I  now  present  to  the  world 
is  an  attempt  from  which  I  scarcely  dare  to 
expact  success,  and  in  which  a  writer  of  es- 
tablished fame  might  fail  without  disgrace. 
It  is  an  experiment  on  the  temper  of  the  public 
mind  as  to  how  far  a  thirst  for  a  happier  con- 
dition of  moral  and  political  society  survives, 
among  the  enlightened  and  refined,  the  tem- 
pests which  have  shaken  the  age  in  which  we 
live.  I  have  sought  to  enlist  the  harmony  of 
metrical  language,  the  ethereal  combinations 
of  the  fancy,  the  rapid  and  subtle  transitions 
of  human  passion,  all  those  elements  which 
essentially  compose  a  poem,  in  the  cause  of  a 
liberal  and  comprehensive  morality  ;  and  in  the 
view  of  kindling  within  the  bosoms  of  ray 
readers  a  virtuous  enthusiasm  for  those  doc- 
trines of  liberty  and  justice,  that  faith  and 
hope  in  something  good,  which  neither  vio- 
lence, nor  misrepresentation,  nor  prejudice, 
can  ever  totally  extinguish  among  mankind. 

For  this  purpose  I  have  chosen  a  story  of 
human  passion  in  its  most  universal  character, 
diversified  with  moving  and  romantic  adven- 
tures, and  appealing,  in  contempt  of  all  arti- 
ficial opinions  or  institutions,  to  the  common 
sympathies  of  every  human  breast.  I  have 
made  no  attempt  to  recommend  the  motives 
which  I  would  substitute  for  those  at  present 
governing  mankind,  by  methodical  and  sj's- 
tematic  argument.  I  would  only  awaken  the 
feelings,  so  that  the  reader  should  see  the 
beauty  of  true  virtue,  and  be  incited  to  those 
inquiries  which  have  led  to  my  moral  and  po- 
litical creed,  and  that  of  some  of  the  sublimest 
intellects  in  the  world.  The  Poem  therefore 
(with  the  exception  of  the  first  Canto,  which  is 
purely  introductory)  is  narrative,  not  didactic. 
It  is  a  succession  of  pictures  illustrating  the 
growth  and  progress  of  individual  mind  aspir- 
ing after  excellence  and  devoted  to  the  love  of 
mankind ;  its  influence  in  refining  and  making 
pure  the  most  daring  and  uncommon  impulses 
of  the  imagination,  the  understanding,  and  the 
senses ;  its  impatience  at  '  all  the  oppressions 
which  are  done  under  the  sun ; '  its  tendency 
to  awaken  public  hope  and  to  enlighten  and 
improve  mankind ;  the  rapid  efFects  of  the 
application  of  that  tendency  ;  the  awakening 
of  an  immense  nation  from  their  slavery  and 
degradation  to  a  true  sense  of  moral  dignity 
and  freedom ;  the  bloodless  dethronement  of 
their  oppressors  and  the  unveiling  of  the  reli- 


gious frauds  by  which  they  had  been  deluded 
into  submission  ;  the  tranquillity  of  successful 
patriotism  and  the  universal  toleration  and 
benevolence  of  true  philanthropy ;  the  treach- 
ery and  barbarity  of  hired  soldiers ;  vice  not 
the  object  of  punishment  and  hatred,  but 
kindness  and  pity ;  the  faithlessness  of  tyrants  ; 
the  confederacy  of  the  Rulers  of  the  World 
and  the  restoration  of  the  expelled  Dynasty  by 
foreign  arms ;  the  massacre  and  extermination 
of  the  Patriots  and  the  victory  of  established 
power ;  the  consequences  of  legitimate  despo- 
tism, —  civil  war,  famine,  plague,  superstition, 
and  an  utter  extinction  of  the  domestic  affec- 
tions ;  the  judicial  murder  of  the  advocates  of 
liberty  ;  the  temjjorary  triumph  of  oppression, 
that  secure  earnest  of  its  final  and  inevitable 
fall ;  the  transient  nature  of  ignorance  and 
error  and  the  eternity  of  genius  and  virtue. 
Such  is  the  series  of  delineations  of  which  the 
Poem  consists.  And  if  the  lofty  passions  with 
which  it  has  been  my  scope  to  distinguish  tliis 
story  shall  not  excite  in  the  reader  a  gener- 
ous impulse,  an  ardent  thirst  for  excellence,  an 
interest  profound  and  strong,  such  as  belongs 
to  no  meaner  desires,  let  not  the  failure  be 
imputed  to  a  natural  unfitness  for  human 
sympathy  in  these  sublime  and  animating 
themes.  It  is  the  business  of  the  poet  to  com- 
municate to  others  the  pleasure  and  the  enthu- 
siasm arising  out  of  those  images  and  feelings 
in  the  vivid  presence  of  which  within  his  own 
mind  consiste  at  once  his  inspiration  and  his 
reward. 

The  panic  which,  like  an  epidemic  transport, 
seized  upon  all  classes  of  men  during  the  ex- 
cesses consequent  upon  the  French  Revolution, 
is  gradually  giving  place  to  sanity.  It  has 
ceased  to  be  believed  that  whole  generations  of 
mankind  ought  to  consign  themselves  to  a  hope- 
less inheritance  of  ignorance  and  misery  be- 
cause a  nation  of  men  who  had  been  dupes  and 
slaves  for  centuries  were  incapable  of  conduct- 
ing themselves  with  the  wisdom  and  tranquil- 
lity of  freemen  so  soon  as  some  of  their  fetters 
were  partially  loosened.  That  their  conduct 
could  not  have  been  marked  by  any  other 
characters  than  ferocity  and  thoughtlessness  is 
the  historical  fact  from  which  liberty  derives 
all  its  recommendations,  and  falsehood  the 
worst  features  of  its  deformity.  There  is  a 
reflux  in  the  tide  of  human  things  which  bears 
the  shipwrecked  hopes  of  men  into  a  secure 
haven  after  the  storms  are  past.  Methinks 
those  who  now  live  have  survived  an  age  of 
despair. 

The  French  Revolution  may  be  considered 
as  one  of  those  manifestations  of  a  general 
state  of  feeling  among  civilized  mankind,  pro- 
duced by  a  defect  of  correspondence  between 
the  knowledge  existing  in  society  and  the  imf 


46 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


provement  or  gradual  abolition  of  political 
institutions.  The  year  1788  may  be  assumed 
as  the  epoch  of  one  of  the  most  important 
crises  produced  by  this  feeling.  The  sympa- 
thies connected  with  that  event  extended  to 
every  bosom.  The  most  generous  and  amia- 
ble natures  were  those  which  participated  the 
most  extensively  in  these  sympathies.  But 
such  a  degree  of  unmingled  good  was  expected 
as  it  was  impossible  to  realize.  If  the  Revolu- 
tion had  been  in  every  respect  prosperous,  then 
misrule  and  superstition  would  lose  half  their 
claims  to  our  abhorrence,  as  fetters  which  the 
eaptive  can  unlock  with  the  slightest  motion  of 
his  fingers,  and  which  do  not  eat  with  poison- 
ous rust  into  the  soul.  The  revulsion  occa- 
sioned by  the  atrocities  of  the  demagogues  aud 
the  reestablishment  of  successive  tyrannies  in 
France  was  terrible,  and  felt  in  the  remot- 
est corner  of  the  civilized  world.  Could  they 
listen  to  the  plea  of  reason  who  had  groaned 
under  the  calamities  of  a  social  state,  according 
to  the  provisions  of  which  one  man  riots  in  lux- 
ury whilst  another  famishes  for  want  of  bread  ? 
Can  he  wlio  the  day  before  was  a  trampled 
slave  suddenly  become  liberal-minded,  forbear- 
ing, and  independent  ?  This  is  the  consequence 
of  the  habits  of  a  state  of  society  to  be  pro- 
duced by  resolute  perseverance  and  indefatiga- 
ble hope,  and  long-suffering  and  long-believing 
courage,  and  the  systematic  efforts  of  genera- 
tions of  men  of  intellect  and  virtue.  Such  is 
the  lesson  which  experience  teaches  now.  But 
on  the  first  reverses  of  hope  in  the  progress 
of  French  liberty,  the  sanguine  eagerness  for 
good  overleapt  the  solution  of  these  questions, 
and  for  a  time  extinguished  itself  in  the  unex- 
pectedness of  their  result.  Thus  many  of  the 
most  ardent  and  tender-hearted  of  the  wor- 
shippers of  public  good  have  been  morally 
ruined  by  what  a  partial  glimpse  of  the  events 
they  deplored  appeared  to  show  as  the  melan- 
choly desolation  of  all  their  cherished  hopes. 
Hence  gloom  and  misanthropy  have  become 
the  characteristics  of  the  age  in  which  we  live, 
the  solace  of  a  disappointment  that  uncon- 
sciously finds  relief  only  in  the  wilful  exagger- 
ation of  its  own  despair.  This  influence  has 
tainted  the  literature  of  the  age  with  the  hope- 
lessness of  the  minds  from  which  it  flows. 
Metaphysics,^  and  inquiries  into  moral  and 
political  science,  have  become  little  else  than 
vain  attempts  to  revive  exploded  superstitions, 
or  sophisms  like  those  -  of  Mr.  Malthus,  calcu- 
lated to  lull  the  oppressors  of  mankind  into  a 

1  I  ought  to  except  Sir  W.  Drummond's  Aeademieal 
Questions ;  a  Tolutne  of  very  acut«  and  powerful  meta- 
physical criticism. 

*  It  is  remnrkable,  as  a  B5Tnptom  of  the  revival  of 
public  hope,  that  Mr.  Malthus  has  assif^ed,  in  the  later 
•ditions  of  bis  work,  an  indefinite  dominion  to  moral 


security  of  everlasting  triumph.  Our  works 
of  fiction  and  poetry  have  been  overshadowed 
by  the  same  infectious  gloom.  But  mankind 
appear  to  me  to  be  emerging  from  their  trance. 
I  am  aware,  methinks,  of  a  slow,  gradual, 
silent  change.  In  that  belief  I  have  composed 
the  following  Poem. 

I  do  not  presume  to  enter  into  competition 
with  our  greatest  contemporary  poets.  Yet  I 
am  unwilling  to  tread  in  the  footsteps  of  any 
who  have  preceded  me.  I  have  sought  to 
avoid  the  imitation  of  any  style  of  language  or 
versification  peculiar  to  the  original  minds  of 
which  it  is  the  character,  designing  that  even 
if  what  I  have  produced  be  worthless,  it  should 
still  be  properly  my  own.  Nor  have  I  permit- 
ted any  system  relating  to  mere  words  to  divtrt 
the  attention  of  the  reader  from  whatever  in- 
terest I  may  have  succeeded  in  creating,  to  my 
own  ingenuity  in  contriving  to  disgu.st  them 
according  to  the  rules  of  criticism.  I  have 
simply  clothed  my  thoughts  in  what  appeared 
to  me  the  most  obvious  and  appropriate  lan- 
guage. A  person  familiar  with  Nature,  and 
with  the  most  celebrated  productions  of  the 
human  mind,  can  scarcely  err  in  following  the 
instinct,  with  respect  to  selection  of  language, 
produced  by  that  familiarity. 

There  is  an  education  peculiarly  fitted  for  a 
poet,  without  which  genius  and  sensibility  can 
hardly  fill  the  circle  of  their  capacities.  No  ed- 
ucation indeed  can  entitle  to  this  appellation 
a  dull  and  unobservant  mind,  or  one,  though 
neither  dull  nor  imobservant,  in  which  the  chan- 
nels of  communication  between  thought  and 
expression  have  been  obstructed  or  closed.  How 
far  it  is  my  fortune  to  belong  to  either  of  the 
latter  classes  I  cannot  know.  I  aspire  to  be 
something  better.  The  circumstances  of  my  ac- 
cidental education  have  been  favorable  to  this 
ambition.  I  have  been  familiar  from  boyhood 
with  mountains  and  lakes,  and  the  sea,  and  the 
solitude  of  forests  ;  Danger  which  sports  upon 
the  brink  of  precipices  has  been  my  playmate. 
I  have  trodden  the  glaciers  of  the  Alps,  and 
lived  under  the  eye  of  Mont  Blanc.  I  have 
been  a  wanderer  among  distant  fields.  I  have 
sailed  down  mighty  rivers,  and  seen  the  sur 
rise  and  set,  and  the  stars  come  forth,  whilst  1 
have  sailed  night  and  day  down  a  rapid  stream 
among  mountains.  I  have  seen  populous  cities, 
and  liave  watched  the  passions  which  rise  and 
spread,  and  sink  and  change,  amongst  assem- 
bled multitudes  of  men.  I  have  seen  the  thea- 
tre of  the  more  visible  ravages  of  tyranny  and 

restraint  over  the  principle  of  population.  This  con- 
cession answers  all  the  inferences  from  his  doctrine 
unfavorable  to  human  improvement,  and  reduces  the 
Essay  on  Population  to  a  commpntary  illustrative  of 
the  unanswerableness  of  Political  Justice, 


AUTHOR'S   PREFACE 


47 


war,  cities  and  villages  reduced  to  scattered 
groups  of  black  and  roofless  houses,  and  the 
naked  inhabitants  sitting  famished  upon  their 
desolated  thresholds.  I  have  conversed  with 
living  men  of  genius.  The  poetry  of  ancient 
Greece  and  Rome,  and  modem  Italy,  and  our 
own  country,  has  been  to  me  like  external 
nature,  a  passion  and  an  enjoyment.  Such  are 
the  sources  from  which  the  materials  for  the 
imagery  of  my  Poem  have  been  drawn.  I 
have  considered  poetry  in  its  most  comprehen- 
sive sense,  and  have  read  the  poets  and  the  his- 
torians, and  the  metaphysicians  ^  whose  writ- 
ings have  been  accessible  to  me,  and  have 
looked  upon  the  beautiful  and  majestic  scenery 
of  the  earth,  as  common  sources  of  those  ele- 
ments which  it  is  the  province  of  the  poet  to 
embody  and  combine.  Yet  the  experience  and 
the  feelings  to  which  I  refer  do  not  in  them- 
selves constitute  men  poets,  but  only  prepares 
them  to  be  the  auditors  of  those  who  are. 
How  far  I  shall  be  found  to  possess  that  more 
essential  attribute  of  poetry,  the  jwwer  of 
awakening  in  others  sensations  like  those  which 
animate  my  own  bosom,  is  that  which,  to  speak 
sincerely,  I  know  not ;  and  which,  with  an 
acquiescent  and  contented  spirit,  I  expect  to 
be  taught  by  the  effect  which  I  shall  produce 
upon  those  whom  I  now  address. 

I  have  avoided,  as  I  have  said  before,  the 
imitation  of  any  contemporary  style.  But  there 
must  be  a  resemblafiee,  which  does  not  depend 
upon  their  own  will,  between  all  the  writers  of 
any  particular  age.  They  cannot  escape  from 
subjection  to  a  common  influence  which  arises 
out  of  an  infinite  combination  of  circumstances 
belonging  to  the  times  in  which  they  live, 
though  each  is  in  a  degree  the  author  of  the 
very  influence  by  which  his  being  is  thus  per- 
vaded. Thus,  the  tragic  poets  of  the  age  of 
Pericles ;  the  Italian  revivers  of  ancient  learn- 
ing ;  those  mighty  intellects  of  our  own  country 
that  succeeded  the  Reformation,  the  translators 
of  the  Bible,  Shakespeare,  Spenser,  the  Dra- 
matists of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  and  Lord 
Bacon  ;  ^  the  colder  spirits  of  the  interval  that 
succeeded ;  —  all  resemble  each  other,  and  dif- 
fer from  every  other  in  their  several  classes. 
In  this  view  of  things,  Ford  can  no  more  be 
called  the  imitator  of  Shakespeare  than  Shake- 
speare the  imitator  of  Ford.  There  were  per- 
haps few  other  points  of  resemblance  between 
these  two  men  than  that  which  the  universal 
and  inevitable  influence  of  their  age  produced. 
And  this  is  an  influence  which  neither  the  mean- 
est scribbler  nor  the  sublimest  genius  of  any 

*  In  this  sense  there  may  be  such  a  thing  as  perfecti- 
bility in  works  of  fiction,  notwithstanding  the  conces- 
sion often  made  by  the  advocates  of  human  improve- 


era  can  escape  ;  and  which  I  have  not  attempted 
to  escape. 

I  have  adopted  the  stanza  of  Spen.ser  (a 
measure  inexpressibly  beautiful)  not  because  I 
consider  it  a  finer  model  of  poetical  harmony 
than  the  blank  verse  of  Shakespeare  and  Mil- 
ton, but  because  in  the  latter  there  is  no  shelter 
for  mediocrity ;  you  must  either  succeed  or  fail. 
This  perhaps  an  aspiring  spirit  should  desire. 
But  I  was  enticed  also  by  the  brilliancy  and 
magnificence  of  sound  which  a  mind  that  has 
been  nourished  upon  musical  thoughts  can  pro- 
duce by  a  just  and  harmonious  arrangement  of 
the  pauses  of  this  measure.  Yet  there  will  be 
found  some  instances  where  I  have  completely 
failed  in  this  attempt,  and  one,  which  1  here 
request  the  reader  to  consider  as  an  erratum, 
where  there  is  left  most  inadvertently  an  alex- 
andrine in  the  middle  of  a  stanza. 

But  in  this,  as  in  every  other  respect,  I  have 
written  fearlessly.  It  is  the  misfortune  of  this 
age  that  its  writers,  too  thoughtless  of  immor- 
tality, are  exquisitely  sensible  to  temporary 
praise  or  blame.  They  write  with  the  fear  of 
Reviews  before  their  eyes.  This  system  of 
criticism  sprang  up  in  that  torpid  interval 
when  poetry  was  not.  Poetry  and  the  art 
which  professes  to  regulate  and  limit  its  powers 
cannot  subsist  together.  Longinus  could  not 
have  been  the  contemporary  of  Homer,  nor 
Boileau  of  Horace.  Yet  this  species  of  crit- 
icism never  presumed  to  assert  an  understand- 
ing of  its  own ;  it  has  always,  unlike  true 
science,  followed,  not  preceded  the  opinion 
of  mankind,  and  would  even  now  bribe  with 
worthless  adulation  some  of  our  greatest  poets 
to  impose  gratuitous  fetters  on  their  own  im- 
aginations and  become  unconscious  accom- 
plices in  the  daily  murder  of  all  genius  either 
not  so  aspiring  or  not  so  fortunate  as  their 
own.  I  have  sought  therefore  to  write,  as  I 
believe  that  Homer,  Shakespeare,  and  Milti»?l 
wrote,  with  an  utter  disregard  of  anonymoK/ 
censure.  I  am  certain  that  calumny  and  mis 
representation,  though  it  may  move  me  to  com- 
passion, cannot  disturb  my  peace.  I  shall 
understand  the  expressive  silence  of  those  sa- 
gacious enemies  who  dare  not  trust  themselves 
to  speak.  I  shall  endeavor  to  extract  from 
the  midst  of  insult  and  contempt  and  maledic- 
tions those  admonitions  which  may  tend  to 
correct  whatever  imperfections  such  censurers 
may  discover  in  this  my  first  serious  appeal  to 
the  public.  If  certain  critics  were  as  clear- 
sighted as  they  are  malignant,  how  great  would 
be  the  benefit  to  be  derived  from  their  virulent 

ment,  that  perfectibility  is  a  term  ».pplicable  oniy  t« 
science. 
»  Milton  stands  alone  in  the  age  which  he  illumined. 


48 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


■writings !  As  it  is,  I  fear  I  shall  be  malicious 
enough  to  be  amused  with  their  paltry  tricks 
and  lame  invectives.  Should  the  public  judge 
that  my  composition  is  wortliless,  I  shall  in- 
deed bow  before  the  tribunal  from  which  Mil- 
ton received  his  crown  of  immortality,  and 
shall  seek  to  gather,  if  I  live,  strength  from 
that  defeat,  which  may  nerve  me  to  some  new 
enterprise  of  thought  which  may  not  be  worth- 
less. I  cannot  conceive  that  Lucretius,  when 
he  meditated  that  poem  whose  doctrines  are 
yet  the  basis  of  our  metaphysical  knowledge 
and  whose  eloquence  has  been  the  wonder  of 
mankind,  wrote  in  awe  of  such  censure  as  the 
hired  sophists  of  the  impure  and  superstitious 
noblemen  of  Rome  might  affix  to  what  he 
should  produce.  It  was  at  the  period  when 
Greece  was  led  captive  and  Asia  made  tribu- 
tary to  the  Republic,  fast  verging  itself  to 
slavery  and  ruin,  that  a  multitude  of  Syrian 
captives,  bigoted  to  the  worship  of  their  ob- 
scene Ashtaroth,  and  the  unworthy  successors 
of  Socrates  and  Zeno,  found  there  a  precarious 
subsistence  by  administering,  under  the  name 
of  freedmen,  to  the  vices  and  vanities  of  the 
great.  These  wretched  men  w^ere  skilled  to 
plead,  with  a  superficial  but  plausible  set  of 
sophisms,  in  favor  of  that  contempt  for  virtue 
which  is  the  portion  of  slaves,  and  that  faith  in 
portents,  the  most  fatal  substitute  for  benevo- 
lence in  the  imaginations  of  men,  which  arising 
from  the  enslaved  communities  of  the  East 
then  first  began  to  overwhelm  the  western  na- 
tions in  its  stream.  Were  these  the  kind  of 
men  whose  disapprobation  the  wise  and  lofty- 
minded  Lucretius  should  have  regarded  with 
a  salutary  awe  ?  The  latest  and  perhaps  the 
meanest  of  those  who  follow  in  his  footsteps 
would  disdain  to  hold  life  on  such  conditions. 

The  Poem  now  presented  to  the  public  oc- 
cupied little  moi'e  than  six  months  in  the 
composition.  That  period  has  been  devoted  to 
the  task  with  unremitting  ardor  and  enthu- 
siasm. I  have  exercised  a  watchful  and  ear- 
nest criticism  on  my  work  as  it  grew  under  my 
hands.  I  would  willingly  have  sent  it  forth 
to  the  world  with  that  perfection  which  long 
labor  and  revision  is  said  to  bestow.  But  I 
found  that  if  I  should  gain  something  in 
exactness  by  this  method,  I  might  lose  much 
of  the  newness  and  energy  of  imagery  and 
language  as  it  flowed  fresh  from  my  mind. 
And  although  the  mere  composition  occupied 
no  more  than  six  months,  the  thoughts  thus 


arranged   were  slowly  gathered  in  as  many 
years. 

I  trust  that  the  reader  will  carefully  dis- 
tinguish between  those  opinions  whicli  have  a 
dramatic  propriety  in  reference  to  the  char- 
acters which  they  are  designed  to  elucidate, 
and  such  as  are  properly  my  own.  The  erro- 
neous and  degrading  idea  which  men  have  con- 
ceived of  a  Supreme  Being,  for  instance,  is 
spoken  against,  but  not  the  Supreme  Being 
itself.  The  belief  which  some  superstitious 
persons  whom  I  have  brought  upon  the  stage 
entertain  of  the  Deity,  as  injurious  to  the 
character  of  his  benevolence,  is  widely  different 
from  my  own.  In  recommending  also  a  great 
and  important  change  in  the  spirit  which  ani- 
mates the  social  institutions  of  mankind,  I 
have  avoided  all  flattery  to  those  violent  and 
malignant  passions  of  our  nature  which  are 
ever  on  the  watch  to  mingle  with  and  to  alloy 
the  most  beneficial  innovations.  There  is  no 
quarter  given  to  revenge,  or  envy,  or  prejudice. 
Love  is  celebrated  everywhere  as  the  sole  law 
which  should  govern  the  moral  world. 

In  Laon  and  Cythna  the  following  passage 
was  added,  in  conclusion : 

In  the  personal  conduct  of  my  hero  and 
heroine,  there  is  one  circumstance  wliieh  was 
intended  to  startle  tlie  reader  from  the  trance 
of  ordinary  life..  It  was  my  object  to  break 
through  the  crust  of  those  outworn  opinions  on 
which  established  institutions  depend.  I  have 
appealed  therefore  to  the  most  universal  of  all 
feeling^s,  and  have  endeavored  to  strengthen 
the  moral  sense  by  forbidding  it  to  waste  its 
energies  in  seeking  to  .avoid  actions  which  are 
only  crimes  of  convention.  It  is  because  there 
is  so  great  a  midtitude  of  artificial  vices  that 
there  are  so  few  real  virtues.  Those  feelings 
alone  which  are  benevolent  or  malevolent  are 
essentially  good  or  bad.  The  circumstance  of 
which  I  speak  was  introduced,  however,  merely 
to  accustom  men  to  that  charity  and  tolera- 
tion which  the  exhibition  of  a  pi-actice  widely 
differing  from  their  own  has  a  tendency  to 
promote.'^  Nothing  indeed  can  be  more  mis- 
chievous than  many  actions  innocent  in  them- 
selves which  might  bring  down  upon  indi- 
viduals the  bigoted  contempt  and  rage  of  the 
multitude. 

•  The  sentiments  connected  with  and  characteristic 
of  this  circumstance  have  no  personal  reference  to  the 
writer. 


DEDICATION 

There  is  no  danger  to  a  man  that  knows 
What  life  and  death  is :  there's  not  any  law 
Exceeds  his  knowledge ;  neither  is  it  lawful 
That  be  should  stoop  to  any  other  law. 

Chapman. 


TO  MARY 

49 

TO   MARY 

IV 

And  then  I  clasped  my  hands  and  looked 

I 

around. 

So  now  my  summer-task  is  ended,  Mary, 

But  none  was  near  to  mock  my  streaming 

And  I  return  to  tbee,  mine  own  heart's 

eyes. 

home; 

Which  poured  their  warm  drops  on  the 

As  to  his  Queen  some  victor  Knight  of 

sunny  ground  — 

Faery, 

So  without  shame  I  spake:  —  'I  will  be 

Earning  bright  spoils  for  her  enchanted 

wise. 

dome; 

And  just,  and  free,  and  mild,  if  in  me 

Nor  thou  disdain,  tliat  ere  my  fame  be- 

lies 

come 

Such  power,  for  I  grow  weary  to  behold 

A  star  among  the  stars  of  mortal  night. 

The  selfish  and  the  strong  still  tyrannize 

If  it  indeed  may  cleave  its  natal  gloom, 

Without  reproach  or  check.'    I  then  con- 

Its doubtful  promise  thus  I  would  unite 

trolled 

With  thy  belovM  name,  thou  Child  of  love 

My  tears,  my  heart  grew  calm,  and  I  was 

and  light. 

ineek  and  bold. 

II 
The  toil  which  stole  from  thee  so  many 

V 
And  from  that  hour  did  I  with  earnest 

an  hour, 

thought 

Is  ended,  —  and  the  fruit  is  at  thy  feet ! 

Heap  knowledge  from  forbidden  mines  of 

No  longer  where  the  woods  to  frame  a 

lore; 

bower 

Yet  nothing  that  my  tyrants  knew  or 

With  interlacM  branches  mix  and  meet, 

taught 

Or  where,  with  sound  like  many  voices 

I  cared  to  learn,  but  from  that   secret 

sweet, 

store 

Water-falls    leap    among    wild    islands 

Wrought  linked  armor  for  my  soul,  be- 

green, 

fore 

Which  framed  for  my  lone  boat  a  lone 

It  might  walk  forth  to  war  among  man- 

retreat 

kind; 

Of  moss-grown  trees  and  weeds,  shall  I 

Thus  power  and  hope  were  strengthened 

be  seen; 

more  and  more 

But  beside  thee,  where  still  my  heart  has 

Within   me,  till   there   came   upon    my 

ever  been. 

mind 

A  sense  of  loneliness,  a  thirst  with  which  I 

Ill 

pined. 

Thoughts  of  great  deeds  were  mine,  dear 

Friend,  when  first 

VI 

The  clouds  which  wrap  this  world  from 

Alas,  that  love  should  be  a  blight  and 

youth  did  pass. 

snare 

I  do  remember  well  the  hour  which  burst 

To  those  who  seek  all  sympathies  in  one  ! 

My  spirit's  sleep.     A  fresh  May-dawn  it 

Such  once  I  sought  in  vain;  then  black 

was. 

despair, 

When  I  walked  forth  upon  the  glittering 

The    shadow  of  a  starless    night,   was 

grass, 

thrown 

And  wept,  I  knew  not  why;  until  there 

Over  the  world  in  which  I  moved  alone:  — 

rose 

Yet  never  found  I  one  not  false  to  me, 

From  tlie  near  school-room  voices  that. 

Hard  hearts,  and  cold,  like  weights  of  icy 

alas! 

stone 

Were   but   one   echo   from   a   world  of 

Which  crushed  and  withered  mine,  that 

woes  — 

could  not  be 

rhe  harsh  and  grating  strife  of  tyrants  and 

Aught  but  a  lifeless  clog,  until  revived  by 

of  foes. 

thee. 

50 


THE  REVOLT  OF   ISLAM 


Thou  Friend,  whose  presence  on  my  win- 
try heart 

Fell,  like  bright  Spring  upon  some  herb- 
less  plain; 

How  beautiful  and  calm  and  free  thou 
wert 

In  thy  young  wisdom,  when  the  mortal 
chain 

Of  Custom  thou  didst  burst  and  rend  in 
twain, 

And  walked  as  free  as  light  the  clouds 
among, 

Which     many   an    envious    slave     then 
breathed  in  vain 

From  his  dim  dungeon,  and  my  spirit 
sprung 
Xo  meet  thee  from  the  woes  which   had 
begirt  it  long ! 

VIII 

No  more  alone  through  the  world's  wil- 
derness, 
Although  I  trod  the  paths  of  high  intent, 
I  journeyed  now;  no  more   companion- 
less, 
Where  solitude  is  like  despair,  I  went. 
There  is  the  wisdom  of  a  stern  content 
When  Poverty  can  blight  the  just  and 

good. 
When  Infamy  dares  mock  the  innocent. 
And  cherished  friends  turn  with  the  mul- 
titude 
To  trample:  this  was  ours,  and   we   un- 
shaken stood  ! 

IX 

Now  has  descended  a  serener  hour. 
And  with  inconstant  fortune,  friends  re- 
turn; 
Though  suffering  leaves  the  knowledge 

and  the  power 
Which  says,  —  Let  scorn  be  not  repaid 

with  scorn. 
And  from  thy  side  two  gentle  babes  are 

born 
To  fill  our  home  with  smiles,  and  thus 

are  we 
Most   fortunate  beneath  life's  beaming 

morn; 
And  these  delights,  and  thou,  have  been 

to  me 
Ihe  parents  of  the  Song  I  consecrate  to 

thee. 


Is  it  that  now  my  inexperienced  fingers 

But  strike  the  prelude  of  a  loftier  strain? 

Or  must  the  lyre  on  which  my  spirit  lin« 
gers 

Soon  pause   in   silence,  ne'er  to  sound 
again. 

Though  it  might  shake  the  Anarch  Cus- 
tom's reign. 

And  charm  the  minds  of  men  to  Truth's 
own  sway, 

Holier  than  ■  was  Amphion's  ?     I  would 
fain 

Reply  in  hope  —  but  I  am  worn  away, 
And  Death  and  Love  are  yet  contending 
for  their  prey. 

XI 

And  what  art  thou  ?     I  know,  but  dare 

not  speak: 
Time  nmy  interpret  to  his  silent  years. 
Yet  in  the   paleness   of   thy  thoughtful 

cheek. 
And  in  the  light  thine  ample  forehead 

wears. 
And  in  thy  sweetest  smiles,  and  in  thy 

tears. 
And  in  thy  gentle  speech,  a  prophecy 
Is  whispered  to  subdue  my  fondest  fears; 
And,  through  thine  eyes,  even  in  thy  soul 

I  see 
A  lamp  of  vestal  fire  burning  internally. 

XII 
They  say  that  thou  wert  lovely  from  thy 

birth. 
Of  glorious  parents  thou  aspiring  Child  ! 
I  wonder  not  —  for  One   then  left  this 

earth 
Whose   life   was  like   a  setting  planet 

mild. 
Which  clothed  thee  in  the  radiance  unde- 

filed 
Of  its  departing  glory;  still  her  fame 
Shines   on   thee,   through   the   tempests 

dark  and  wild 
Which  shake  these  latter  days;  and  thou 

canst  claim 
The  shelter,  from  thy  Sire,  of  an  immortal 

name. 

XIII 
One    voice    came   forth    from    many  a 
mighty  spirit, 


CANTO   FIRST 


SI 


Which    was  the  echo  of  three  thousand 

years; 
And  the  tumultuous  world  stood  mute  to 

hear  it, 
As  some  loue  man  who  in  a  desert  hears 
The   music    of   his  home  :  —  unwonted 

fears 
Fell  on  the  pale  oppressors  of  our  race, 
And     Faith,     and     Custom,    and     low- 

thoughted  cares, 
Like   thunder -stricken   dragons,   for   a 

space 
Left  the  torn  human  heart,  their  food  and 

dwelling-place. 

XIV 

Truth's   deathless   voice   pauses   among 
mankind! 

If   there    must   be   no   response   to   my 
cry  — 

If  men  must  rise  and  stamp  with  fury 
blind 

On   his   pure   name  who  loves  them, — 
thou  and  I, 

Sweet  Friend  !  can  look  from  our  tran- 
quillity 

Like  lamps  into  the  world's  tempestuous 
night,  — 

Two    tranquil    stars,   while    clouds   are 
passing  by 

Which  wrap  them  from  the  foundering 
seaman's  sight, 
That  burn  from  year  to  year  with  unextin- 
guished light. 


CANTO   FIRST 


When  the  last  hope  of  trampled  France 
had  failed 

Like  a  brief  dream  of  unremaining  glory. 

From    visions    of    despair   I   rose,   and 
scaled 

The  peak  of  an  aerial  promontory. 

Whose   caverned   base   with   tlie   vexed 
surge  was  hoary; 

And  saw  the  golden  dawn  break  forth, 
and  waken 

Each  clond  and  every  wave:  —  but  tran- 
sitory 

The   calm;  for   sudden,  the   firm   earth 
was  shaken. 
As  if  by  the  last  wreck  its  frame  were  over- 
taken. 


So  as   I  stood,  one  blast   of  muttering 

thunder 
Burst  in  far  peals  along  the  waveless  deep, 
When,    gathering   fast,    around,   above 

and  under. 
Long  trains  of  tremulous  mist  began  to 

creep, 
Until  their  complicating  lines  did  steep 
The  orient  sun  in  shadow :  —  not  a  sound 
Was  heard;  one  horrible  repose  did  keep 
The  forests  and  the  floods,  and  all  around 
Darkness    more    dread    than     night    was 

poured  upon  the  ground. 

Ill 

Hark  !  't  is  the  rushing  of  a  wind  that 
sweeps 

Earth  and  the  ocean.  See!  the  light- 
nings yawn. 

Deluging  Heaven  with  fire,  and  the 
lashed  deeps 

Glitter  and  boil  beneath!  it  rages  on. 

One  mighty  stream,  whirlwind  and  waves 
upthrown, 

Lightning,  and  hail,  and  darkness  eddy- 
ing by! 

There  is  a  pause  —  the  sea-birds,  that 
were  gone 

Into  their  caves  to  shriek,  come  forth  to 

spy 

What  calm  has  fall'n  on  earth,  what  light 
is  in  the  sky. 


For,  where   the    irresistible    storm   had 

cloven 
That  fearful  darkness,  the  blue  sky  was 

seen. 
Fretted   with  many  a   fair  cloud  inter- 
woven 
Most  delicately,  and  the  ocean  green. 
Beneath  that  opening  spot  of  blue  serene, 
Quivered   like    burning   emerald;    calm 

was  spread 
On  all  below;  but  far  on  high,  between 
Earth  and  the  upper  air,  the  vast  clouds 
fled. 
Countless  and  swift  as  leaves  on  autumn's 
tempest  shed. 


For  ever  as  the  war  became  more  fierce 
Between  the  whirlwinds  and  the  rack  on 
high, 


5» 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


That  spot  grew  more  serene;  blue  light 

did  pierce 
The  woof  of  those  white  clouds,  which 

seemed  to  lie 
Far,  deep  and  motionless;  while  through 

the  sky 
The  pallid  semicircle  of  the  moon 
Passed  on,  in  slow  and  moving  majesty; 
Its  upper  horn  arrayed  in  mists,  which 

soon, 
But    slowly,   fled,   like   dew   beneath    the 

beams  of  noon. 


I  could  not  choose  but  gaze;  a  fascina- 
tion 

Dwelt  in  that  moon,  and  sky,  and  clouds, 
which  drew 

My  fancy  thither,  and  in  expectation 

Of  what  I  knew  not,  I  remained.     The 
hue 

Of  the  white  moon,  amid  that  heaven  so 
blue 

Suddenly  stained  with   shadow  did  ap- 
pear; 

A  speck,  a  cloud,  a  shape,  approaching 
grew. 

Like   a   great  ship  in  the  sun's  sinking 
sphere 
Beheld  afar  at  sea,  and  swift  it  came  anear. 

VII 

Even  like  a  bark,  which  from  a  chasm  of 

moimtains. 
Dark,  vast  and  overhanging,  on  a  river 
Which  there  collects  the  strength  of  all 

its  fountains. 
Comes  forth,  whilst  with  the  speed  its 

frame  doth  quiver. 
Sails,  oars  and  stream,  tending  to  one 

endeavor; 
So,  from  that  chasm  of  light  a  wingfed 

Form 
On  all  the  winds  of  heaven  approaching 

ever 
Floated,  dilating  as  it  came;  the  storm 
Pursued  it  with   tierce   blasts,   and   light- 
nings swift  and  warm. 


A  course  precipitous,  of  dizzy  speed, 
Suspending  thought  and  breath;  a  mon- 
strous sight! 
For  in  the  air  do  I  behold  indeed 


Au   Eagle   and   a  Serpent  wreathed  in 

fight:  — 
And  now,  relaxing  its  impetuous  flight. 
Before  the  aerial  rock  on  which  I  stood, 
The  Eagle,  hovering,  wheeled  to  left  and 

right, 
And  hung  with  lingering  wings  over  the 

flood, 
And  startled  with  its  yells  the  wide  air's 

solitude. 

IX 
A   shaft   of   light   upon   its    wings   de- 
scended. 
And     every    golden     feather     gleamed 

therein  — 
Feather  and  scale  inextricably  blended. 
The  Serpent's  mailed  and  many-colored 

skin 
Shone  through  the  plumes  its  coils  were 

twined  within 
By   many  a  swollen  and   knotted   fold, 

and  high 
And   far,  the   neck  receding  lithe   and 

thin, 
Sustained  a  crested  head,  which  warily 
Shifted   and   glanced   before    the   Eagle's 

steadfast  eye. 


Around,    around,    in    ceaseless    circles 

wheeling 
With  clang   of  wings  and    scream,  the 

Eagle  sailed 
Incessantly  —  sometimes   on    high    con- 
cealing 
Its   lessening   orbs,    sometimes  as  if   it 

failed, 
Drooped   through   the   air;    and  still  it 

shrieked  and  wailed, 
And  casting  back  its  eager  head,  with 

beak 
And  talon  unremittingly  assailed 
The  wreath6d  Serpent,  who  did  ever  seek 
Upon  his  enemy's  heart  a  mortal  wound  to 

wreak. 

XI 

What  life,  what  power,  was  kindled  and 
arose 

Within  the  sphere  of  that  appalling  fray! 

For,  from  the  encounter  of  those  won- 
drous foes, 

A  vapor  like  the  sea's  suspended  spray 


CANTO   FIRST 


53 


Huug  gathered  ;    in   the  void  air,   far 
away, 

Floated    the   shattered  plumes ;    bright 
scales  did  leap, 

Where'er  the  Eagle's  talons  made  their 
way, 

Like  sparks  into  the  darkness;  —  as  they 
sweep, 
Blood  stains  the  snowy  foam  of  the  tumul- 
tuous deep. 

XII 

Swift  chances  in  that  combat  —  many  a 

check. 
And  many  a  change,  a  dark  and  wild 

turmoil! 
Sometimes  the  Snake  around  his  enemy's 

neck 
Locked    in    stiff  rings   his  adamantine 

coil. 
Until   the  Eagle,  faint  with   pain   and 

toil. 
Remitted  his  strong  flight,  and  near  the 

sea 
Languidly  fluttered,  hopeless  so  to  foil 
His  adversary',  who  then  reared  on  high 
His  red   and  burning  crest,  radiant  with 

victory. 

XIII 

Then  on  the  white  edge  of  the  bursting 

surge, 
Where  they  had  sunk  together,  would 

the  Snake 
Relax  his  suffocating  grasp,  and  scourge 
The  wind  with  his  wild  writhings;  for, 

to  break 
That  chain  of  torment,  the  vast  bird  would 

shake 
The  strength  of  his  unconquerable  wings 
As  in  despair,  and  with  his  sinewy  neck 
Dissolve  in  sudden  shock   those   linked 
rings  — 
Then  soar,  as  swift  as  smoke  from  a  vol- 
cano springs. 

XIV 

Wile  baffled  wile,  and  strength  encoun- 
tered strength, 
Thus  long,  but  unprevailiug.    The  event 
Of   that   portentous   fight    appeared   at 

length. 
Until  the  lamp  of  day  was  almost  spent 
It  had  endured,  when  lifeless,  stark  and 
rent. 


Hung  high  that  mighty  Serpent,  and  at 

last 
Fell  to  the  sea,  while  o'er  the  continent 
With    clang  of   wings   and   scream  the 

Eagle  passed. 
Heavily  borne  away  on  the  exhausted  blast. 

XV 

And  with  it'  fled  the  tempest,  so  that 
ocean 

And  earth  and  sky  shone  through  the 
atmosphere; 

Only,  't  was  strange  to  see  the  red  com- 
motion 

Of  waves  like  mountains  o'er  the  sinking 
sphere 

Of  sunset  sweep,  and  their  fierce  roar  to 
hear 

Amid  the  calm  ;  down  the  steep  path  I 
wound 

To  the  sea-shore  —  the  evening  was  most 
clear 

And  beautiful,  and  there  the  sea  I  found 
Calm  as  a  cradled  child  in  dreamless  slum- 
ber bound. 


There  was  a  Woman,  beautiful  as  morn- 
ing, 

Sitting  beneath  the  rocks  upon  the  sand 

Of  the  waste  sea  —  fair  as  one  flower 
adorning 

An  icy  wilderness;  each  delicate  hand 

Lay  crossed  upon  her  bosom,  and  the 
band 

Of  her  dark  hair  had  fall'n,  and  so  sne 
sate 

Looking  upon  the  waves ;  on  the  bare 
strand 

Upon  the  sea-mark  a  small  boat  did  wait. 
Fair  as  herself,  like  Love  by  Hope  left 
desolate. 

XVII 

It  seemed  that  this  fair  Shape  had  looked 
upon 

That  unimaginable  fight,  and  now 

That  her  sweet  eyes  were  weary  of  the 
sun, 

As  brightly  it  illustrated  her  woe; 

For  in  the  tears,  which  silently  to  flow 

Paused  not,  its  lustre  hung:  she,  watch- 
ing aye 

The  foam-wreaths  which  the  faint  tide 
wove  below 


54 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


Upon  the  spangled  sands,  groaned  heav- 

For ere  the  next,  the  Serpent  did  obey 

ily. 

Her  voice,  and,  coiled  in  rest,  in  her  em. 

And  after  every  groan  looked  up  over  the 
sea. 

brace  it  lay. 

XVIII 

XXI 
Then  she  arose,  and  smiled  on  me  with 

And  when  she  saw  the  wounded  Serpent 

eyes 

make 

Serene  yet  sorrowing,  like  that  planet 

His   path  between  the  waves,  her  lips 

fair. 

grew  pale, 

While  yet  the  daylight  lingereth  in  the 

Parted  and  quivered;  the  team  ceased  to 

skies. 

break 

Which  cleaves  with  arrowy  beams  the 

From  her  immovable  eyes;  no  voice  of 

dark-red  air, 

wail 

And  said:  *  To  grieve  is  wise,  but  the  de- 

Escaped her;   but  she  rose,  and  on  the 

spair 

gale 

Was  weak  and  vain  which  led  thee  here 

Loosening    her    star -bright    robe    and 

from  sleep. 

shadowy  hair. 

This  shalt  thou  know,  and  more,  if  thou 

Poured  forth  her  voice;  the  caverns  of 

dost  dare 

the  vale 

With  me  and  with  this  Serpent,  o'er  tJie 

That  opened  to  the  ocean,  caught  it  there, 

deep. 

And  filled  with  silver  sounds  the  overflow- 

A voyage  divine  and  strange,  companion- 

ing air. 

ship  to  keep.' 

XIX 

XXII 

She   spake  in  language    whose   strange 

Her  voice  was  like  the  wildest,  saddest 

melody 

tone, 

Might  not  belong  to  earth.    I  heard  alone 

Yet  sweet,  of    some  loved  voice  heard 

What  made  its  music  more  melodious 

long  ago. 

be, 

I  wept.     Shall  this  fair  woman  all  alone 

The  pity  and  the  love  of  every  tone; 

Over  the  sea  with  that  fierce  Serpent  go  ? 

But  to  the   Snake  those  accents  sweet 

His  head  is  on  her  heart,  and  who  can 

were  known 

know 

His  native  tongue  and  hers;  nor  did  he 

How   soon    he    may   devour   his   feeble 

beat 

prey  ?  — 

The  hoar  spray  idly  then,  but  winding  on 

Such  were  my  thoughts,  when  the  tide 

Through  the  green  shadows  of  the  waves 

'gan  to  flow  ; 

that  meet 

And  that  strange  boat  like  the  moon's 

Near  to  the  shore,  did  pause  beside  her 

shade  did  sway 

snowy  feet. 

Amid  reflected  stars  that  in  the  waters  lay. 

XX 

XXIII 

Then  on   the    sands  the   Woman    sate 

A  boat  of  rare   device,  which   had  no 

again. 

sail 

And  wept  and  clasped  her  hands,  and,  all 

But  its  own  curvfed  prow  of  thin  moon- 

between. 

stone, 

Renewed  the  unintelligible  strain 

Wrought  like  a  web  of  texture  fine  and 

Of  her  melodious   voice   and  eloquent 

frail, 

mien; 

To  catch  those  gentlest  winds  which  are 

And  she   unveiled  her  bosom,  and  the 

not  known 

green 

To  breathe,  but  by  the  steady  speed  alone 

And   glancing  shadows  of  the  sea  did 

With  which  it  cleaves  the  sparkling  sea; 

play 

and  now 

O'er  its  marmoreal  depth  —  one  moment 

We  are  embarked  —  the  mountains  hang 

seen, 

and  frown 

CANTO   FIRST 


55 


Over  the  starry  deep  that  gleams  below 
A  vast  and  dim  expanse,  as  o'er  the  waves 
we  go. 

XXIV 

And  as  we  sailed,  a  strange  and  awful  tale 
That  Woman  told,  like  such  mysterious 

dream 
As  makes   the   slumberer's   cheek  with 

wonder  pale ! 
'T  was  midnight,  and  around,  a  shoreless 

stream. 
Wide  ocean  rolled,  when  that  majestic 

theme 
Shrined  in  her  heart  found  utterance,  and 

she  bent 
Her  looks  on  mine;   those  eyes  a  kin- 
dling beam 
Of  love  divine  into  my  spirit  sent. 
And,  ere  her  lips  could  move,  made  the  air 

eloquent. 

XXV 

'  Speak  not  to  me,  but  hear  !  much  shalt 
thou  learn, 

Much  must  remain  unthought,  and  more 
untold. 

In  the  dark  Future's  ever-liowing  urn. 

Know  then  that  from  the  depth  of  ages 
old 

Two  Powers  o'er  mortal  things  dominion 
hold, 

Ruling  the  world  with  a  divided  lot. 

Immortal,  all-pervading,  manifold, 

Twin  Genii,  equal  Gods  —  when  life  and 
thought 
Sprang  forth,  they  burst  the  womb  of  in- 
essential Nought. 

XXVI 

*  The  earliest  dweller  of  the  world  alone 
Stood  on  the  verge  of  chaos.  Lo  !  afar 
O'er  the  wide  wild  abyss  two  meteors 

shone, 
Sprung  from  the  depth  of  its  tempestu- 
ous jar  — 
A  blood-red  Comet  and  the  Morning  Star 
Mingling  their  beams  in  combat.     As  he 

stood 
All  thoughts  within  his  mind  waged  mu- 
tual war 
In   dreadful    sympathy  —  when    to    the 
flood 
That  fair  Star  fell,  he  turned  and  shed  his 
brother's  blood. 


*  Thus  Evil  triumphed,  and  the  Spirit  of 
Evil, 
One  Power  of  many  shapes  which  non6 

may  know, 
One  Shape  of  many  names;  the  Fiend 

did  revel 
In  victory,  reigning  o'er  a  world  of  woe, 
For  the  new  race  of  man  went  to  and  fro, 
Famished    and    homeless,    loathed    and 

loathing,  wild, 
And  hating  good  —  for  his  immortal  foe, 
He  changed  from  starry  shape,  beauteous 
and  mild. 
To  a  dire  Snake,  with  man  and  beast  un- 
reconciled. 


XXVIII 

'  The  darkness  lingering  o'er  the  dawn  of 

things 
Was  Evil's  breath  and  life ;   this  made 

him  strong 
To  soar  aloft  with  overshadowing  wings  ; 
And  the  great  Spirit  of  Good  did  creep 

among 
The  nations  of  mankind,  and  every  tongue 
Cursed  and  blasphemed  him  as  he  passed; 

for  none 
Knew  good  from  evil,  though  their  names 

were  hung 
In  mockery  o'er  the  fane  where  many  a 

groan, 
As  King,  and  Lord,  and  God,  the  conquer- 
ing Fiend  did  own. 

XXIX 

'The    Fiend,    whose    name   was   Legion 

Death,  Decay, 
Earthquake  and  Blight,  and  Want,  and 

Madness  pale, 
Winged  and  wan  diseases,  an  array 
Numerous  as  leaves  that  strew  the  au- 
tumnal gale; 
Poison,  a  snake  in  flowers,  beneath  the 

veil 
Of   food  and   mirth,  hiding  his  mortal 

head; 
And,    without    whom    all    these    might 

nought  avail, 
Fear,  Hatred,  Faith  and  Tyranny,  who 

spread 
Those  subtle  nets  which  snare  the  living 

and  the  dead. 


56 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


XXX 

•  His  spirit  is  their  power,  and  they  his 

slaves 
In  air,  aud  light,  and  thought,  and  lan- 
guage dwell; 
And  keep   their  state  from  palaces  to 

graves, 
In  all  resorts  of  men  —  invisible, 
But  when,  in  ebou  mirror,  Nightmare  fell, 
To  tyrant  or  impostor  bids  tliem  rise, 
Black   wiugfed    demon  -  forms  —  whom, 

from  the  hell, 
His  reign  and  dwelling  beneath  nether 
skies. 
He  loosens  to  their  dark  and  blasting  min- 
istries. 

XXXI 

•  In  the  world's  youth  his  empire  was  as 

firm 
As  its  foundations.     Soon  the  Spirit  of 

Good, 
Though  in  the  likeness  of  a  loathsome 

worm, 
Sprang  from  the  billows  of  the  formless 

flood, 
Which  shrank  aud  fled;  and  with   that 

Fiend  of  blood 
Renewed   the    doubtful  war.      Thrones 

then  first  shook, 
And  earth's  immense  and  trampled  mul- 
titude 
In  hope  on  their  own  powers  began  to 

look. 
And  Fear,   the  demon  pale,  his  sanguine 

shrine  forsook. 

XXXII 

•  Then  Greece  arose,  and  to  its  bards  aud 

sages. 
In  dream,  the  golden  -  pinioned  Genii 

came. 
Even  where  they  slept  amid  the  night 

of  ages. 
Steeping  their  hearts  in  the  divinest  flame 
Which   thy  breath    kindled.    Power    of 

holiest  name! 
And  oft  in  cycles  since,  when  darkness 

gave 
New  weapons  to  thy  foe,  their  sunlike 

fame 
Upon  the  combat  shone  —  a  light  to  save. 
Like    Paradise   spread    forth   beyond    the 

shadowy  grave. 


XXXIII 

*  Such    is  this  conflict  —  when   mankind 

doth  strive 
With  its  oppressors  in  a  strife  of  blood, 
Or  when  free  thoughts,  like  lightnings, 

are  alive. 
And  in  each  bosom  of  the  multitude 
Justice  and  truth   with  custom's  hydra 

brood 
Wage    silent   war;    when    priests    and 

kings  dissemble 
In  smiles  or  frowns  their  fierce  disqui- 
etude, 
When  round  pure  hearts  a  host  of  hopes 

assemble, 
The  Snake  and  Eagle  meet  —  the  world's 

foundations  tremble! 


XXXIV 

*  Thou  hast  beheld  that  fight  —  when  to 
thy  home 

Thou   dost  return,  steep  not  its  hearth 
in  tears; 

Though  thou  mayst  hear  that  earth   is 
now  become 

The  tyrant's  garbage,  which  to  his  com- 
peers. 

The   vile    reward    of    their   dishonored 
years. 

He    will    dividing    give.      The     victor 
Fiend 

Omnipotent   of  yore,  now    quails,    and 
fears 

His  triumph  dearly  won,  which  soon  will 
lend 
An  impulse  swift  and  sure  to  his  approach- 
ing end. 

XXXV 

'  List,  stranger,  list!   mine    is  an  human 

form 
Like  that  thou  wearest  —  touch  me  — 

shrink  not  now! 
My  hand   thou  feel'st  is  not  a  ghost's, 

but  warm 
With  human  blood.     'Twas  many  years 

ago, 
Since  first  my  thirsting  soul  aspired  to 

know 
The    secrets    of    this   wondrous   world, 

when  deep 
My  heart  was  pierced  with  sympathy  for 

woe 


CANTO   FIRST 


57 


Which    could    not  be    mine   own,    and 
thought  did  keep 
In  dream   unnatural  watch  beside  an  in- 
fant's sleep. 

XXXVI 

'  Woe  could  not  be  mine  own,  since  far 
from  men 

I  dwelt,  a  free  and  happy  orphan  child, 

By  the  sea-shore,  in  a  deep  mountain  gleu; 

And  near  the  waves  and  through  the  for- 
ests wild 

I  roamed,  to  storm  and  darkness  recon- 
ciled; 

For  I  was  calm  while  tempest  shook  the 
sky. 

But  when  the  breathless  heavens  in 
beauty  smiled, 

I  wept  sweet  tears,  yet  too  tumultuously 
For  peace,  and  clasped  my  hands  aloft  in 
ecstasy. 

XXXVII 

'  These  were  forebodings  of  my  fate.   Be- 
fore 
A    woman's    heart    beat   in   my   virgin 

breast. 
It  had  been  nurtured  in  divinest  lore; 
A  dying  poet  gave  me  books,  and  blessed 
With  wild  but  holy  talk  the  sweet  unrest 
In  which  I  watched  him  as  he  died  away; 
A  youth  with  hoary  hair,  a  fleeting  guest 
Of  our  lone  mountains;  and  this  lore  did 
sway 
My  spirit  like  a  storm,  contending  there 
alway. 

XXXVIII 

*  Thus  the  dark  tale  which  history  doth 
unfold 

I  knew,  but  not,  methinks,  as  others 
know, 

For  they  weep  not;  and  Wisdom  had 
unrolled 

The  clouds  which  hide  the  gulf  of  mortal 
woe; 

To  few  can  she  that  warning  vision  show; 

For  I  loved  all  things  with  intense  devo- 
tion. 

So  that  when  Hope's  deep  source  in  full- 
est flow. 

Like  earthquake  did  uplift  the  stagnant 
ocean 
Of  human  thoughts,  mine  shook  beneath 
the  wide  emotion. 


XXXIX 

'  When  first  the  living  blood  through  all 

these  veins 
Kindled  a  thought  in  sense,  great  France 

sprang  forth. 
And  seized,  as  if  to  break,  the  ponderous 

chains 
Which  bind  in  woe   the  nations  of  the 

earth. 
I    saw,   and    started  from  my   cottage 

hearth ; 
And  to  the  clouds  and  waves  in  tameless 

gladness 
Shrieked,  till  they  caught  immeasurable 

mirth. 
And  laughed  in  light  and  music:  soon 

sweet  madness 
Was  poured  upon  my  heart,  a  soft  and 

thrilling  sadness. 


XL 

'  Deep  slumber  fell  on  me :  —  my  dreams 

were  fire, 
Soft  and  delightful  thoughts  did  rest  and 

hover 
Like  shadows  o'er  my  brain ;  and  strange 

desire, 
The  tempest  of  a  passion,  raging  over 
My  tranquil  soul,  its  depths  with  light 

did  cover. 
Which  passed;  and  calm,  and  darkness, 

sweeter  far, 
Came  —  then  I  loved;  but  not  a  hnman 

lover ! 
For  when  I  rose  from  sleep,  the  Morning 

Star 
Shone  through  the  woodbine  wreaths  which 

round  my  casement  were. 

XLI 

*  'T  was  like  an  eye  which  seemed  to  smile 

on  me. 
I  watched,  till  by  the  sun  made  pale  it 

sank 
Under  the  billows  of  the  heaving  sea; 
But  from  its  beams  deep  love  my  spirit 

drank. 
And  to   my  brain  the   boundless  world 

now  shrank 
Into  one   thought  —  one    image  —  yes, 

forever! 
Even  like  the  dayspring,  poured  on  va^ 

pors  dank. 


58 


THE  REVOLT   OF  ISLAM 


The  beams  of  that  one  Star  did  shoot 
and  quiver 
Through   my  benighted  mind  —  and  were 
extiuguished  never. 

XLII 

'The  day  passed   thus.     At  night,   me- 
thouglit,  in  dream 

A  shape  of   speechless  beauty  did  ap- 
pear; 

It  stood  like  light  on  a  careering  stream 

Of  golden  clouds  which  shook  the  atmo- 
sphere; 

A   winged  youth,  his  radiant  brow  did 
wear 

The   Morning    Star;  a  wild  dissolving 
bliss 

Over  my  frame  he  breathed,  approach- 
ing near, 

And  bent  his  eyes  of  kindling  tender- 
ness 
Near  mine,  and  on  my  lips  impressed  a 
lingering  kiss, 

XLIIl 

•And  said:  "A  Spirit  loves  thee,  mortal 

maiden ; 
How  wilt  thou  prove  thy  worth  ?  "  Then 

joy  and  sleep 
Together    fled;     my    soul    was    deeply 

laden, 
And  to   the  shore  I  went  to  muse  and 

weep; 
But  as  I  moved,  over  my  heart  did  creep 
A  joy  less  soft,  but  more  profound  and 

strong 
Than  my  sweet  dream ;  and  it  forbade  to 

keep 
The  path  of  the  sea-shore;  that  Spirit's 

tongue 
Seemed  whispering  in  my  heart,  and  bore 

my  steps  along. 

XLIV 
•  How,  to  that  vast  and  peopled  city  led, 
Which    was    a    field    of    holy   warfare 

then, 
I  walked  among  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
And  shared  in  fearless  deeds  with  evil 

men, 
Calm  as  an  angel  in  the  dragon's  den; 
How   I   braved  death    for  liberty  and 

truth. 
And  spnrned  at  peace,  and  power,  and 

fame ;  and  when 


Those  hopes  had  lost  the  glory  of  their 
youth. 
How  sadly  I  returned — might  move  the 
hearer's  ruth. 

XLV 

'  Warm   tears  throng  fast!  the  tale  may 
not  be  said. 

Know   then    that,   when  this   grief  had 
been  subdued, 

I  was  not  left,  like  others,  cold  and  dead ; 

The  Spirit  whom  I  loved  in  solitude 

Sustained  his  child;  the  tempest-shaken 
wood. 

The  waves,  the  fountains,  and  the  bush 
of  night  — 

These  were  his  voice,  and  well  I  under- 
stood 

His  smile  divine,  when  the  calm  sea  was 
bright 
With  silent  stars,  and  Heaven  was  breath- 
less with  delight. 

XLVI 

*  In  lonely  glens,  amid  the  roar  of  rivers. 
When   the   dim    nights  were   moonless, 

have  I  known 
Joys  which  no  tongue  can  tell ;  my  pale 

lip  quivers 
When   thought    revisits    them :  —  know 

thou  alone, 
That,  after  many  wondrous  years  were 

flown, 
I  was  awakened  by  a  shriek  of  woe; 
And  over  me  a  mystic  robe  was  thrown 
By  viewless  hands,  and  a  bright  Star  did 

glow 
Before  my  steps  —  the  Snake  then  met  his 

mortal  foe.' 

XLVII 

'  Thou  fearest  not  then  the  Serpent  on  thy 

heart?' 
'  Fear  it  I '  she  said,  with  brief  and  pas- 
sionate cry. 
And  spake  no  more.     That  silence  made 

me  start  — 
I  looked,  and  we  were  sailing  pleasantly. 
Swift  as  a  cloud  between  the  sea  and  sky, 
Beneath  the  rising  moon  seen  faraway; 
Mountains  of  ice,  like  sapphire,  piled  on 

high. 
Hemming  the  horizon  round,  in  silence  lay 
On  the  still   waters  —  these  we   did  ap- 
proach alway. 


CANTO   FIRST 


59 


XLVIII 

And  swift  and  swifter  grew  the  vessel's 

motion, 
So  that  a  dizzy  trance  fell  on  my  brain,  — 
Wild  music  woke  me;  we  bad  passed  the 

ocean 
Which  girds  the  pole,  Nature's  remotest 

reign; 
And  we  glode  fast  o'er  a  pellucid  plain 
Of  waters,  azure  with  the  noontide  day. 
Ethereal    mountains    shone    around;    a 

Fane 
Stood  in  the  midst,  girt  by  green  isles 

which  lay 
On  the  blue  sunny  deep,   resplendent  far 

away. 

XLIX 

It  was  a  Temple,  such  as  mortal  hand 
Has  never  built,  nor  ecstasy,  nor  dream 
Reared  in  the  cities  of  euchauted  land; 
'T  was  likest  Heaven,  ere  yet  day's  purple 

stream 
Ebbs  o'er  the  western  forest,  while  the 

gleam 
Of  the  unrisen  moon  among  the  clouds 
Is  gathering  —  when  with  many  a  golden 

beam 
The    thronging    constellations    rush    in 
crowds, 
Paving  with  fire  the  sky  and  the  marmo- 
real floods. 

L 

Like  what  may  be  conceived  of  this  vast 
dome, 

When  from   the  depths  which  thought 
can  seldom  pierce 

Genius  beholds  it  rise,  his  native  home, 

Girt  by  the  deserts  of  the  Universe; 

Yet,  nor  in  painting's  light,  or  mightier 
verse. 

Or  sculpture's  marble  language  can  in- 
vest 

That    shape    to    mortal     sense  —  such 
glooms  immerse 

That  incommunicable  sight,  and  rest 
Upon  the  laboring  brain  and  over-burdened 
breast. 

LI 
Winding  among  the  lawny  islands  fair, 
Whose  blosmy  forests  starred  the  shad- 
owy deep. 
The  wingless  boat  paused  where  an  ivory 
stair 


Its  fretwork  in  the  crystal  sea  did  steep, 
Encircling  that  vast  Fane's  aerial  heap. 
We  disembarked,  and  through  a  portal 

wide 
We    passed,  whose   roof  of  moonstone 

carved  did  keep 
A  glimmering  o'er  the  forms  on  every 

side, 
Sculptures  like  life  and  thought,  immovable, 

deep-eyed. 

LII 

We  came  to  a  vast  hall,  whose  glorious 
roof 

Was  diamond  which  had  drunk  the 
lightning's  sheen 

In  darkness  and  now  poured  it  through 
the  woof 

Of  spell-inwoven  clouds  hung  there  to 
screen 

Its  blinding  splendor  —  through  such  veil 
was  seen 

That  work  of  subtlest  power,  divine  and 
rare; 

Orb  above  orb,  with  starry  shapes  be- 
tween. 

And  horned  moons,  and  meteors  strange 
and  fair. 
On  night-black  columns  poised  —  one  hol- 
low hemisphere! 

LIII 

Ten  thousand  columns  in  that  quivering 

light 
Distinct,  between  whose  shafts  wound  far 

away 
The  long  and  labyrinthine  aisles,  more 

bright 
With  their  own  radiance  than  the  Heaven 

of  Day; 
And  on  the  jasper  walls  around  there  lay 
Paintings,  the  poesy  of  mightiest  thought, 
Which  did  the  Spirit's  history  display; 
A   tale   of  passionate   change,   divinely 

taught, 
Which,  in  their  wingfed  dance,  unconscious 

Genii  wrought. 

LIV 

Beneath  there  sate  on  many  a  sapphire 
throne 

The  Great  who  had  departed  from  man- 
kind, 

A  mighty  Senate;  —  some,  whose  white 
hair  shone 


6o 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


Like  mountain  snow,  mild,  beautiful  and 

blind; 
Some,    female    forms,    whose    gestures 

beamed  with  mind; 
And  ardent  youths,  and  children  bright 

and  fair; 
And  some  had  lyres  whose  strings  were 

intertwined 
"With   pale  and   clinging  flames,  which 

ever  there 
Waked    faint    yet    thrilling    sounds    that 

pierced  the  crystal  air. 

LV 
One  seat  was  vacant  in  the  midst,  a  throne. 
Reared   on  a  pyramid   like  sculptured 

flame, 
Distinct  with  circling  steps  which  rested 

on 
Their  own  deep  fire.   Soon  as  the  Woman 

came 
Into  that  hall,  she  shrieked  the  Spirit's 

name 
And  fell;  and  vanished  slowly  from  the 

sight. 
Darkness     arose    from    her    dissolving 

frame,  — 
Which,  gathering,  filled   that   dome  of 

woven  light, 
Blotting  its  sphered  stars  with  supernatural 

night. 

LVI 
Then  first  two  glittering  lights  were  seen 

to  glide 
In  circles  on  the  amethystine  floor. 
Small  serpent  eyes  trailing  from  side  to 

side, 
Like  meteors  on  a  river's  grassy  shore ; 
They  round  each  other  rolled,  dilating 

more 
And  more  —  then  rose,  commingling  into 

one. 
One  clear  and  mighty  planet   hanging 

o'er 
A  cloud  of  deepest  shadow  which  was 

thrown 
Athwart  the  glowing  steps  and  the  crystal- 
line throne. 

LVII 
The  cloud  which  rested  on  that  cone  of 

flame 
Was  cloven;  beneath  the  planet  sate  a 

Form, 


Fairer  than  tongue  can  speak  or  thought 
may  frame, 

The  radiance  of  whose  limbs  rose-like 
and  warm 

Flowed  forth,  and  did  with  softest  light 
inform 

The  shadowy  dome,  the  sculptures  and 
the  state 

Of  those  assembled  shapes  —  with  cling- 
ing charm 

Sinking  upon  their  hearts  and  mine.    He 
sate 
Majestic  yet  most  mild,  calm  yet  compas- 
sionate. 

LVIII 

Wonder  and  joy  a  passing  faintness  threw 
Over  my  brow  —  a  hand  supported  me, 
Whose  touch  was  magic  strength ;  an  eye 

of  blue 
Looked  into  mine,  like  moonlight,  sooth- 
ingly; 
And  a  voice  said, '  Tliou  must  a  listener  be 
This  day;  two  mighty  Spirits  now  return, 
Like   birds  of   calm,  from   the    world's 

raging  sea; 
They  pour  fresh  light  from  Hope's  im- 
mortal urn; 
A  tale  of  human  power  —  despair  not  — 
list  and  learn! 

LIX 

I  looked,  and  lo!  one  stood  forth  elo- 
quently. 

His  eyes  were  dark  and  deep,  and  the 
clear  brow 

Which  shadowed  them  was  like  the 
morning  sky. 

The  cloudless  Heaven  of  Spring,  when 
in  their  flow 

Through  the  bright  air  the  soft  winds  as 
they  blow 

Wake  the  green  world  ;  his  gestures  did 
obey 

The  oracular  mind  that  made  his  fea- 
tures glow. 

And  where  his  curved  lips  half  open  lay. 
Passion's  divinest  stream  had  made  impetu- 
ous way. 

LX 
Beneath  the  darkness  of  his  outspread 

hair 
He  stood  thus  beautiful;  but  there  was 

One 


CANTO   SECOND 


6i 


Who  sate  beside   him  like  his  shadow 

there, 
And  held  his   hand  —  far  lovelier;   she 

was  known 
To  be  thus  fair  by  the  few  lines  alone 
Which  through  her  floating  locks  and 

gathered  cloke, 
Glances  of  soul-dissolving  glory,  shone; 
None  else  beheld  her  eyes  —  in  him  they 

woke 
Memories  which  found  a  tongue,  as  thus  he 

silence  broke. 

CANTO   SECOND 
I 

The   star-light   smile   of  children,   the 

sweet  looks 
Of  women,  the  fair  breast  from  which  I 

fed. 
The  murmur  of  the  unreposing  brooks. 
And  the  green  light  which,  shifting  over- 
head, 
Some  tangled  bower  of  vines  around  me 

shed, 
The  shells  on  the  sea-sand,  and  the  wild 

flowers, 
The    lamp  -  light    through    the    rafters 

cheerly  spread 
And  on  the  twining  flax  —  in  life's  young 

hours 
These   sights   and   sounds   did   nurse    my 

spirit's  folded  powers. 

II 
In  Argolis,  beside  the  echoing  sea. 
Such  impulses  within  my  mortal  frame 
Arose,  and  they  were  dear  to  memory. 
Like    tokens   of  the   dead;    but  others 

came 
Soon,  in  another  shape — the  wondrous 

fame 
Of  the  past  world,  the  vital  words  and 

deeds 
Of  minds  whom  neither  time  nor  change 

can  tame. 
Traditions   dark    and  old   whence    evil 

creeds 
Start  forth  and  whose  dim  shade  a  stream 

of  poison  feeds. 

ni 

I  heard,  as  all  have  heard,  the  various 

story 
Of  human  life,  and  wept  unwilling  tears. 


Feeble  historians  of  its  sliame  and  glory, 
False   disputants  on  all  its  hopes   and 

fears, 
Victims  who  worshipped  ruin,  chroniclers 
Of  daily  scorn,  and  slaves  who  loathed 

their  state, 
Yet,    flattering    Power,   had    given    its 

ministers 
A  throne  of  judgment  in  the  grave  — 

't  was  fate. 
That  among  such  as  these  my  youth  should 

seek  its  mate. 

IV 

The  land  in  which  I  lived  by  a  fell 

bane 
Was  withered  up.      Tyrants  dwelt  side 

by  side. 
And  stabled  in  our  homes,  until  the  chain 
Stifled  the  captive's  cry,  and  to  abide 
That  blasting  curse  men  had  no  shame. 

All  vied 
In  evil,  slave  and  despot;  fear  with  lust 
Strange  fellowship  through  mutual  hate 

had  tied, 
Like  two  dark  serpents  tangled  in   the 

dust. 
Which  on  the  paths  of  men  their  mingling 

poison  thrust. 


Earth,  our  bright  home,  its  mountains 
and  its  waters. 

And  the  ethereal  shapes  which  are  sus- 
pended 

Over  its  green  expanse,  and  those  fair 
daughters. 

The  clouds,  of  Sun  and  Ocean,  who  have 
blended 

The  colors  of  the  air  since  first  extended 

It  cradled  the  young  world,  none  wan- 
dered forth 

To  see  or  feel ;  a  darkness  had  descended 

On  every  heart;  the  light  which  shows 
its  worth 
Must  among  gentle  thoughts  and  fe&rless 
take  its  birth. 

VI 
This  vital  world,  this  home   of  happy 

spirits. 
Was  as  a  dungeon  to  my  blasted  kind; 
All  that  despair  from  murdered  hope  in* 

herits 


62 


THE  REVOLT   OF   ISLAM 


They  sought,  and,  in  their  helpless  misery 

blind, 
A  deeper  prison  and  heavier  chains  did 

find, 
And    stronger    tyrants:  —  a  dark    gulf 

before, 
The  realm   of  a  stern   Ruler,  yawned; 

behind, 
Terror  and  Time  conflicting  drove,  and 

bore 
Dn  their  tempestuous  flood  the   shrieking 

wretch  from  shore. 


Out  of  that  Ocean's  wrecks  had  Guilt 
and  Woe 

Framed  a  dark  dwelling  for  their  home- 
less thought, 

And,  starting  at  the  ghosts  which  to  and 
fro 

Glide  o'er  its  dim  and  gloomy  strand,  had 
brought 

The  worsliip  thence  which  they  each 
other  taught. 

Well  might  men  loathe  their  life!  well 
might  they  turn 

Even  to  the  ills  again  from  which  they 
sought 

Such  refuge    after  death!  —  well  might 
they  learn 
To  gaze  on  this  fair  world  with  hopeless  un- 
concern! 

VIII 

For  they  all  pinod  in  bondage;  body  and 
soul, 

Tyrant  and  slave,  victim  and  torturer, 
bent 

Before  one  Power,  to  which  supreme 
control 

Over  tlieir  will  by  their  own  weakness 
lent 

Made  all  its  many  names  omnipotent; 

All  symbols  of  tilings  evil,  all  divine; 

And  hymns  of  blood  or  mockery,  which 
rent 

The  air  from  all  its  fanes,  did  intertwine 
Imposture's  impious  toils  pound  each  dis- 
cordant shrine. 

IX. 

I  heard,  as  all  have  heard,  life's  various 

story. 
And  in  no  careless  heart  transcribed  the 

tale; 


But,  from  the  sneers  of  men  who  had 

grown  hoary 
In   shame    and   scorn,  from    groans   of 

crowds  made  pale 
By  famine,  from  a  mother's  desolate  wail 
O'er  her  polluted   child,  from  innocent 

blood 
Poured  on  the  earth,  and  brows  anxious 

and  pale 
With  the  heart's  warfare,  did  I  gather 

food 
To  feed  my  many  thoughts  —  a  tameless 

multitude ! 


I  wandered  through  the  wrecks  of  days 

departed 
Far  by  the  desolated  shore,  when  even 
O'er  the  still  sea  and  jagged  islets  darted 
The  light  of  moonrise  ;  in  the  northern 

Heaven, 
Among    the    clouds    near    the    horizon 

driven. 
The   mountains  lay  beneath   one  planet 

pale; 
Around  me  broken  tombs  and  columns 

riven 
Looked  vast  in  twilight,  and  the  sorrow- 
ing gale 
Waked  in  those  ruins  gray  its  everlasting 

wail! 

XI 

I  knew  not  who  had  framed  these  won- 
ders then. 

Not  had  I  heard  the  story  of  their  deeds ; 

But    dwellings    of   a   race   of   mightier 
men. 

And  monuments  of  less  ungentle  creeds 

Tell  their  own  tale  to  him  who  wiselj 
heeds 

The   language   which   they  speak;    and 
now,  to  me, 

The  moonlight  making  pale  the  blooming 
weeds. 

The  bright  stars  shining  in  the  breathless 
sea. 
Interpreted  those  scrolls  of  mortal  mys- 
tery. 

XII 
Snch  man  has  been,  and  such  may  yet 

become! 
Ay,   wiser,  greater,   gentler  even   than 

they 


CANTO   SECOND 


63 


Who  on  the  fragments  of  you  shattered 
dome 

Have  stamped  the  sign  of  power!    I  felt 
the  sway 

Of  the  vast  stream  of  ages  bear  away 

My  floating   thoughts  —  my  heart   beat 
loud  and  fast  — 

Even  as  a  storm  let  loose  beneath  the 
ray 

Of   the   still   moon,   my   spirit   onward 
passed 
Beneath  truth's  steady  beams  upon  its  tu- 
mult cast. 

XIII 

It  shall  be  thus  no  more!  too  long,  too 

long, 
Sons  of  the  glorious  dead,  have  ye  lain 

bound 
In  darkness  and  in  ruin!   Hope  is  strong, 
Justice   and   Truth  their   winged   child 

have  found! 
Awake!  arise!  until  the  mighty  sound 
Of  your  career  shall  scatter  in  its  gust 
The  thrones  of  the  oppressor,  and  the 

ground 
Hide  the  last  altar's  unregarded  dust, 
Whose  Idol  has  so  long  betrayed  your  im- 
pious trust. 

XIV 

It  must  be  so  —  I  will  arise  and  waken 
The  multitude,    and   like  a  sulphurous 

hill, 
Which  on  a  sudden  from  its  snows  has 

shaken 
The  swoon  of  ages,  it  shall  burst,  and  fill 
The  world  with  cleansing  fiije;  it  must,  it 

will  — 
It   may  not  be  restrained  !  —  and   who 

shall  stand 
Amid  the  rocking  earthquake  steadfast 

still 
But  Laon  ?   on  high  Freedom's   desert 

land 
A  tower  whose  marble  walls  the  leagued 

storms  withstand! 

XV 

One  summer  night,  in  commune  with  the 

hope 
Thus  deeply  fed,  amid  those  ruins  gray 
I  watched  beneath  the  dark  sky's  starry 

cope; 
And  ever  from  that  hour  upon  me  lay 


The  burden  of  this  hope,  and  night  or 

day, 
In  vision  or  in  dream,  clove  to  my  breast; 
Among  mankind,  or  when  gone  far  away 
To  the  lone  shores  and  mountains,  't  was 

a  guest 
Which  followed  where  I  fled,  and  watched 

when  I  did  rest. 

XVI 

These  hopes  found  words  through  wbicb 

my  spirit  sought 
To  weave  a  bondage  of  such  sympathy 
As  might  create  some  response  to  the 

thought 
Which  ruled  me  now  —  and  as  the  vapors 

lie 
Bright  in  the  outspread  morning's  radi- 
ancy. 
So  were  these  thoughts  invested  with  the 

light 
Of  language;  and  all  bosoms  made  reply 
On  which  its  lusti-e  streamed,  whene'er 

it  might 
Through   darkness   wide   and   deep  those 

tranced  spirits  smite. 


Yes,  many  an  eye  with  dizzy  tears  was 

dim. 
And  oft  I  thought  to  clasp  my  own  heart's 

brother. 
When  I  could  feel  the  listener's  senses 

swim, 
And  hear  his  breath  its  own  swift;  gasp- 

ings  smother 
Even  as  my  words  evoked  them^ — and 

another. 
And  yet  another,  I  did  fondly  deem, 
Felt  that  we  all  were  sons  of  one  great 

mother; 
And  the  cold  truth  such  sad  reverse  did 

seem. 
As  to  awake  in  grief  from  some  delightful 

dream. 

xvin 
Yes,  oft  beside  the  ruined  labyrinth 
Which   skirts   the   hoary  caves  of    the 

green  deep 
Did   Laon  and  his  friend  on  one  gray 

plinth, 
Round  whose  worn  base  the  wild  waves 

hiss  and  leap, 
Besting  at  eve,  a  lofty  converse  keep; 


64 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


And  that  this  friend  was  false  may  now 

be  said 
Caiiuly  —  that  he  like  other  men  could 

weep 
Tears  which  are  lies,  and  could  betray 

ana  spread 
Snares  for  that  guileless  heart  which  for 

his  own  had  bled. 

XIX 

Then,  had  no  great  aim  recompensed  my 

sorrow, 
I  must  have  sought  dark  respite  from  its 

stress 
In  dreamless  rest,  in  sleep  that  sees  no 

morrow  — 
For  to  tread  life's  dismaying  wilderness 
Without  one  smile  to  cheer,  one  voice  to 

bless. 
Amid  the  snares  and  scoffs  of  human- 
kind, 
Is  hard  —  but  I  betrayed  it  not,  nor  less 
With  love  that  scorned  return  sought  to 

unbind 
The    interwoven    clouds    which  make   its 

wisdom  blind. 


With  deathless  minds,  which  leave  where 
they  have  passed 

A  path  of  light,   my  soul   communion 
knew. 

Till  from  that  glorious  intercourse,  at 
last. 

As  from  a  mine  of  magic  store,  I  drew 

Words  which  were  weapons;  round  my 
heart  there  grew 

The  adamantine  armor  of  their  power; 

And  from  my  fancy  wings  of  golden  hue 

Sprahg  forth  —  yet  not  alone  from  wis- 
dom's tower, 
A  minister  of  truth,  these  plumes  young 
Laon  bore. 

XXI 
An  orphan  with  my  parents  lived,  whose 

eyes 
Were  lodestars  of  delight,  which  drew 

roe  home 
When  I  might  wander  forth;  nor  did  I 

prize 
Aught  human  thing  beneath  Heaven's 

mighty  dome 
Beyond   this  child;  so  when  sad  hours 

were  come. 


And  baffled  hope  like  ice  still  clung  to 

me. 
Since  kin  were  cold,  and  friends  had  now 

become 
Heartless  and  false,  I  turned  from  all 

to  be, 
Cythna,  the  only  source  of  tears  and  smiles 

to  thee. 

xxn 

Wh&t  wert  thou  then?    A  child  most 
infantine. 

Yet  wandering  far  beyond  that  innocent 
age 

In  all  but  its  sweet  looks  and  mien  di- 
vine; 

Even  then,  methought,  with  the  world's 
tyrant  rage 

A  patient  warfare  thy  young  heart  did 
wage, 

When  those  soft  eyes  of  scarcely  con- 
scious thought 

Some   tale  or  thiue  own  fancies  would 
engage 

To    overflow    with    tears,  or    converse 
fraught 
With  passion  o'er  their  depths  its  fleeting 
light  had  wrought. 

XXIII 

She  moved  upon  this  earth  a  shape  of 

brightness, 
A  power,  that  from  its  objects  scarcely 

drew 
One  impulse  of  her  being  —  in  her  light- 
ness 
Most  like  some  radiant  cloud  of  morning 

dew 
Which  wanders  through  the  waste  air's 

pathless  blue 
To   nourish  some  far  desert;    she  did 

seem 
Beside  me,  gathering  beauty  as  she  grew. 
Like  the  bright  shade  of  some  immortal 

dream 
Which   walks,  when   tempest  sleeps,   the 

wave  of  life's  dark  stream. 

XXIV 

As  mine   own  shadow   was   this    child 

to  me, 
A  second  self,  far  dearer  and  more  fair, 
Which  clothed  in  undissolving  radiancy 
All  those  steep  paths  which  languor  and 

despair 


CANTO   SECOND 


65 


Of  human  things  had  made  so  dark  and 

For  her  soothed  senses,  in  my  arms  she 

bare, 

slept, 

But  which  I  trod  alone  —  nor,  till  be- 

And  I  kept  watch  over  her  slumbers 

reft 

there. 

Of  friends,  and  overcome  by  lonely  care, 

While,  as  the  shifting  visions  over  her 

Knew   I  what  solace  for  that  loss  was 

swept. 

left, 

Amid  her  innocent  rest  by  turns  she  smiled 

Though  by   a  bitter  wound   my  trusting 

and  wept. 

heart  was  cleft. 

XXVIII 

XXV 

And  in  the  murmur  of  her  dreams  was 

Once  she  was  dear,  now  she  was  all  I 

heard 

had 

Sometimes  the  name  of  Laon.    Suddenly 

To  love  in  human  life  —  this  playmate 

She  would  arise,  and,  like  the  secret  bird 

sweet. 

Whom  sunset  wakens,  fill  the  shore  and 

This  child  of  twelve  years  old.     So  she 

sky 

was  made 

With  her  sweet    accents,   a   wild  mel- 

My sole  associate,  and  her  willing  feet 

ody,— 

Wandered  with  mine  where  Earth  and 

Hymns   which    my   soul  had  woven  to 

Ocean  meet, 

Freedom,  strong 

Beyond  the  aerial  mountains  whose  vast 

The  source  of  passion  whence  they  rose 

cells 

to  be; 

The  unreposing  billows  ever  beat, 

Triumphant  strains  which,  like  a  spirit's 

Through  forests  wild  and  old,  and  lawny 

tongue. 

dells 

To  the  enchanted  waves  that  child  of  glory 

Where  boughs  of  incense  droop  over  the 

sung  — 

emerald  wells. 

XXIX 

XXVI 

Her  white  arms  lifted  through  the  shad- 

And warm  and  light  I  felt  her  clasping 

owy  stream 

hand 

Of  her  loose  hair.     Oh,  excellently  great 

When    twined   in    mine;    she   followed 

Seemed  to  me  then  my  purpose,  the  vast 

where  I  went. 

theme 

Through  the  lone  paths  of  our  immortal 

Of  those  impassioned  songs,  when  Cythna 

land. 

sate 

It  had  no  waste  but  some  memorial  lent 

Amid  the  calm  which  rapture  doth  cre- 

Which   strung   me   to   my   toil  —  some 

ate 

monument 

After  its  tumult,  her  heart  vibrating, 

Vital   with   mind;  then  Cythna  by  my 

Her  spirit  o'er  the  Ocean's  floating  state 

side. 

From  her  deep  eyes  far  wandering,  on 

Until  the  bright  and  beaming  day  were 

the  wing 

speut, 

Of  visions  that  were  mine,  beyond  its  ut- 

Would  rest,    with    looks  entreating   to 

most  spring  ! 

abide. 

Too  earnest  and  too  sweet  ever  to  be  de- 

XXX 

nied. 

For,  before  Cythna  loved  it,  had  my  song 

Peopled  with  thoughts  the  boundless  uni- 

XXVII 

verse. 

And  soon  I  could  not  have  refused  her. 

A    mighty    congregation,    which    were 

Thus 

strong. 

Forever,  day  and  night,  we  two  were 

Where'er  they  trod  the  darkness,  to  dis- 

ne'er 

perse 

Parted  but  when  brief  sleep  divided  us; 

The  cloud  of  that  unutterable  curse 

And,  when  the  pauses  of  the  lulling  air 

Which  clings  upon  mankind;  all  things 

Of  noon  beside  the  sea  had  made  a  lair 

became 

66 


THE  REVOLT  OF   ISLAM 


Slaves  to  my  holy  and  heroic  verse, 
Earth,  sea  and  sky,  the  planets,  life  and 
fame 
And  fate,  or  whate'er  else  binds  the  world's 
wondrous  frame. 


And  this  beloved  child  thus  felt  the  sway 

Of    my    conceptions,    gathering    like    a 
cloud 

The  very  wind  on  which  it  rolls  away; 

Hers  too  were  all  my  thoughts,  ere  yet 
endowed 

With  music  and  with  light  their  foun- 
tains flowed 

In  poesy;  and  her  still  and  earnest  face, 

Pallid    with    feelings    which     intensely 
glowed 

Within,  was  turned  on  mine  with  speech- 
less grace, 
Watching  the  hopes  which  there  her  heart 
had  learned  to  trace. 

XXXII 

In  me,  communion  with  this  purest  being 
Kindled  intenser  zeal,  and  made  me  wise 
In  knowledge,  which  in  hers  mine  own 

mind  seeing 
Left  in  the  human  world  few  mysteries. 
How  without  fear  of  evil  or  disguise 
Was  Cythna  !  what  a  spirit  strong  and 

mild, 
Whicli  death  or  pain  or  peril  could  de- 
spise. 
Yet   melt   in   tenderness !    what  genius 
wild, 
Tet  mighty,  was  enclosed  within  one  simple 
child  ! 

XXXIII 

New  lore  was  this.    Old  age  with  its  gray 
hair. 

And    wrinkled     legends    of    unworthy 
things. 

And  icy  sneers,  is  nought:  it  cannot  dare 

To  btirst  the  chains  which  life  forever 
flings 

On  the  entangled  soul's  aspiring  wings; 

So  is  it  cold  and  cruel,  and  is  made 

The  careless  slave  of  that  dark  Power 
which  brings 

Evil,  like  blight,  on  man,  who,  still  be- 
trayed, 
Laughs  o'er  the  grave  in  which  his  living 
hopes  are  laid. 


XXXIV 
Nor  are  the  strong  and  the  severe  to  keep 
The  empire  of  the  world.    Thus  Cythna 

taught 
Even  in  the  visions  of  her  eloquent  sleep, 
Unconscious  of  the  power  through  which 

she  wrought 
The  woof  of  such  intelligible  thought. 
As   from   the    tranquil    strength   which 

cradled  lay 
In    her    smile-peopled    rest    my    spirit 

sought 
Why  the  deceiver  and  the  slave  has  sway 
O'er  heralds  so  divine  of  truth's  arising 

day. 

XXXV 

Within  that  fairest  form  the  female  mind, 

Untainted  by  the  poison  clouds  which 
rest 

On  the  dark  world,  a  sacred  home  did 
find; 

But  else  from  the  wide  earth's  maternal 
breast 

Victorious  Evil,  which  had  dispossessed 

All  native  power,  had  those  fair  children 
torn. 

And  made  them  slaves  to  soothe  his  vile 
unrest. 

And  minister  to  lust  its  joys  forlorn. 
Till  they  had  learned  to  breathe  the  atmo- 
sphere of  scorn. 


This  misery  was  but  coldly  felt,  till  she 

Became  my  only  friend,  who  had  endued 

My  purpose  with  a  wider  sympathy. 

Thus  Cythna  mourned  with  me  the  servi- 
tude 

In  which  the  half  of  humankind  were 
mewed, 

Victims  of  lust  and  hate,  the  slaves  of 
slaves ; 

She  mourned  tliat  grace  and  power  were 
thrown  as  food 

To  the  hyena  Lust,  who,  among  graves, 
Over  his  loathed  meal,  laughing  in  agony, 
raves. 

XXXVII 

And  I,  still  gazing  on  that  glorious  child, 
Even  as  these  thoughts  flushed  o'er  her: 

—  '  Cythna  sweet. 
Well  with  the  world  art  thou  unrecon« 

ciled; 


CANTO   SECOND 


67 


Never  will  peace  and  human  nature  meet 
Till  free  and  equal  man  and  woman  greet 
Domestic  peace;  and  ere  this  power  can 

make 
In  human  hearts  its  calm  and  holy  seat, 
This  slavery   must    be  broken '  —  as   I 

spake, 
From  Cythna's  eyes  a  light  of  exultation 

brake. 

XXXVIII 

She    replied    earnestly:  —  'It    shall    be 

mine. 
This  task,  —  mine,  Laon  !  thou  hast  much 

to  gain; 
Nor  wilt  thou  at  poor  Cythna's  pride  re- 
pine, 
If  she  should  lead  a  happy  female  train 
To  meet  thee  over  the  rejoicing  plain, 
When  myriads  at  thy  call  shall  throng 

around 
The  Golden  City.'  — Then  the  child  did 

strain 
My  arm  upon  her  tremulous  heart,  and 

wound 
Her  own  about  my  neck,  till  some  reply 

she  found. 


I  smiled,  and  spake  not.  —  'Wherefore 

dost  thou  smile 
At  what  I  say  ?     Laon,  I  am  not  weak, 
And,  though  my  cheek  might  become  pale 

the  while, 
With  thee,  if  thou  desirest,  will  I  seek 
Through  their  array  of  banded  slaves  to 

wreak 
Ruin  upon  the  tyrants.     I  had  thought 
It  was  more  hard  to  turn  my  unpractised 

cheek 
To  scorn  and  shame,  and  this  beloved 

spot 
And  thee,  O  dearest  friend,  to  leave  and 

murmur  not. 

XL 

•  Whence  came  I  what  I  am  ?  Thou,  Laon, 
knowest 

How  a  young  child  should  thus  undaunted 
be; 

Methiuks  it  is  a  power  which  thou  be- 
stowest, 

Through  which  I  seek,  by  most  resem- 
bling thee, 


So  to  become  most  good,  and  great,  and 

free; 
Yet,  far  beyond  this  Ocean's  utmost  roar, 
In  towers  and  huts  are   many  like   to 

me. 
Who,  could  they  see  thine  eyes,  or  feel 

such  lore 
As  I  have  learnt  from  them,  like  me  would 

fear  no  more. 

XLI 

*  Think'st  thou  that  I  shall  speak  unskil- 

fully. 
And  none  will  heed  me  ?     I  remember 

now 
How  once  a  slave  in  tortures  doomed  to 

die 
Was  saved  because  in  accents  sweet  and 

low 
He  sung  a  song  bis  judge   loved  long 

ago. 
As  he  was  led  to  death.    All  shall  relent 
Who  hear  me ;  tears  as  mine  have  flowed, 

shall  flow. 
Hearts  beat  as  mine  now  beats,  with  such 

intent 
As  renovates  the  world;  a  will  omnipotent! 

XLII 

'  Yes,  I  will  tread  Pride's  golden  palaces. 
Through    Penury's    roofless     huts    and 

squalid  cells 
Will  I  descend,  where'er  in  abjectness 
Woman  with  some  vile  slave  her  tyrant 

dwells; 
There  with  the  music  of  thine  own  sweet 

spells 
Will   disenchant  the  captives,  and  will 

pour 
For  the  despairing,  from  the  crystal  wells 
Of  thy  deep  spirit,  reason's  mighty  lore, 
And  power  shall  then  abound,  and   hope 

arise  once  more. 

XLIII 

*  Can  man  be  free  if  woman  be  a  slave  ? 
Chain  one  who  lives,  and  breathes  this 

boundless  air. 

To  the  corruption  of  a  closfed  grave! 

Can  they,  whose  mates  are  beasts  con- 
demned to  bear 

Scorn  heavier  far  than  toil  or  anguish, 
dare 

To  trample  their  oppressors  ?  In  theii 
home. 


68 


THE  REVOLT  OF   ISLAM 


Among  their  babes,  thou  knowest  a  curse 
would  wear 

The   shape   of    woman  —  hoary   Crime 
would  come 
Behind,  and  Fraud  rebuild  Religion's  tot- 
tering dome. 

XLIV 

*I  am  a  child:  —  I  would  not  yet  de- 
part. 
When  I  go  forth  alone,  bearing  the  lamp 
Aloft  which  thou   hast   kindled   in  my 

heart, 
Millions  of  slaves  from  many  a  dungeon 

damp 
Shall    leap    in  joy,   as   the   benumbing 

cramp 
Of  ages  leaves  their  limbs.     No  ill  may 

harm 
Thy   Cythna    ever.     Truth    its    radiant 

stamp 
Has  fixed,  as  an  invulnerable  charm, 
Upon  her  children's  brow,  dark  Falsehood 

to  disarm. 


*  Wait  yet  awhile  for  the  appointed  day. 
Thou  wilt  depart,  and  I  with  tears  shall 

stand 
Watching  thy  dim  sail  skirt  the  ocean 

gray ; 
Amid  the  dwellers  of  this  lonely  land 
I  shall  remain  alone  —  and  thy  command 
Shall  then  dissolve  the  world's  unquiet 

trance. 
And,  multitudinous  as  the  desert  sand 
Borne  on  the  storm,  its  millions  shall  ad- 
vance, 
Thronging  round  thee,  the  light  of  their 
deliverance. 

XL  VI 

'  Then,  like  the  forests  of  some  pathless 

mountain 
Which  from  remotest  glens  two  warring 

winds 
Involve  in  fire  which  not  the  loosened 

fountain 
Of  broadest  floods  might  quench,  shall 

all  the  kinds 
Of  evil  catch  from  our  uniting  minds 
The  spark  which  must  consume  them;  — 

Cythna  then 
Will   have  cast  off  the  impotence  that 

binds 


Her  childhood  now,   and    through   the 
paths  of  men 
Will  pass,  as  the  charmed  bird  that  haunts 
the  serpent's  den. 

XLVII 

'  We  part!  —  O  Laon,  I  must  dare,  nor 

tremble. 
To   meet  those   looks   no  more!  —  Oh, 

heavy  stroke! 
Sweet   brother  of   my  soul!   can  I  dis- 
semble 
The  agony  of  this  thought?  '  —  As  thus 

she  spoke 
The  gathered  sobs  her  quivering  accents 

broke, 
And   in  my  arms  she  hid  her  beating 

breast. 
I  remained  still  for  tears  —  sudden  she 

woke 
As  one  awakes  from  sleep,  and  wildly 

pressed 
My  bosom,  her  whole  frame  impetuously 

possessed. 

XLVIII 

*  We  part  to  meet  again  —  but  yon  blue 
waste, 

Yon  desert  wide  and  deep,  holds  no  recess 

Within  whose  happy  silence,  thus  era- 
braced. 

We  might  survive  all  ills  in  one  caress; 

Nor  doth  the  grave  —  I  fear  't  is  passion- 
less— 

Nor  yon  cold  vacant  Heaven :  —  we  meet 
again 

Within   the   minds  of  men,  whose   lips 
shall  bless 

Our  memory,  and  whose  hopes  its  light 
retain 
When  these  dissevered  bones  are  trodden 
in  the  plain.' 

XLIX 

I  could  not  speak,  though  she  had  ceased, 

for  now 
The  foimtains  of  her  feeling,  swift  and 

deep, 
Seemed  to  suspend  the  tumult  of  their 

flow. 
So  we  arose,  and  by  the  star-light  steep 
Went  homeward  —  neither  did  we  speak 

nor  weep. 
But,  pale,  were  calm  with  passion.   Thus 

subdued, 


CANTO  THIRD 


69 


Like  evening  shades  that  o'er  the  moun- 
tains creep, 

We  moved  towards  our  home;  where,  in 
this  mood, 
Each  from  the  other  sought  refuge  in  soli- 
tude. 

CANTO   THIRD 
I 

What  thoughts  had  sway  o'er  Cythna's 

lonely  slumber 
That  night,  I  know  not;  but  my  own  did 

seem 
As  if  they  might  ten  thousand  years  out- 
number 
Of  waking  life,  the  visions  of  a  dream 
Which  hid  in  one  dim  gulf  the  troubled 

stream 
Of   mind;   a   boundless  chaos  wild  and 

vast, 
Whose  limits  yet  were  never  memory's 

theme; 
And  I  lay  struggling  as  its  whirlwinds 

passed. 
Sometimes  for  rapture  sick,  sometimes  for 

pain  aghast. 

n 

Two  hours,  whose  mighty  circle  did  em- 
brace 

More  time  than  might  make  gray  the  in- 
fant world, 

Rolled   thus,  a   weary   and  tumultuous 
space ; 

When    the    third    came,   like    mist    on 
breezes  curled, 

From  my  dim  sleep  a  shadow  was  un- 
furled; 

Methought,  upon  the  threshold  of  a  cave 

I  sate    with   Cythna;    drooping    briony, 
pearled 

With   dew   from   the    wild    streamlet's 
shattered  wave, 
Hung,  where  we  sate  to  taste  the  joys  which 
Nature  gave. 

in 
We  lived  a  day  as  we  were  wont  to  live. 
But  Nature  had  a  robe  of  glory  on, 
And  the  bright  air  o'er  every  shape  did 

weave 
Intenser  hues,  so  that  the  herbless  stone, 
The   leafless   bough    among   the   leaves 

alone. 


Had  being  clearer  than  its  own  could  be ; 
And  Cythna's  pure  and  radiant  self  was 

shown. 
In  this  strange  vision,  so  divine  to  me, 
That  if  I  loved  before,  now  love  was  agony. 


Morn   fled,    noon    came,   evening,   then 

night,  descended, 
And  we  prolonged  calm  talk  beneath  the 

sphere 
Of  the  calm  moon  —  when  suddenly  was 

blended 
With  our  repose   a  nameless  sense   of 

fear; 
And  from  the  cave  behind  I  seemed  to 

hear 
Sounds  gathering  upwards  —  accents  in- 
complete. 
And   stifled    shrieks,  —  and   now,   more 

near  and  near, 
A  tumult  and  a  rush  of  thronging  feet 
The   cavern's   secret    depths   beneath   the 

earth  did  beat. 


The  scene  was  changed,  and  away,  away, 

away! 
Through   the   air  and  over  the   sea  we 

sped. 
And  Cythna  in  my  sheltering  bosom  lay. 
And  the    winds   bore   me;  through   the 

darkness  spread 
Around,  the  gaping  earth  then  vomited 
Legions    of    foul    and   ghastlv    shapes, 

which  hung 
Upon  my  flight;  and  ever  as  we  fled 
They   plucked  at  Cythna;  soon  to  me 

then  clung 
A  sense  of  actual  things  those  monstrous 

dreams  among. 

VI 

And  I  lay  struggling  in  the  impotence 

Of  sleep,  while  outward  life  had  burst 
its  bound. 

Though,  still  deluded,  strove  the  tor- 
tured sense 

To  its  dire  wanderings  to  adapt  the 
sound 

Which  in  the  light  of  morn  was  poured 
around 

Our  dwelling;  breathless,  pale  and  una- 
ware 

I  rose,  and  all  the  cottage  crowded  found 


70 


THE  REVOLT  OF   ISLAM 


Witli  annuel  meu,  whose  glittering  sworda 
were  bare, 
And   whose  degraded  limbs  the  Tyrant's 
garb  did  wear. 


And  ere  with  rapid  lips  and   gathered 

brow 
I    could    demand    the   cause,   a  feeble 

shriek  — 
It  was  a  feeble   shriek,   faint,  far  and 

low  — 
Arrested  me ;  my  mien  grew  calm  and 

meek, 
And  grasping  a  small  knife  I  went  to 

seek 
That  voice    among  the   crowd  —  't  was 

Cythna's  cry! 
Beneath    most  calm   resolve  did  agony 

wreak 
Its  whirlwind  rage:  —  so  I  passed  quietly 
Till  I   beheld   where  bound  that  dearest 

child  did  lie. 


I  started  to  behold  her,  for  delight 
And  exultation,  and  a  joyance  free. 
Solemn,    serene    and    lofty,    filled    the 

light 
Of  the  calm  smile  with  which  she  looked 

on  me; 
So  that  I  feared  some  brainless  ecstasy, 
Wrought  from  that  bitter  woe,  had  wil- 
dered  her. 
'Farewell!  farewell!'  she  said, as  I  drew 

nigh; 
'  At  first  my  peace  was  marred  by  this 
strange  stir. 
Now  I  am  calm  as  truth  —  its  chosen  min- 
ister. 

IX 
*  Look  not   so,   Laon  —  say   farewell  in 

hope ; 
These  bloody  men  are  but  the  slaves  who 

bear 
Their  mistress  to  her  task;  it  was  my 

scope 
The  slavery  where  they  drag  me  now  to 

share, 
And  among  captives  willing  chains  to 

wear 
Awhile  —  the  rest  thou  knowest.  Return, 

dear  friend! 
Let  our  first  triumph  trample  the  despair 


Which  would  ensnare  us  now,  for,  in  the 
end, 
In  victory  or  in  death  our  hopes  and  fears 
must  blend.' 


These  words  had  fallen  on  my  unheed- 
ing ear. 

Whilst  I  had  watched  the  motions  of  the 
crew 

With  seeming  careless  glance;  not  many 
were 

Around   her,    for   their    comrades    just 
withdrew 

To  guard  some  other  victim ;  so  I  drew 

My    knife,   and   with  one  impulse,  sud- 
denly. 

All  unaware  three  of  their  number  slew, 

And  grasped  a  fourth  by  the  throat,  and 
with  loud  cry 
My  countrymen  invoked  to  death  or  lib- 
erty. 


What  followed  then  I  know  not,  for  a 

stroke, 
On  my  raised  arm  and  naked  head  came 

down. 
Filling  my  eyes  with  blood.  —  When   I 

awoke, 
I  .felt   that   they  had  bound  me  in  my 

swoon. 
And  up  a  rock  which  overhangs  the  town 
By    the   steep  path   were   bearing  me; 

below 
The  plain  was   filled  with  slaughter, — 

overthrown 
The  vineyards  and  the  harvests,  and  the 

glow 
Of  blazing  roofs  shone  far  o'er  the  white 

Ocean's  flow. 

XII 
Upon  that  rock  a  mighty  column  stood, 
Whose  capital  seemed  sculjitured  in  the 

sky, 
Which  to  the  wanderers  o'er  the  solitude 
Of   distant   seas,  from  ages   long   gone 

^y'        , 

Had  made  a  landmark;  o'er  its  height  to 

fly 

Scarcely  the  cloud,  the  vulture  or  the 
blast 

Has  power,  and  when  the  shades  of  even- 
ing lie 


CANTO   THIRD 


71 


On  Earth  and  Ocean,  its  carved  summits 

XVI 

cast 

It  was  so  calm,  that  scarce  the  feathery 

The  sunken  daylight  far  through  the  aerial 

weed 

waste. 

Sown  by  some  eagle  on  the  topmost  stone 

Swayed  in  the  air:  —  so  bright,  that  noon 

XIII 

did  breed 

They  bore  me  to  a  cavern  in  the  hill 

No  shadow  in  the  sky  beside  mine  own — 

Beneath  that  column,  and  unbound  me 

Mine,  and  the  shadow  of  my  chain  alone. 

there ; 

Below,  the  smoke  of  roofs  involved  in 

And  one  did  strip  me  stark;  and  one  did 

flame 

fill 

Rested  like  night;  all  else  was  clearly 

A  vessel  from  the  putrid  pool;  one  bare 

shown 

A  lighted  torch,  and  four  with  friendless 

In  that  broad  glare;  yet  sound  to  me 

care 

none  came, 

Guided  my  steps  the  cavern-paths  along; 

But  of  the  living  blood  that  ran  within  my 

Then  up  a  steep  and  dark  and  narrow 

stair 
We  wound,  until  the  torch's  fiery  tongue 

frame. 

XVII 

Amid  the  gushing  day  beamless  and  pallid 

The  peace  of  madness  fled,  and  ah,  too 

hung. 

soon! 

A  ship  was  lying  on  the  sunny  main; 

XIV 

Its  sails  were  flagging  in  the  breathless 

They  raised  me  to  the  platform  of  the 

noon; 

pile, 

Its  shadow  lay  beyond.   That  sight  again 

That  column's  dizzy  height;  the  grate  of 

Waked  with  its  presence  in  my  tranced 

brass, 

brain 

Through   which   they  thrust   me,    open 

The  stings  of  a  known  sorrow,  keen  and 

stood  the  while. 

cold; 

As  to  its  ponderous  and  suspended  mass. 

I  knew  that  ship  bore  Cythna  o'er  the 

With  chains   which  eat  into  the   flesh. 

plain 

alas! 

Of  waters,  to  her  blighting  slavery  sold, 

With  brazen  links,  my  naked  limbs  they 

And  watched  it  with  such  tlioughts  as  must 

bound ; 

remain  untold. 

The  grate,  as  they  departed  to  repass, 

With   horrid    clangor  fell,  and   the   far 

XVIII 

sound 

I  watched  until  the  shades  of  evening 

Of  their  retiring  steps  in  the  dense  gloom 

wrapped 

was  drowned. 

Earth  like  an  exhalation ;  then  the  bark 

Moved,  for  that  calm  was  by  the  sunset 

XV 

snapped. 

The  noon  was  calm  and  bright:  —  around 

It  moved  a  speck  upon  the  Ocean  dark; 

that  column 

Soon  the   wan  stars  came  forth,  and  I 

The  overhanging  sky  and  circling  sea, 

could  mark 

Spread  forth  in  silentness  profound  and 

Its  path  no  more!  I  sought  to  close  mine 

solemn. 

eyes. 

The  darkness  of  brief  frenzy  cast  on  me. 

But,  like  the  balls,  their  lids  were  stiff 

So  that  I  knew  not  my  own  misery; 

and  stark; 

The  islands  and   the   mountains  in   the 

I  would  have  risen,  but  ere  that  I  could 

day 

rise 

Like  clouds  reposed  afar;  and  I  could 

My  parchfed  skin  was  split  with  piercing 

see 

agonies. 

The  town  among  the  woods  below  that 

lay, 

XIX 

And  the  dark  rocks  which  bound  the  bright 

I  gnawed  my  brazen  chain,  and  sought 

and  glassy  bay. 

to  sever 

73 


THE   REVOLT  OF   ISLAM 


Its  adamantine  links,  that  I  might  die. 
O  Liberty!  forgive  the  base  endeavor, 
Forgive  me,  if,  reserved  for  victory. 
The  Champion  of  thy  faith  e'er  sought 

to  fly! 
That  starry  night,  with  its  clear  silence, 

sent 
Tameless  resolve  which  laughed  at  misery 
Into  my  soul  —  linked  remembrance  lent 
To  that  such  power,  to  me  such  a  severe 

content. 

XX 

To  breathe,  to  be,  to  hope,  or  to  despair 
And  die,  I  questioned  not;  nor,  though 

the  Sun, 
Its  shafts  of  agony  kindling  through  the 

air, 
Moved  over  me,  nor  though  in  evening 

dun, 
Or  when  the  stars  their  visible  courses 

run, 
Or    morning,   the    wide    universe    was 

spread 
In  dreary  calmness  round  me,  did  I  shun 
Its  presence,  nor  seek  refuge  with  the 

dead 
From  one  faint  hope  whose  flower  a  drop- 
ping poison  shed. 


Two  days  thus  passed  —  I  neither  raved 

nor  died; 
Thirst  raged  within  me,  like  a  scorpion's 

nest 
Built  in   mine  entrails;   I   had  spurned 

aside 
The    water-vessel,    while    despair    pos- 
sessed 
My  thoughts,  and  now  no  drop  remained. 

The  uprest 
Of  the  third  sun  brought  hunger  —  but 

the  crust 
Which  had  been  left  was  to  my  craving 

breast 
Fuel,  not  food.   I  chewed  the  bitter  dust, 
And  bit  my  bloodless  arm,  and  licked  the 

brazen  rust. 

XXII 
My  brain  began  to  fail  when  the  fourth 

morn 
Burst  o'er  the  golden  isles.     A  fearful 

sleep, 


Which  through  the  caverns  dreary  and 
forlorn 

Of  the  riven  soul  sent  its  foul  dreams  to 
sweep 

With  whirlwind   swiftness  —  a  fall  far 
and  deep  — 

A  gulf,  a  void,  a  sense  of  senselessness  — 

These  things  dwelt  in  me,  even  as  shadows 
keep 

Their  watch  in  some  dim  charuel's  lone- 
liness, — 
A  shoreless  sea,  a  sky  sunless  and  planet- 
less! 

XXIII 

The   forms  which  peopled   this  terrific 

trance 
I  well  remember.   Like  a  choir  of  devils, 
Around  me  they  involved  a  giddy  dance; 
Legions  seemed  gathering  from  the  misty 

levels 
Of    Ocean,    to    supply   those    ceaseless 

revels,  — 
Foul,  ceaseless  shadows;  thought  could 

not  divide 
The  actual  world  from  these  entangling 

evils. 
Which  so  bemocked  themselves  that  1 

descried 
All  shapes  like  mine  own  self  hideously 

multiplied. 

XXIV 

The  sense  of  day  and  night,  of  false  and 

true. 
Was  dead  within  me.     Yet  two  visions 

burst 
That  darkness;  one,  as  since  that  hour  I 

knew. 
Was  not  a  phantom  of  the  realms  ac- 
cursed. 
Where  then  my  spirit  dwelt  —  but  of  the 

first 
I  know  not  yet,  was  it  a  dream  or  no; 
But  both,  though   not  distincter,  were 

immersed 
In  hues  which,  when  through  memory's 

waste  they  flow. 
Make  their  divided  streams   more  bright 

and  rapid  now. 

XXV 

Methought  that  grate  was  lifted,  and  the 
seven. 


CANTO  THIRD 


73 


Who    brought    me    thither,    four    stiff 

corpses  bare, 
And  from  the  frieze  to  the  four  wiuds  of 

Heaven 
Hung   them  on  high  by  the  entangled 

hair; 
Swarthy   were  three  —  the   fourth   was 

very  fair; 
As  they  retired,   the   golden  moon   up- 
sprung, 
And  eagerly,  out  in  the  giddy  air, 
Leaning  that  I  might  eat,   I  stretched 

and  clung 
Over  the  shapeless  depth  in  which  those 

corpses  hung. 


A  woman's  shape,  now  lank  and  cold  and 

blue, 
The  dwelling  of  the  many-colored  worm, 
Hung  there;  the  white  and  hollow  cheek 

1  drew 
To  my   dry  lips  —  What   radiance  did 

inform 
Those  horny  eyes?  whose  was  that  with- 
ered form? 
Alas,  alas!  it  seemed  that  Cythna's  ghost 
Laughed  in   those  looks,  and  that  the 

flesh  was  warm 
Within  my   teeth!  —  a  whirlwind  keen 

as  frost 
Then  in  its  sinking  gulfs  my  sickening  spirit 

tossed. 

XXVII 

Then  seemed  it  that  a  tameless  hurricane 
Arose,  and  bore  me  in  its  dark  career 
Beyond  the   sun,  beyond  the  stars  that 

wane 
On  the  verge  of  formless  space  —  it  lan- 
guished there. 
And,  dying,  left  a  silence  lone  and  drear. 
More  horrible  than  famine.    In  the  deep 
The  shape  of  an  old  man  did  then  ap- 
pear, 
Stately  and  beautiful;  that  dreadful  sleep 
His  heavenly  smiles  dispersed,  and  I  could 
wake  and  weep. 

XXVIII 
And,  when  the  blinding  tears  had  fallen, 

I  saw 
That  column,  and  those  corpses,  and  the 

moon, 


And  felt  the  poisonous  tooth  of  hunger 

gnaw 
My  vitals;  I  rejoiced,  as  if  the  boon 
Of  senseless  death  would  be  accorded 

soon. 
When  from  that  stony  gloom  a  voice 

arose. 
Solemn  and  sweet  aa  when  low  winds 

attune 
The  midnight  pines;  the  grate  did  then 

unclose, 
And  on  that  reverend  form  the  moonlight 

did  repose. 

XXIX 

He  struck  my  chains,  and  gently  spake 

and  smiled; 
As  they  were  loosened  by  that  Hermit 

old, 
Mine  eyes  were  of  their  madness  half 

beguiled 
To  answer  those  kind  looks;  he  did  en- 
fold 
His  giant  arms  around  me  to  uphold 
My  wretched  frame;  my  scorched  limbs 

he  wound 
In  linen  moist  and  balmy,  and  as  cold 
As  dew  to  drooping  leaves;  the  chain, 

with  sound 
Like  earthquake,   through   the   chasm  of 

that  steep  stair  did  bound, 

XXX 

As,  lifting  me,  it  fell!  —  What  hfert  I 
heard 

Were  billows  leaping  on  the  harbor  bar. 

And  the    shrill    sea-wind  whose   breath 
idly  stirred 

My  hair;  I   looked  abroad,  aad  saw  a 
star 

Shining  beside  a  sail,  and  distant  far 

That  mountain  and  its  column,  tbe  known 
mark 

Of  those  who  in  the  wide  deep  wander- 
ing are,  — 

So  that  I  feared  some  Spirit,  fell  and 
dart. 
In  trance  had  Iain  me  thus  within  a  fiend- 
ish bark. 

XXXI 

For  now,  indeed,  over  the  salt  sea  billow 
I  sailed;  yet  dared  not  look  npon  the 


r4 


THE  REVOLT  OF   ISLAM 


Of   him  who   ruled  the  helm,  although 

the  pillow 
For  my  light  head  was  hollowed  in  his 

lap, 
And  my  bare  limbs  his  mantle  did  en- 
wrap, — 
Fearing  it  was  a  fiend;  at  last,  he  bent 
O'er  me  his  aged  face;  as  if  to  snap 
Those    dreadful     thoughts,    the    gentle 
grandsire  bent, 
And  to  my  inmost  soul  his  soothing  looks 
he  sent. 

XXXII 

A  soft  and  healing  potion  to  my  lips 
At  intervals  he  raised  —  now  looked  on 

high 
To  mark  if  yet  the  starry  giant  dips 
His  zone   in  the  dim    sea  —  now  cheer- 

Though  he  said  little,  did  he  speak  to  me. 
'  It  is  a  friend  beside  thee  —  take  good 
cheer 
Poor  victim,  thou  art  now  at  liberty! ' 
I  joyed  as  those  a  human  tone  to  hear 
Who  in  cells  deep  and  lone  have  languished 
many  a  year. 

XXXIII 

A  dim  and  feeble  joy,  whose  glimpses  oft 
Were  quenched  in  a  relapse  of  wOdering 

dreams; 
Yet  still  methought  we  sailed,  until  aloft 
The  stars  of  night  grew  pallid,  and  the 

beams 
Of  morn  descended  on  the  ocean-streams; 
And  still  that  aged  man,  so  grand  and 

mild, 
Tended  me,  even  as  some  sick  mother 

seems 
To  hang  in  hope  over  a  dying  child. 
Till  in  the  azure  East  darkness  again  was 

piled. 

XXXIV 

And  then  the  night-wind,  steaming  from 
the  shore, 

Sent  odors  dying  sweet  across  the  sea. 

And  the  swift  boat  the  little  waves  which 
bore. 

Were  cut  by  its  keen  keel,  though  slant- 
ingly; 

Soon  I  could  hear  the  leaves  sigh,  and 
could  see 


The  myrtle-blossoms   starring  the  dim 
grove. 

As  past  the  pebbly  beach  the  boat  did 
flee 

On  sidelong  wing  into  a  silent  cove 
Where  ebon  pines  a  shade  under  the  star- 
light wove. 


CANTO   FOURTH 


The  old  man  took  the  oars,  and  soon  the 

bark 
Smote  on  the  beach  beside  a  tower  of 

stone. 
It  was  a  crumbling  heap  whose  portal 

dark 
With  blooming  ivy-trails  was  overgrown ; 
Upon  whose  floor  the  spangling   sands 

were  strown. 
And  rarest  sea-shells,  which  the  eternal 

flood. 
Slave  to  the  mother  of  the  months,  had 

thrown 
Within    the   walls  of  that  gray  tower, 

which  stood 
A  changeling  of  man's  art  nursed   amid 

Nature's  brood. 

n 

When  the  old  man  his  boat  had  anchored. 
He  wound  me  in  his  arms  with  tender 

care, 
And  very  few  but  kindly  words  he  said. 
And  bore  me  through  the  tower  adown  a 

stair, 
"Whose  smooth  descent   some   ceaseless 

step  to  wear 
For  many  a  year  had  fallen.     We  came 

at  last 
To  a  small  chamber  which  with  mosses 

rare 
Was  tapestried,  where  me  his  soft  hands 

placed 
Upon  a  couch  of  g^rass  and  oak-leaves  in- 
terlaced. 

m 

The  moon  was  darting  through  the  lat- 
tices 

Its  yellow  light,  warm  as  the  beams  of 
day  — 

So  warm  that  to  admit  the  d«wy  breeze 


CANTO  FOURTH 


75 


The  old  man  opened  them;  the  moonlight 

lay 
Upon  a  lake   whose  waters  wove  their 

play 
Even   to  the   threshold  of  that  lonely 

home; 
Within  was  seen  in  the  dim  wavering 

ray 
The  antique  sculptured  roof,  and  many  a 

tome 
Whose  lore  had  made  that  sage  all  that  he 

had  become. 

IV 

The   rock-built  barrier  of  the  sea  was 

passed 
And  I  was  on  the  margin  of  a  lake, 
A  lonely  lake,  amid  the  forests  vast 
And  snowy  mountains.     Did  my  spirit 

wake 
From  sleep  as  many-colored  as  the  snake 
That  girds  eternity  ?  in  life  and  truth 
Might   not  my  heart  its  cravings  ever 

slake  ? 
Was  Cythna  then  a  dream,  and  all  my 

youth, 
And  all  its  hopes  and  fears,  and  all  its  joy 

and  ruth  ? 


Thus  madness   came  again,  —  a  milder 
madness. 

Which  darkened  nought  but  time's  un- 
quiet flow 

With   supernatural    shades   of   clinging 
sadness ; 

That  gentle  Hermit,  in  my  helpless  woe. 

By  my  sick  couch  was  busy  to  and  fro. 

Like  a  strong  spirit  ministrant  of  good; 

When  I  was  healed,  he  led  me  forth  to 
show 

The  wonders  of  his  sylvan  solitude, 
And  we  together  sate  by  that  isle-fretted 
flood. 

VI 

He  knew  his  soothing  words  to  weave 

with  skill 
From  all  my  madness  told;  like  mine 

own  heart, 
Of  Cythna  would  he  question  me,  until 
That  thrilling  name  had  ceased  to  make 

me  start, 
From  his  familiar  lips;  it  was  not  art, 


Of    wisdom    and    of    justice    when    he 
spoke  — 

When  'mid  soft  looks  of  pity,  there  would 
dart 

A  glance  as  keen  as  is  the  lightning's 
stroke 
When  it  doth  rive  the  knots  of  some  an- 
cestral oak. 


Thus  slowly  from  my  brain  the  darkness 

rolled; 
My  thoughts  their  due   array  did  reas- 

sume 
Through  the  enchantments  of  that  Hermit 

old. 
Then  I  bethought   me  of  the  glorious 

doom 
Of  those  who  sternly  struggle  to  relume 
The  lamp  of  Hope  o'er  man's  bewildered 

lot; 
And,  sitting  by  the  waters,  in  the  gloom 
Of  eve,  to  that  friend's  heart  I  told  my 

thought  — 
That  heart  which  had  grown  old,  but  had 

corrupted  not. 


That  hoary  man  had  spent  his  livelong 

age 
In  converse  with  the  dead  who  leave  the 

stamp 
Of  ever-burning  thoughts   on   many  a 

page, 
When  they  are  gone  into  the  senseless 

damp 
Of  graves;  his  spirit  thus  became  a  lamp 
Of  splendor,  like  to  those  on  which  it 

fed; 
Through  peopled  haunts,  the  City  and 

the  Camp, 
Deep  thirst  for  knowledge  had  his  foot- 
steps led, 
And  all  the  ways  of  men  among  mankind 

he  read. 

* 

IX 

But  custom  maketh  blind  and  obdurate 
The  loftiest  hearts;,  he  had  beheld  the 

woe 
In    which     mankind    was     bound,    but 

deemed  that  fate 
Which  made   them  abject   would    pre* 

serve  them  so; 


76 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


And  in  such  faith,  some  steadfast  joy  to 

know, 
He  sought  this  cell;  but  when  fame  went 

abroad 
That  one  in  Argolis  did  undergo 
Torture  for  liberty,  and  that  the  crowd 
High  truths  from  gifted  lips  had  heard  and 

understood, 


And  that  the  multitude  was  gathering 

wide,  — 
His  spirit  leaped  within  his  aged  frame; 
In  lonely  peace  he  could  no  more  abide, 
But   to  the  land  on   which  the   victor's 

flame 
Had  fed,  my   native   land,  the  Hermit 

came ; 
Each  heart  was  there  a  shield,  and  every 

tongue 
Was  as  a  sword  of  truth  —  young  Laon's 

name 
Rallied  their  secret  hopes,  though  tyrants 

sung 
Hymns  of   triumphant  joy   our  scattered 

tribes  among. 

XI 

He  came  to  the  lone  column  on  the  rock, 

And    with    his   sweet   and    mighty   elo- 
quence 

The  hearts  of  those  who  watched  it  did 
unlock, 

And  made  them  melt  in  tears  of  peni- 
tence. 

They  gave  him  entranas  free  to  bear  me 
thence. 
'Since    this,'  the   old   man    said,   'seven 
years  are  spent, 

While   slowly   truth   on   thy  benighted 
sense 

Has   crept;  the  hope  which  wildered  it 
has  lent, 
Meanwhile,  to  me  ths  pow«r  of  a  sublime 
intent. 


•Tes,  from  the   records  of  my  youthful 

state. 
And  from  the  lore  of  bards  and  sages 

old. 
From  whatsoe'er  my  wakened  thoughts 

create 
Out  of  the  hopes  of  thine  aspirings  bold, 
Have  I  collected  language  to  unfold 


Truth  to  my  countrymen;  from  shore  to 

shore 
Doctrines   of  human   power  my   words 

have  told; 
They  have  been  heard,  and  men  aspire 

to  more 
Than  they  have  ever  gained  or  ever  lost 

of  yore. 

XIII 

'  In   secret  chambers  parents  read,  and 

weep, 
My   writings  to  their  babes,  no  longer 

blind ; 
And  young  men  gather  when  their  ty- 
rants sleep, 
And   vows   of  faith  each  to  the  other 

bind; 
And   marriageable    maidens,   who  have 

pined 
With    love    till    life    seemed    melting 

through  their  look, 
A  warmer  zeal,  a  nobler  hope,  now  find; 
And  every  bosom  thus  is  rapt  and  shook, 
Like  autumn's  myriad  leaves  in  one  swolu 

mountain  brook. 


*  The  tyrants  of  the  Golden  City  tremble 

At   voices   which   are   heard  about   the 
streets; 

The  ministers  of  fraud  can  scarce  dis- 
semble 

The  lies  of  their  own  heart,  but  when 
one  meets 

Another  at  the  shrine,  he  inly  weets, 

Though  he  says  nothing,  that  the  truth 
is  known; 

Murderers  are  pale  upon  the  judgment- 
seats. 

And  gold  grows  vile  even  to  the  wealthy 
crone. 
And  laughter  fills  the  Fane,  and  curses 
shake  the  Throne. 

XV 

*Kind  thoughts,  and  mighty  hopes,  and 

gentle  deeds 
Abound;  for  fearless  love,  and  the  pure 

law 
Of  mild  equality  and  peace,  succeeds 
To  faiths  which  long  have  held  the  world 

in  awe, 
Bloody,  and  false,  and  cold.    As  whirl' 

pools  draw 


CANTO   FOURTH 


77 


All  wrecks  of  Ocean  to  their  chasm,  the 
sway 

Of  thy  strong  genius,  Laon,  which  fore- 
saw 

This  hope,  compels  all  spirits  to  obey. 
Which    round    thy   secret    strength    now 
throng  in  wide  array. 


*  For  I  have    been   thy   passive    instru- 

ment '  — 
(As  thus  the  old  man  spake,  his  counte- 
nance 
Gleamed  on  me  like  a  spirit's)  —  '  thou 

hast  lent 
To  me,  to  all,  the  power  to  advance 
Towards  this  unforeseen  deliverance 
From   our   ancestral   chains  —  ay,    thou 

didst  rear 
That  lamp  of  hope  on  high,  which  time 

nor  chance 
Nor  change  may  not  extinguish,  and  my 

share 
Of  good  was  o'er  the  world  its  gathered 

beams  to  bear. 

XVII 

*  But  I,  alas!  am  both  unknown  and  old. 
And  though  the  woof  of  wisdom  I  know 

well 
To  dye  in  hues  of  language,  I  am  cold 
In  seeming,  and  the   hopes  which  inly 

dwell 
My  manners  note  that  I  did  long  repel ; 
But    Laon's    name    to    the   tumultuous 

throng 
Were   like   the    star  whose   beams   the 

waves  compel 
And   tempests,  and   his    soul  -  subduing 

tongue 
Were  as  a  lance  to  quell  the  mailed  crest 

of  wrong. 

XVIII 

*  Perchance  blood  need  not  flow ;  if  thou 

at  length 
Wouldst  rise,  perchance  the  very  slaves 

would  spare 
Their  brethren  and  themselves;  great  is 

the  strength 
Of  words  —  for  lately  did  a  maiden  fair. 
Who     from     her    childhood    has    been 

taught  to  bear 
The  Tyrant's  heaviest  yoke,  arise,  and 

make 


Her  sex  the  law  of  truth  and  freedom 

hear, 
And  with  these  quiet  words  —  "for  thine 

own  sake 
I  prithee  spare  me,"  —  did  with   ruth  so 

take 

XIX 

'  All  hearts  that  even  the  torturer,  who 
had  bound 

Her  meek  calm  frame,  ere  it  was  yet 
impaled. 

Loosened  her  weeping  then;  nor  could 
be  found 

One  human  hand  to  barm  her.     Unas- 
sailed 

Therefore  she  walks  through  the  great 
City,  veiled 

In  virtue's  adamantine  eloquence, 

'Gainst  scorn  and  death  and  pain  thus 
trebly  mailed. 

And  blending  in  the  smiles  of  that  de- 
fence 
The   serpent  and    the   dove,  wisdom  and 
innocence. 


'  The  wild-eyed  women  throng  around  her 
path; 
From  their  luxurious  dungeons,  from  the 

dust 

Of  meaner  thralls,  from  the  oppressor's 
wrath. 

Or  the  caresses  of  his  sated  lust. 

They  congregate;  in  her  they  put  their 
trust. 

The  tyrants  send  their  arm^d  slaves  te 
quell 

Her  power;  they,  even  like  a  thunder- 
gust 

Caught  by  some  forest,  bend  beneath  the 
spell 
Of  that  young  maiden's  speech,  and  to  their 
chiefs  rebel. 

XXI 

'Thus  she  doth  equal  laws   and  justice 

teach 
To  woman,  outraged  and  polluted  long; 
Gathering  the  sweetest  fruit  in  human 

reach 
For   those   fair  hands  now  free,  while 

amidd  wrong 
Trembles  before  her  look,  though  it  be 

strong; 


78 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


Thousands  thus  dwell  beside  her,  virgins 

bright 
And  matrons  with  their  babes,  a  stately 

throng  ! 
Lovers  renew  the  vows  which  they  did 

plight 
In  early  faith,  and  hearts  long  parted  now 

unite; 

XXII 
'  And  homeless  orphans  find  a  home  near 
her, 

And  those  poor  victims  of  the  proud,  no 
less. 

Fair  wrecks,  on  whom  the  smiling  world 
with  stir 

Thrusts  the  redemption   of  its  wicked- 
ness. 

In  squalid  huts,  and  in  its  palaces, 

Sits  Lust  alone,  while  o'er  the  land  is 
borne 

Her  voice,  whose  awful  sweetness  doth 
repress 

All  evil;  and  her  foes  relenting  turn. 
And  cast  the  vote  of  love  in  hope's  aban- 
doned urn. 

XXIII 
'  So  in  the  populous  City,  a  young  maiden 

Has  baffled  Havoc  of  the  prey  which  he 

Marks  as  his  own,  whene'er  with  chains 
o'erladen 

Men  make  them  arms  to  hurl  down  ty- 
ranny, — 

False  arbiter  between  the  bound  and  free; 

And  o'er  the   land,  in  hamlets  and  in 
towns 

The  multitudes  collect  tumultuously. 

And  throng  in  arms;  but  tyranny  dis- 
owns 
Their  claim,  and  gathers  strength  around 
its  trembling  thrones. 

XXIV 

*  Blood  soon,  although  unwillingly,  to  shed 
The  free  cannot  forbear.     The  Queen  of 

Slaves, 
The  hood-winked  Angel  of  the  blind  and 

dead, 
Custom,  with  iron  mace  points  to  the 

graves 
Where  her  own  standard  desolately  waves 
Over  the  dust  of  Prophets  and  of  Kings. 
Many   yet  stand  in   her  array  — "  she 

paves 


Her  path  with  human  hearts,"  and  o'er  it 
flings 
The  wildering  gloom  of  her  immeasurable 
wings. 

XXV 

*  There  is  a  plain  beneath  the  City's  wall, 
Bounded  by  misty  mountains,  wide  and 

vast; 
Millions  there  lift  at  Freedom's  thrilling 

call 
Ten  thousand  standards  wide;  they  load 

the  blast 
Which  bears  one  sound  of  many  voices 

past. 
And  startles  on  his  throne  their  sceptred 

foe; 
He  sits  amid  his  idle  pomp  aghast, 
And  that  his  power  hath  passed  away, 

doth  know  — 
Why  pause  the  victor  swords  to  seal  his 

overthrow  ? 


*  The  Tyrant's  guards  resistance  yet  main- 
tain, 
Fearless,  and  fierce,  and  hard  as  beasts 

of  blood; 
They  stand  a  speck  amid   the  peopled 

plain; 
Carnage  and  ruin  have  been  made  their 

food 
From  infancy;  ill  has  become  their  good. 
And  for  its  hateful  sake  their  will  has 

wove 
The  chains  which  eat  their  hearts.     Tlie 

multitude. 
Surrounding  them,  with  words  of  human 

love 
Seek  from  their  own  decay  their  stubborn 

minds  to  move. 

XXVII 

'  Over  the  land  is  felt  a  sudden  pause. 
As  night  and  day  those  rtlthless  bands 

around 
The  watch   of   love  is  kept  —  a  trance 

which  awes 
The  thoughts  of  men  with  hope ;  as  when 

the  sound 
Of  whirlwind,  whose   fierce   blasts   the 

waves  and  clouds  confound. 
Dies  suddenly,  the  mariner  in  fear 
Feels  silence  sink  upon  his  heart  —  thus 

bound 


CANTO   FOURTH 


79 


The  conquerors  pause;  and  oh  !  may  free- 
men ne'er 
Clasp  the  relentless  knees  of  Dread,  the 
murderer ! 

XXVIII 

*  If  blood  be  shed,  't  is  but  a  change  and 

choice 
Of  bonds  —  from  slavery  to  cowardice, — 
A  wretched  fall  !     Uplift  thy  charmed 

voice, 
Pour  on  those   evil  men  the  love  that 

lies 
Hovering    within    those    spirit-soothing 

eyes ! 
Arise,  my  friend,  farewell !  *  —  As  thus 

he  spake, 
From  the  green  earth  lightly  I  did  arise, 
As  one   out  of  dim  dreams  that  doth 

awake, 
And  looked  upon  the  depth  of  that  reposing 

lake. 

XXIX 

I  saw  my  countenance  reflected  there;  — 
And  then  my  youth  fell  on  me  like  a 

wind 
Descending  on  still  waters.    My  thin  hair 
Was   prematurely   gray;    my   face    was 

lined 
With  channels,  such  as  suffering  leaves 

behind. 
Not  age ;  my  brow  was  pale,  but  in  my 

cheek 
And  lips  a  flush  of  gnawing  fire  did  find 
Their  food  and  dwelling;   though  mine 

eyes  might  speak 
A  subtle  mind  and  strong  within  a  frame 

thus  weak. 


And  though  th^ir  lustre  now  was  spent 

and  faded, 
Yet  in  my  hollow  looks  and   withered 

mien 
The  likeness  of  a  shape  for  which  was 

braided 
The  brightest  woof  of  genius  still  was 

seen  — 
One  who,  methought,  had  gone  from  the 

world's  scene. 
And  left  it  vacant  —  't  was  her  lover's 

face  — 
It  might  resemble  her  —  it  once  had 

been 


The  mirror  of  her  thoughts,  and  still  the 
grace 
Which  her  mind's  shadow  cast  left  there  i, 
lingering  trace. 

XXXI 

What  then  was  I?     She  slumbered  with 

the  dead. 
Glory  and  joy  and  peace  had  come  and 

gone. 
Doth  the  cloud  perish  when  the  beams 

are  fled 
Which   steeped  its  skirts  in  gold  ?   or, 

dark  and  lone. 
Doth  it  not  through  the  paths  of  night 

unknown. 
On  outspread  wings  of  its  own  wind  up- 
borne, 
Pour  rain  upon  the  earth  ?   the  stars  are 

shown. 
When  the  cold  moon  sharpens  her  silver 

horn 
Under  the  sea,  and  make  the  wide  night 

not  forlorn. 

XXXII 

Strengthened  in  heart,  yet  sad,  that  aged 

man 
I  left,  with  interchange  of  looks  and  tears 
And  lingering  speech,  and  to  the  Camp 

began 
My  way.     O'er  many  a  mountain-chain 

which  rears 
Its  hundred  crests  aloft  my  spirit  bears 
My  frame,  o'er  many  a  dale  and  many  a 

moor; 
And  gayly  now  meseems  serene   earth 

wears 
The  blosmy  spring's  star-bright  investi- 
ture, — 
A  vision    which   aught  sad   from  sadness 

might  allure. 

XXXIII 

My  powers  revived  within  me,  and  I 
went, 

As  one  whom  winds  waft  o'er  the  bend- 
ing grass. 

Through  many  a  vale  of  that  broad  con- 
tinent. 

At  night  when  I  reposed,  fair  dreams  did 
pass 

Before  my  pillow;  my  own  Cythna  was. 

Not  like  a  child  of  death,  among  them 
ever; 


8o 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


When  I  arose  from  rest,  a  woful  mass 
That  gentlest  sleep  seemed  from  my  life 

to  sever, 
As  if  the  light  of  youth  were  not  withdrawn 

forever. 

XXXIV 

Aye  as  I  went,  that  maiden  who  had 

reared 
.    The  torch  of  Truth  afar,  of  whose  high 

deeds 
The  Hermit  in  his  pilgrimage  had  heard. 
Haunted   my    thoughts.     Ah,   Hope    its 

sickness  feeds 
With  whatsoe'er  it  finds,  or  flowers  or 

weeds! 
Could  she  be  Cythna?     Was  that  corpse 

a  shade 
Such  as  self-torturing  thought  from  mad- 
ness breeds? 
Why  was  this  hope  not  torture?     Yet  it 

made 
A  light  around  my  steps  which  would  not 

ever  fade. 


CANTO   FIFTH 


Over  the  utmost  hill  at  length  I  sped, 

A  snowy  steep: — the  moon  was  hanging 
low 

Over    the   Asian    mountains,   and,   out- 
spread 

The  plain,  the  City,  and  the  Camp  be- 
low, 

Skirted  the  midnight  Ocean's  glimmer- 
ing flow; 

The  City's  moon-lit  spires  and  myriad 
lamps 

Like  stars  in  a  sublunar  sky  did  glow, 

And  fires  blazed  far  amid  the  scattered 
camps. 
Like  springs  of  flame  which  burst  where'er 
swift  Earthquake  stamps. 


All  slept  but  those  in  watchful  arms  who 
stood. 

And  those  who  sate  tending  the  beacon's 
light; 

And  the  few  sounds  from  that  vast  mul- 
titude 

Made  silence  more  profound.  Ob,  what 
a  might 


Of  human  thought  was  cradled  in  that 

night! 
How  many  hearts  impenetrably  veiled 
Beat  underneath  its  shade!   what  secret 

fight 
Evil  and  Good,  in  woven  passions  mailed, 
Waged  through  that  silent  throng  —  a  war 

that  never  failed! 


And  now  the  Power  of  Good  held  victory. 
So,  through  the  labyrinth  of  many  a  tent, 
Among  the  silent  millions  who  did  lie 
In  innocent  sleep,  exultingly  I  went. 
The  moon  had  left  Heaven  desert  now, 

but  lent 
From  eastern  morn  the  first  faint  lustre 

showed 
An  arm^d  youth;  over  his  spear  he  bent 
His   downward   face:  —  'A   friend!'   I 

cried  aloud. 
And  quickly  common  hopes  made  freemen 

understood. 

IV 

I   sate   beside   him   while   the  morning 

beam 
Crept  slowly  over  Heaven,  and  talked 

with  him 
Of    those    immortal  hopes,   a  glorious 

theme, 
Which  led  us  forth,  until  the  stars  grew 

dim; 
And  all  the  while  methought  his  voice 

did  swim, 
As  if  it  drownM  in  remembrance  were 
Of  thoughts  which  make  the  moist  eyes 

overbrim ; 
At  last,  when  daylight  'gan  to  fill  the  air, 
He   looked  on  me,  and  cried  in  wonder, 

*  Thou  art  here ! ' 


Then,  suddenly,  I  knew  it  was  the  youth 
In   whom   its   earliest  hopes  my  spirit 

found ; 
But   envious   tongues    had    stained    his 

spotless  truth, 
And  thoughtless  pride  his  love  in  silence 

bound, 
And  shame  and  sorrow  mine  in  toils  had 

wound, 
Whilst  he  was  innocent,  and  I  deluded ; 
The  truth  now  came  upon  me  —  on  the 

ground 


CANTO   FIFTH 


8i 


Tears  of  repenting  joy,  which  fast  in- 
truded, 
Fell  fast  —  and  o'er  its  peace  our  mingling 
spirits  brooded. 

VI 
Thus,  while  with  rapid  lips  and  earnest 

eyes 
We  talked,  a  sound  of  sweeping  conflict, 

spread 
As  from  the  earth,  did  suddenly  arise. 
From  every  tent,  roused  by  that  clamor 

dread. 
Our  bands  outsprung  and   seized  their 

arms;  we  sped 
Towards    the    sound;    our   tribes   were 

gathering  far. 
Those  sanguine  slaves,  amid  ten  thousand 

dead 
Stabbed    in    their    sleep,    trampled    in 

treacherous  war 
The  gentle  hearts  whose  power  their  lives 

had  sought  to  spare. 

VII 

Like  rabid  snakes  that  sting  some  gentle 
child 

Who  brings  them  food  when  winter  false 
and  fair 

Allures  them  forth  with  its  cold  smiles, 
so  wild 

They  rage  among  the  camp;  they  over- 
bear 

The  patriot  hosts  —  confusion,  then  de- 
spair, 

Descends    like    night  —  when    'Laou!' 
one  did  cry; 

Like  a  bright  ghost  from   Heaven  that 
shout  did  scare 

The  slaves,   and,  widening  through  the 
vaulted  sky. 
Seemed  sent  from  Earth  to  Heaven  in  sign 
of  victory. 

VIII 

In  sudden  panic   those  false  murderers 

fled, 
Like  insect  tribes   before   the   northern 

gale; 
But  swifter  still  our  hosts  encompassed 
Their  shattered  ranks,  and  in  a  craggy 

vale, 
Where  even  their  fierce   despair  might 

nought  avail. 


Hemmed  them  around! — and  then  re- 
venge and  fear 

Made  the  high  virtue  of  the  patriots  fail; 

One  pointed  on  his  foe  the  mortal  spear  — 
I  rushed  before  its  point,  and  cried  '  For- 
bear, forbear 1 ' 

IX 

The  spear  transfixed  my  arm  that  was 
uplifted 

In  swift  expostulation,  and  the  blood 

Gushed  round  its  point;  I  smiled,  and  — 
*0h!  thou  gifted 

With  eloquence  which  shall  not  be  with- 
stood. 

Flow  thus!'  I  cried  in  joy,  'thou  vital 
flood. 

Until  my  heart  be  dry,  ere  thus  the  cause 

For  which  thou  wert  aught  worthy  be 
subdued! — 

Ah,  ye  are  pale  —  ye  weep  —  your  pas- 
sions pause  — 
'Tis  well!  ye  feel  the  truth  of  love's  be- 
nignant laws. 


'Soldiers,  our  brethren  and   our  friends 

are  slain; 
Ye  murdered  them,  I  think,  as  they  did 

sleep! 
Alas,  what  have  ye  done  ?    The  slightest 

pain 
Which  ye  might  suffer,  there  were  eyes 

to  weep. 
But   ye    have    quenched    them  —  there 

were  smiles  to  steep 
Your  hearts  in  balm,  but  they  are  lost  in 

woe; 
And  those  whom  love  did  set  his  watch 

to  keep 
Around   your   tents   truth's   freedom  to 

bestow, 
Ye   stabbed  as  they  did  sleep  —  but  they 

forgive  ye  now. 


*  Oh,  wherefore  should  ill  ever  flow  from 

ill. 
And  pain  still  keener  pain  forever  breed  ? 
We  all  are  brethren  —  even   the  slaves 

who  kill 
For  hire  are  men;  and  to  avenge  misdeed 
On  the  misdoer  doth  but  Misery  feed 
With  her  own  broken  heart!     O  Earth, 

O  Heaven! 


82 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


And  thou,  dread  Nature,  which  to  every 

When  they  return  from  carnage,  and  are 

deed 

sent 

And  all  that  lives,  or  is,  to  be  hath  given, 

In  triumph  bright   beneath    the   populous 

Even  as  to  thee  have  these  done  ill,  and  are 

battlement. 

forgiven. 

XV 

XII 

Afar,  the  City  walls  were  thronged  on 

'  Join  then  your  hands  and  hearts,  and  let 

1-1 
high, 

the  past 

And  myriads  on  each  giddy  turret  clung, 

Be  as  a  grave  which  gives  not  up  its  dead 

And  to  each  spire  far  lessening  in  the 

To  evil  thoughts.'  —  A  film  then  over- 

sky 

cast 

Bright  pennons  on  the  idle  winds  were 

My  sense  with  dimness,  for  the  wound, 

hung; 

which  bled 

As  we   approached,  a  shout  of  joyance 

Freshly,  swift   shadows   o'er  mine  eyes 

sprung 

had  shed. 

At  once  from  all  the  crowd,  as  if  the 

When  I  awoke,  I  lay  'mid  friends  and 

vast 

foes. 

And  peopled  Earth  its  boundless  skies 

And  earnest  countenances  on  me  shed 

among 

The   light  of   questioning    looks,   whilst 

The  sudden  clamor  of  delight  had, cast, 

one  did  close 

When  from  before  its  face   some  general 

My  wound  with  bahniest  herbs,  and  soothed 

wreck  had  passed. 

me  to  repose ; 

XVI 

XIII 

Our  armies  through  the  City's  hundred 

And  one,  whose  spear  had  pierced  me, 

gates 

leaned  beside 

Were  poured,  like  brooks  which  to  the 

With  quivering  lips  and  humid  eyes;  and 

rocky  lair 

all 

Of  some  deep  lake,  whose  silence  them 

Seemed  like  some  brothers  on  a  journey 

awaits. 

wide 

Throng  from   the   mountains  when  the 

Gone  forth,  whom  now  strange  meeting 

storms  are  there; 

did  befall 

And,   as   we   passed   through   the  calm 

In  a  strange  land  round  one  whom  they 

sunny  air, 

might  call 

A  thousand  flower-inwoven  crowns  were 

Their  friend,  their  chief,  their  father,  for 

shed, 

assay 

The  token-flowers  of  truth  and  freedom 

Of  peril,  which  had  saved  them  from  the 

fair. 

thrall 

And  fairest  hands  bound  them  on  many 

Of  death,  now  suffering.     Thus  the  vast 

a  head, 

array 

Those  angels  of  love's  heaven  that  over  all 

Of  those  fraternal  bands  were   reconciled 

was  spread. 

that  day. 

XVII 

XIV 

I  trod  as  one  tranced  in  some  rapturous 

Lifting  the  thunder  of  their  acclamation, 

vision ; 

Towards  the  City  then  the  multitude, 

Those  bloody  bands  so  lately  reconciled, 

And   I   among   them,   went   in  joy  —  a 

Were  ever,  as  they  went,  by  the  contri- 

nation 

tion 

Made  free  by  love;  a  mighty  brother- 

Of anger  turned  to  love,  from  ill  be- 

hood 

guiled, 

Linked  by  a  jealous  interchange  of  good; 

And   every   one   on   them    more  gently 

A  glorious  pageant,  more  magnificent 

smiled 

Than  kingly  slaves  arrayed  in  gold  and 

Because  they  had  done  evil;  the  sweet 

blood, 

awe 

CANTO   FIFTH 


«3 


Of  such  mild  looks  made  their  own  hearts 

grow  mild, 
And  did  with  soft  attraction  ever  draw 
Their  spirits  to  the  love  of  freedom's  equal 

law. 

XVIII 

And  they,  and  all,  in  one  loud  symphony 
Mv    name    with    Liberty    commingling 

lifted  — 
♦  The  friend  and  the  preserver  of  the  free! 
The  parent  of  this  joy  I'  and  fair  eyes, 

gifted 
With  feelings  caught  from  one  who  had 

uplifted 
The  light  of  a  great  spirit,  round  me 

shone ; 
And  all  the  shapes  of  this  grand  scenery 

shifted 
Like  restless  clouds  before  the  steadfast 

sun. 
Where  was  that  Maid  ?  I  asked,  but  it  was 

known  of  none. 

XIX 

Laone  was  the  name  her  love  had  chosen. 

For   she    was   nameless,  and   her   birth 
none  knew. 

Where    was  Laone   now  ?  —  The  words 
were  frozen 

Within  my  lips  with  fear;  but  to  sub- 
due 

Such  dreadful  hope  to  my  great  task  was 
due, 

And  when  at  length  one  brought  reply 
that  she 

To-morrow  would  appear,  I  then  with- 
drew 

To  judge  what  need  for  that  great  throng 
might  be, 
For  now  the  stars  came  thick  over  the  twi- 
light sea. 

XX 

Yet  need  was  none  for  rest  or  food  to 

care, 
Even  though  that  multitude  was  passing 

great. 
Since  each  one  for  the  other  did  prepare 
All    kindly   succor.     Therefore    to    the 

gate 
Of  the  Imperial  House,  now  desolate, 
I  passed,  and  there   was  found  aghast, 

alone, 
The  fallen  Tyrant!  —  silently  he  sate 


Upon  the  footstool  of  his  golden  throne, 
Which,  starred  with  sunny  gems,  iu  its  owu 
lustre  shone. 

XXI 

Alone,  but  for  one  child  who  led  before 

him 
A    graceful     dance  —  the     only    living 

thing. 
Of  all  the  crowd,  which  thither  to  adore 

him 
Flocked  yesterday,  who  solace  sought  to 

bring 
In  his  abandonment;  she  knew  the  King 
Had  praised  her  dance  of  yore,  and  now 

she  wove 
Its  circles,  aye  weeping  and   murmur- 
ing, 
'Mid  her  sad  task  of  unregarded  love. 
That  to  no  smiles  it  might  his  speechless 

sadness  move. 

XXII 

She  fled  to  him,  and  wildly  clasped  his 

feet 
When    human    steps    were    heard;    he 

moved  nor  spoke, 
Nor  changed  his  hue,  nor  raised  his  looks 

to  meet 
The   gaze   of   strangers.     Our  loud  en- 
trance woke 
The  echoes  of  the  hall,  which  circling 

broke 
The  calm  of  its  recesses;  like  a  tomb 
Its    sculptured    walls    vacantly    to    the 

stroke 
Of  footfalls  answered,  and  the  twilight's 

gloom 
Lay  like  a  charnel's  mist  within  the  radiant 

dome. 

XXIII 

The  little  child  stood  up  when  we  came 

nigh; 
Her  lips  and  cheeks  seemed  very  pale 

and  wan. 
But  on  her  forehead  and  within  her  eye 
Lay  beauty  which  makes  hearts  that  feed 

thereon 
Sick   with   excess  of  sweetness;  on  the 

throne 
She    leaned;   the   King,    with   gathered 

brow  and  lips 
Wreathed  by  long  scorn,  did  inly  sneef 

and  frown, 


B4 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


With  hue   like   that  wheu  some   great 
painter  dips 
His  pencil  in  the  gloom  of  earthquake  and 
eclipse. 

XXIV 

She   stood   beside  him  like  a  rainbow 

braided 
Within    some    storm,    wheu    scarce   its 

shadows  vast 
From  the  blue  paths  of  the   swift  sun 

have  faded ; 
A  sweet  and  solemn  smile,  like  Cythna's, 

cast 
One   moment's   light,   which   made   my 

heart  beat  fast, 
O'er  that  child's  parted  lips  —  a  gleam 

of  bliss, 
A  shade  of  vanished  days;  as  the  tears 

passed 
Which  wrapped  it,  even  as  with  a  father's 

kiss 
I  pressed  those  softest  eyes  in  trembling 

tenderness. 

XXV 

The  sceptred  wretch  then  from  that  soli- 
tude 

I  drew,  and,  of  bis  change  compassion- 
ate. 

With  words  of  sadness  soothed  his  rugged 
mood. 

But  he,  while  pride  and  fear  held  deep 
debate, 
'■    With   sullen  guile  of  ill-dissembled  hate 

Glared  on  me  as  a  toothless  snake  might 
glare; 

Pity,  not  scorn,  I  felt,  though  desolate 

The  desolator  now,  and  unaware 
The  curses  which  he  mocked  had  caught 
him  by  the  hair. 

XXVI 

I  led  him  forth  from  that  which  now 
might  seem 

A  gorgeous  grave;  through  portals  sculp- 
tured deep 

With  imagery  beautiful  as  dream 

We  went,  and  left  the  shades  which  tend 
on  sleep 

Over  its  unregarded  gold  to  keep 

Their  silent  watch.  The  child  trod 
faintingly, 

And  as  she  went,  the  tears  which  she  did 
weep 


Glanced    in    the     star-light ;    wilder^d 
seemed  she, 
And,  when  I  spake,  for  sobs  she  could  not 
answer  me. 

XXVII 

At  last  the  Tyrant  cried,  *  She  hungers, 

slave! 
Stab  her,  or  give  her  bread ! '  —  It  was  a 

tone 
Such  as  sick  fancies  in  a  new-made  grave 
Might  hear.     I  trembled,  for  the  truth 

was  known,  — 
He  with  this  child  had   thus  been  left 

aloue. 
And  neither  had  gone  forth  for  food,  but 

he 
In  mingled  pride  and  awe  cowered  near 

his  throne. 
And  she,  a  nursling  of  captivity, 
Knew  nought  beyond  those  walls,  nor  what 

such  chauge  might  be. 

XXVIII 

And  he  was  troubled  at  a  charm  with- 
drawn 
Thus  suddenly  —  that  sceptres  ruled  no 

more. 
That  even  from  gold  the  dreadful  strength 

was  gone 
Which  once  made  all  things  subject  to  its 

power; 
Such  wonder  seized  him  as  if  hour  by 

hour 
The  past  had  come  again;  and  the  swift 

fall 
Of  one  so  great  and  terrible  of  yore 
To  desolateness,  in  the  hearts  of  all 
Like  wonder  stirred  who  saw  such  awful 

change  befall. 

XXIX 

A  mighty  crowd,  such  as  the  wide  land 

pours 
Once  in  a  thousand  years,  now  gathered 

round 
The   fallen   Tyrant;    like    the  rush   of 

showers 
Of  hail   in  spring,  pattering  along  the 

ground, 
Their  many  footsteps  fell  —  else  came  no 

sound 
From  the  wide  multitude;   that  lonely 

man 
Then  knew  the  burden  of  his  change, 

and  found, 


CANTO   FIFTH 


85 


Concealing  in  the  dust  his  visage  wan, 
Refuge  from  the  keen  looks  which  through 
his  bosom  ran. 

XXX 

And  he  was  faint  withal.  I  sate  beside 
hira 

Upon  the  earth,  and  took  that  child  so  fair 

From  his  weak  arms,  that  ill  might  none 
betide  him 

Or  her;  when  food  was  brought  to  them, 
her  share 

To  his  averted  lips  the  child  did  bear. 

But,  when  she  saw  he  had  enough,  she 
ate. 

And  wept  the  while;  the  lonely  man's  de- 
spair 

Hunger  then  overcame,  and,  of  his  state 
Forgetful,  on  the  dust  as  in  a  trance  he  sate. 

XXXI 

Slowly  the  silence  of  the  multitudes 
Passed,  as  when  far  is  heard  in  some  lone 

dell 
The  gathering  of  a  wind    among    the 

woods : 
'  And  he  is  fallen! '  they  cry,  'he  who  did 

dwell 
Like  famine  or  the  plague,  or  aught  more 

fell. 
Among  our  homes,  is  fallen!    the  mur- 
derer 
Who  slaked  his  thirsting  soul,  as  from  a 

well 
Of  blood  and  tears,  with  ruin!  he  is  here! 
Sunk  in  a  gulf  of  scorn  from  which  none 

may  him  rear! ' 

XXXII 

Then  was  heard  — '  He  who  judged,  let 
him  be  brought 

To  judgment!  blood  for  blood  cries  from 
the  soil 

On  which  his  crimes  have  deep  pollution 
wrought! 

Shall  0  th  man  only  unavenged  despoil? 

Shall  they,  who  by  the  stress  of  grinding 
toil 

Wrest  from  the  unwilling  earth  his  lux- 
uries. 

Perish  for  crime,  while  his  foul  blood 
may  boil 

Or  creep  within  his  veins  at  will?  Arise! 
And  to  high  Justice  make  her  chosen  sacri- 
fice!' 


XXXIII 

'  What  do  ye  seek  ?  what  fear  ye  ? '  then 

I  cried. 
Suddenly  starting  forth,  '  that  ye  should 

shed 
The  blood  of  Othman?  if  your  hearts  are 

tried 
In  the  true  love  of  freedom,  cease  to 

dread 
This    one    poor  lonely    man ;    beneath 

Heaven  spread 
In  purest   light   above  us   all,  through 

Earth  — 
Maternal    Earth,   who  doth   her  sweet 

sm.iles  shed 
For  all  —  let  him  go  free,  until  the  worth 
Of  human  nature  win  from  these  a  second 

birth. 

XXXIV 

*  What  call  ye  justice  f     Is  there  one  who 

ne'er 
In  secret  thought  has  wished  another's 

ill? 
Are  ye  all  pure?     Let  those  stand  forth 

who  hear 
And  tremble  not.     Shall  they  insult  and 

kill, 
If  such  they  be?  their  mild  eyes  can  they 

fill 
With  the  false  anger  of  the  hypocrite? 
Alas,  such  were  not  pure !   The  chastened 

will 
Of  virtue  sees  that  justice  is  the  light 
Of  love,  and  not  revenge  and  terror  and 

despite.' 

XXXV 

The  murmur  of  the  people,  slowly  dy- 

Paused  as  I  spake;  then  those  who  near 
me  were 

•  Cast  gentle  looks  where   the  lone  man 

was  lyinw 

Shrouding  liis  head,  which  now  that  in- 
fant fair 

Clasped  on  her  lap  in  silence;  through 
the  air 

Sobs  were  then  heard,  and  many  kissed 
my  feet 

In  pity's  madness,  and  to  the  despair 

Of  him  whom  late  they  cursed  a  solace 
sweet 
His  very  victims  brought  —  soft  looks  and 
speeches  meet. 


86 


THE  REVOLT  OF   ISLAM 


XXXVI 

Then  to  a  home  for  his  repose  assigned, 

Accompanied  by  the  still  throng,  he  went 

In  silence,  where  to  soothe  his  rankling 
mind 

Some  likeness  of  bis  ancient  state  was 
lent; 

And  if  his  heart  conld  have  been  inno- 
cent 

As  those  who  pardoned  bim,  be  might 
have  ended 

His  days  in  peace;  but  his  straight  lips 
were  bent. 

Men  said,  into  a  smile  which  guile  por- 
tended, — 
A  sight  with  which  that  child,  like  hope 
with  fear,  was  blended. 

xxxvil 

'T  was  midnight  now,  the   eve  of  that 

great  day 
Whereon  the   many   nations,  at   whose 

call 
The   chains  of  earth  like  mist  melted 

away. 
Decreed  to  hold  a  sacred  Festival, 
A  rite  to  attest  the  equality  of  all 
Who  live.     So  to  their  homes,  to  dream 

or  wake, 
All  went.     The  sleepless  silence  did  re- 
call 
Laone  to  my  thoughts,  with  hopes  that 

make 
The  flood  recede  from  which  their  thirst 

they  seek  to  slake. 

XXXVIII 

The   dawn  flowed   forth,  and   from  its 
purple  fountains 

I  drank  tliose  hopes  which  make  the  spirit 
quail. 

As  to  the  plain  between  the  misty  moun- 
tains 

And  the  great  City,  with  a  countenance 
pjile, 

I  went.   It  was  a  sight  which  might  avail 

To  make  men  weep  exulting  tears,  for 
whom 

Now  first  from  human  power  the  rev- 
erend veil 

Was  torn,  to  see  Earth  from  her  general 
womb 
Pour  forth  her  swarming  sons  to  a  fraternal 
doom: 


XXXIX 

To  see,  far  glancing  in  the  misty  morn- 
ing. 

The  signs  of  that  innumerable  host; 

To  hear  one  sound  of  many  made,  the 
warning 

Of  Earth  to  Heaven  from  its  free  chil- 
dren tossed; 

While  the  eternal  hills,  and  the  sea  lost 

In  wavering  light,  and,  starring  the  blue 
sky. 

The  City's  myriad  spires  of  gold,  almost 

With  human  joy  made  mute  society  — 
Its  witnesses  with  men  who  must  hereafter 
be: 


To  see,  like  some  vast  island  from  the 
Ocean, 

The  Altar  of  the  Federation  rear 

Its  pile  i'  the  midst  —  a  work  which  the 
devotion 

Of  millions  in  one  night  created  there, 

Sudden  as  when  the  moonrise  makes  ap- 
pear 

Strange   clouds  in  the  east  —  a  marble 
pyramid 

Distinct  with  steps  ;  —  that  mighty  shape 
did  wear 

The  light  of  genius;  its  still  shadow  hid 
Far  ships;  to  know  its  height  the  morning 
mists  forbid !  — 


To  hear  the  restless  multitudes  forever 
Around   the   base  of   that   great   Altar 

flow, 
As  on  some   mountain  islet  burst  and 

shiver 
Atlantic  waves;  and,  solemnly  and  slow, 
As  the  wind  bore  that  tumult  to  and  fro. 
To  feel  the  dreamlike  music,  which  did 

swim 
Like  beams  through  floating  clouds  on 

waves  below, 
Falling  in  pauses,  from  that  Altar  dim. 
As   silver-sounding    tongues    breathed   an 

aerial  hymn. 

XLII 
To  hear,  to  see,  to  live,  was  on   that 

morn 
Lethean  joy!  so  that  all  those  assembled 
Cast  off  their  memories  of  the  past  out- 
worn; 


CANTO  FIFTH 


87 


Two  only  bosoms   with  their  own  life 
trembled, 

And  mine  was  one,  —  and  we  had  both 
dissembled; 

So  with  a  beating  heart  I  went,  and  one, 

Who  having  much,  covets  yet  more,  re- 
sembled, — 

A  lost  and  dear  possession,  which  not 
won. 
He  walks  in  lonely  gloom  beneath  the  noon- 
day sun. 

XLIII 

To  the  great  Pyramid  I  came;  its  stair 

With  female  choirs  was   thronged,  the 
loveliest 

Among  the  free,  grouped  with  its  sculp- 
tures rare. 

As  I  approached,  the  morning's  golden 
mist. 

Which  now  the  wonder-stricken  breezes 
kissed 

With  their  cold  lips,  fled,  and  the  sum- 
mit shone 

Like    Athos    seen     from    Samothracia, 
dressed 

In  earliest  light,  by  vintagers ;  and  One 
Sate  there,  a  female  Shape  upon  an  ivory 
throne : — 


A  Form  most  like  the  imagined  habitant 
Of  silver  exhalations  sprung  from  dawn, 
By  winds  which  feed  on  sunrise  woven, 

to  enchant 
The  faiths  of  men.   All  mortal  eyes  were 

drawn  — 
As  famished  mariners  through  strange 

seas  gone 
Gaze  on  a  burning  watch-tower  —  by  the 

light 
Of  those  divinest  lineaments.     Alone, 
With  thoughts  which  none  could  share, 

from  that  fair  sight 
I  turned  in  siclcness,  for  a  veil  shrouded 

her  countenance  bright. 


And  neither  did  I  hear  the  acclamations, 
Which  from  brief  silence  bursting  filled 

the  air 
With  her  strange  name  and  mine,  from 

all  the  nations 
Which   we,  they  said,  in  strength  had 

gathered  there 


From   the   sleep   of  bondage;    nor  the 

vision  fair 
Of  that  bright  pageantry  beheld;  but 

blind 
And  silent,  as  a  breathing  corpse,  did  fare, 
Leaning  upon  my  friend,  till  like  a  wind 
To  fevered  cheeks  a  voice  flowed  o'er  my 

troubled  mind. 

XL  VI 

Like  music  of  some  minstrel  heavenly 

gifted, 
To  one  whom  fiends  enthrall,  this  voice 

to  me; 
Scarce  did  I  wish  her  veil  to  be  uplifted, 
I  was  so  calm  and  joyous!     I  could  see 
The  platform  where  we  stood,  the  statues 

three 
Which  kept  their  marble  watch  on  that 

high  shrine, 
The  multitudes,  the  mountains,  and  the 

sea, — 
As,  when  eclipse  hath  passed,  things  sud- 
den shine 
To  men's  astonished  eyes  most  clear  and 

crystalline. 


At  first  Laone  spoke  most  tremulously; 

But  soon  her  voice  the  calmness  which  it 
shed 

Gathered,    and  —  *  Thou    art    whom   I 
sought  to  see, 

And  thou  art  our  first  votary  here,'  she 
said; 
'  I  had  a  dear  friend  once,  but  he  is  dead! 

And,  of  all  those  on  the  wide  earth  who 
breathe, 

Thou  dost  resemble  him  alone.    I  spread 

This  veil  between  us  two  that  thou  be- 
neath 
Shouldst  image  one  who  may  have  been 
long  lost  in  death. 

XLVIII 

*  For  this  wilt  thou  not  henceforth  pardon 

me? 
Y«s,  but  those  joys  which  silence  well 

requite 
Forbid  reply.   Why  men  have  chosen  me 
To  be  the  Priestess  of  this  holiest  rite 
I  scarcely  know,  but  that  the  floods  of 

light 
Which  flow  over  the  world  have  borne 

me  hither 


88 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


To  meet  thee,  long  most  dear.   And  now 
unite 

Thine  hand  with  mine,  and  may  all  com- 
fort wither 
From  both  the  hearts  whose  pulse  in  joy 
now  beat  together, 

XLIX 

•  If  our  own  will  as  others'  law  we  bind, 
If  the  foul  worship  trampled  here  we  fear, 
If  as   ourselves  we  cease  to  love   our 

kind ! '  — 
She    paused,    and    pointed    upwards  — 

sculptured  there 
Three   shapes   around  her  ivory  throne 

appear.  • 
One  was  a  Giant,  like  a  child  asleep 
On  a  loose  rock,  whose  grasp  crushed,  as 

it  were 
In  dream,  sceptres  and  crowns;  and  one 

did  keep 
Its   watchful    eyes    in   doubt   whether  to 

suiile  or  weep  — 


A  Woman  sitting  on  the  sculptured  disk 
Of  the   broad   earth,  and  feeding  from 

one  breast 
A  human  babe  and  a  young  basilisk ; 
Her  looks  were  sweet  as  Heaven's  when 

loveliest 
In  Autumn  eves.     The  third  Image  was 

dressed 
In  white  wings  swift  as  clouds  in  winter 

skies; 
Beneath    his    feet,    'mongst     ghastliest 

forms,  repressed 
Lay  Faith,  an  obscene  worm,  who  sought 

to  rise,  — 
tVhile  calmly  on  the  Sun  he  turned  his  dia- 
mond eyes. 

LI 

Beside  that  Image  then  I  sate,  while  she 
Stood  'mid  the  throngs  which  ever  ebbed 

and  flowed. 
Like  light  amid  the  shadows  of  the  sea 
Cast  from  one  cloudless  star,  and  on  the 

crowd 
That  ^ouch  which  none  who  feels  forgets 

bestowed; 
And  whilst  the  sun  returned  the  steadfast 

gaze 
Of  the  great  Image,  as  o'er  Heaven  it 

glode, 


That  rite  had  place;  it  ceased  when  sun- 
set's blaze 

Burned  o'er  the  isles;  all  stood  in  joy  and 
deep  amaze  — 

When  in  the  silence  of  all  spirits  there 

Laone's  voice  was  felt,  and  through  the 
air 
Her  thrilling    gestures   spoke,   most  elo- 
quently fair. 


'  Calm  art  thou  as  yon  sunset!  swift  and 

strong 
As  new-fledged  Eagles  beautiful  and  young. 
That  float  among  the   blinding  beams  of 

morning; 
And  underneath  thy  feet  writhe  Faith  and 

Folly, 
Custom  and  Hell  and  mortal  Melancholy. 
Hark!  the  Earth  starts  to  hear  the  mighty 
warning 
Of  thy  voice  sublime  and  holy; 
Its  free  spirits  here  assembled 
See  thee,  feel  thee,  know  thee  now; 
To  thy  voice  their  hearts  have  trembled. 
Like  ten  thousand  clouds  which  flow 
With  one  wide  wind  as  it  flies! 
Wisdom!  thy  irresistible  children  rise 
To  hail  thee;  and  the  elements  they  chain. 
And  their  own  will,  to  swell  the  glory  of 
thy  train! 


'  O   Spirit  vast  and  deep   as  Night  and 

Heaven, 
Mother  and  soul  of  all  to  which  is  given 
The  light  of  life,  the  loveliness  of  being! 
Lo!  thou  dost  reascend  the  human  heart. 
Thy   throne  of  power,  almighty   as  thou 

wert 
In  dreams  of  Poets  old  grown  pale  by  see- 
ing 
The  shade  of  thee;  —  now  millions  start 
To   feel  thy   lightnings    through    them 

burning! 
Nature,  or  God,  or  Love,  or  Pleasure, 
Or  Sympathy,  the  sad  tears  turning 
To  mutual  smiles,  a  drainless  treasure, 
Descends  amidst  us!     Scorn  and  Hate, 
Revenge  and  Selfishness,  are  desolate! 
A  hundred  nations  swear  that  there  shall 

be 
Pity  and  Peace  and  Love  among  the  good 
and  free! 


CANTO   FIFTH 


89 


•Eldest  of  things,  divine  Equality  ! 
Wisdom  and  Love  are  but  the  slaves  of 

thee, 
The  angels  of  thy  sway,  who  pour  around 

thee 
Treasures   from  all   the    cells  of  human 

thought 
And  from  the  Stars  and  from  the  Ocean 

brought. 
And  the  last  living  heart  whose  beatings 
bound  thee. 
The  powerful  and  the  wise  had  sought 
Thy  coming;  thou,  in  light  descending 
O'er  the  wide  land  which  is  thine  own, 
Like  the  spring  whose  breath  is  blending 
All  blasts  of  fragrance  into  one, 
Coraest  upon  the  paths  of  men! 
Earth  bares  her  general  bosom  to  thy  ken, 
And  all  her  children  here  in  glory  meet 
To  feed   upon   thy  smiles,   and  clasp  thy 
sacred  feet. 


*My  brethren,  we  are  free!  the  plains  and 

mountains. 
The  gray  sea-shore,    the  forests  and   the 

fountains, 
Are  haunts  of  happiest  dwellers;  man  and 

woman. 
Their  common  bondage  burst,  may  freely 

borrow 
From  lawless  love  a  solace  for  their  sorrow; 
For  oft  we  still  must  weep,  since  we  are 
human. 
A  stormy  night's  serenest  morrow. 
Whose  showers  are  pity's  gentle  tears. 
Whose  clouds  are  smiles  of  those  that  die 
Like  infants  without  hopes  or  fears, 
And  whose  beams  are  joys  that  lie 
In  blended  hearts,  now  holds  dominion,  — 
The  dawn  of  mind,  which,  upwards  on  a 

pinion 
Borne,  swift  as  sunrise,  far  illumines  space. 
And  clasps  this  barren  world  in  its  own 
bright  embrace  ! 


*  My  brethren,  we  are  free  !  the  fruits  are 

glowing 
Beneath  the  stars,  and  the  night-winds  are 

flowing 
O'er  the  ripe  corn,  the  birds  and  beasts  are 

dreaming. 


Never  again  may  blood  of  bird  or  beast 
Stain  with  its  venomous  stream  a  human 

feast. 
To  the  pure  skies  in  accusation  steaming  ! 
Avenging  poisons  shall  have  ceased 
To  feed  disease  and  fear  and  madness; 
The  dwellers  of  the  earth  and  air 
Shall  throng  around  our  steps  in  gladness, 
Seeking  their  food  or  refuge  there. 
Our  toil  from  thought  all  glorious  forms 

shall  cull. 
To  make  this  earth,  our  home,  more  beau- 
tiful. 
And  Science,  and  her  sister  Poesy, 
Shall  clothe  in  light  the  fields  and  cities  of 
the  free ! 


*  Victory,  Victory  to  the  prostrate  nations  f 
Bear  witness,  Night,  and  ye  mute  Constel- 
lations 
Who  gaze  on  us  from  your  crystalline  cars  I 
Thoughts  have  gone  forth  whose  powers 

can  sleep  no  more  ! 
Victory  !  Victory  !  Earth's  remotest  shore. 
Regions  which  groan  beneath  the  Antarctic 
stars, 
The  green  lands  cradled  in  the  roar 
Of  western  waves,  and  wildernesses 
Peopled  and  vast  which  skirt  the  oceans, 
Where  Morning  dyes  her  golden  tresses, 
Shall  soon  partake  our  high  emotions. 
Kings  shall  turn  pale  !     Almighty  Fear, 
The  Fiend-God,  when  our  charmed  name 

he  hear, 
Shall  fade  like  shadow  from  his  thousand 

fanes. 
While  Truth  with  Joy  enthroned  o'er  his 
lost  empire  reigns  ! ' 


Ere  she  had  ceased,  the  mists  of  night 
entwining 

Their  dim  woof  floated  o'er  the  infinite 
throng; 

She,  like  a  spirit  through  the  darkness 
shining. 

In  tones  whose  sweetness  silence  did  pro- 
long 

As  if  to  lingering  winds  they  did  belong, 

Poured  forth  her  inmost  soul:  a  passion- 
ate speech 

With  wild  and  thrilling  pauses  woven 
among, 


90 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


Which   wlioso   heard   was   mute,  for  it 
could  teach 
To  rapture  like  her  own  all  listeniug  hearts 
to  reach. 

LIII 

Her  voice   was   as   a  mountain  stream 
which  sweeps 

The  withered  leaves  of  autumn  to  tbe 
lake, 

And  in  some  deep  and  narrow  bay  then 
sleeps 

In  tlie  shadow  of  the  shores;  as  dead 
leaves  wake, 

Under  the  wave,  in  flowers  and  herbs 
which  make 

Those  green  depths  beautiful  when  skies 
are  blue, 

The    multitude    so    moveless   did   par- 
take 

Such  living  change,  and  kindling  mur- 
murs tiew 
As  o'er  that  speechless  calm  delight  and 
wonder  grew. 


Over  the  plain  the  throngs  were  scattered 

then 
In  groups  around  the  fires,  which  from 

the  sea 
Even  to  the  gorge  of  the  first  mountain 

glen 
Blazed  wide  and  far;  the  banquet  of  the 

free 
Wat  spread  beneath  many  a  dark  C3'pres8 

tree. 
Beneath  whose  spires,  which  swayed  in 

the  red  flame. 
Reclining  as  they  ate,  of  Liberty 
And  Hope  and  Justice  and  Laone's  name 
Earth's  children  did  a  woof  of  happy  con- 
verse frame. 

LV 

Their  feast  was  such  as  Earth,  the  gen- 
eral mother. 

Pours  from  her  fairest  bosom,  when  she 
smiles 

In  the  embrace  of  Autumn;  to  each 
other 

As  when  some  parent  fondly  reconciles 

Her  warring  children  —  she  their  wrath 
beguiles 

With  her  own  sustenance,  they  relenting 
weep  — 


Such  was  this  Festival,  whicli  from  their 

isles 
And  continents  and  winds   and   oceans 

deep 
All  shapes  might  throng  to  share  that  fly 

or  walk  or  creep; 


Might  share  in  peace  and  innocence,  for 
gore 

Or  poison  none  this  festal  did  pollute, 

But,  piled  on  high,  an  overflowing  store 

Of    pomegranates    and    citrons,    fairest 
fruit. 

Melons,  and  dates,  and  figs,  and  many  a 
root 

Sweet  and  sustaining,  and  bright  grapes 
ere  yet 

Accursed  fire  their  mild  juice  could  trans- 
mute 

Into  a  mortal    bane,   and   brown  com 
set 
In  baskets;  with  pure  streams  their  thirst- 
ing lips  they  wet. 

LVII 

Laone  had  descended  from  the  shrine, 

And  every  deepest  look  and  holiest  mind 

Fed  on  her  form,  though  now  those  tones 
divine 

Were  silent  as  she  passed;  she  did  un- 
wind 

Her  veil,  as  with  the  crowds  of  her  own 
kind 

She  mixed;  some  impulse  made  my  heart 
refrain 

From  seeking  her  that  night,  so  I  re- 
clined 

Amidst  a  group,  where  on  the  utmost 
plain 
A  festal  watch-fire  burned  beside  the  dusky 
main. 

LVIII 

And  joyous  was  our  feast;  pathetic  talk, 
And  wit,  and  harmony  of  choral  strains, 
While    far    Orion    o'er  the  waves  did 

walk 
That  flow  among  the  isles,  held  us  in 

chains 
Of  sweet  captivity  which  none  disdains 
Who  feels;  but,  when  his  zone  grew  dim 

in  mist 
Which  clothes  the  Ocean's  bosom,  o'er 

the  plains  , 


CANTO   SIXTH 


91 


The  multitudes  went  homeward  to  their 
rest, 
Which   that  delightful  day  with  its  own 
shadow  blest. 


CANTO   SIXTH 


Beside  the  dimness  of  the  glimmering 
sea, 

Weaving  swift  language   from    impas- 
sioned themes, 

With  that  dear  friend  I  lingered,  who  to 
me 

So  late  had  been  restored,  beneath  the 
gleams 

Of  the   silver  stars;   and   ever  in  soft 
dreams 

Of  future  love  and  peace  sweet  converse 
lapped 

Our  willing  fancies,  till  the  pallid  beams 

Of  the  last  watch-fire  fell,  and  darkness 
wrapped 
The  waves,  and  each  bright  chain  of  float- 
ing fire  was  snapped, 


And  till  we  came  even  to  the  City's  wall 
And  the  great  gate.     Then,  none  knew 

whence  or  why. 
Disquiet  on  the  multitudes  did  fall ; 
And  first,  one  pale  and  breathless  passed 

us  by, 
And   stared  and   spoke  not;   then   with 

piercing  cry 
A  troop  of  wild-eyed   women  —  by  the 

shrieks 
Of  their  own  terror  driven,  tumultuously 
Hither  and   thither  hurrying  with  pale 

cheeks  — 
Each  one   from   fear   unknown  a  sudden 

refuge  seeks 

III 

Then,  rallying  cries  of  treason  and  of 

danger 
Resounded,  and — 'They  come!  to  arms! 

to  arms! 
The    Tyrant    is   amongst   us,    and    the 

stranger 
Comes   to   enslave  us  in  his  name  !   to 

arms ! ' 
In  vain:    for  Panic,  the  pale  fiend  who 

charms 


Strength   to   forswear   her   right,   those 

millions  swept 
Like  waves  before  the  tempest.     These 

alarms 
Came  to  me,  as  to  know  their  cause  I 

leapt 
On  the  gate's  turret,  and  in  rage  and  grief 

and  scorn  I  wept  1 

IV 

For  to  the  north  I  saw  the  town  on  fire. 

And  its  red  light  made  morning  pallid 
now. 

Which  burst  over  wide  Asia;  —  louder, 
higher. 

The  yells  of  victory  and  the  screams  of 
woe 

I  heard  approach,  and  saw  the  throng 
below 

Stream  through  the  gates  like  foam- 
wrought  waterfalls 

Fed  from  a  thousand  storms  —  the  fear- 
ful glow 

Of  bombs  flares  overhead  —  at  intervals 
The  red  artillery's  bolt  mangling  among 
them  falls. 


And  now  the  horsemen  come  —  and  all 

was  done 
Swifter  than  I  have  spoken  —  I  beheld 
Their  red  swords  flash  in  the  unrisen  sun. 
I  rushed  among  the  rout  to  have  repelled 
That    miserable    flight  —  one    moment 

quelled 
By  voice,  and  looks,  and  eloquent  despair. 
As  if  reproach   from   their  own  hearts 

withheld 
Their  steps,  they  stood;  but  soon  cam& 

pouring  there 
New    multitudes,   and   did    those    rallied 

bands  o'erbear. 


I  strove,  as  drifted  on  some  cataract 

By  irresistible  streams  some  wretch 
might  strive 

Who  hears  its  fatal  roar;  the  files  com- 
pact 

Whelmed  me,  and  from  the  gate  availed 
to  drive 

With  quickening  impulse,  as  each  bolt 
did  rive 

Their  ranks  with  bloodier  chasm;  into 
the  plain 


93 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


Disgorged  at  length  the  dead  and  the 

alive 
In  one  dread  mass  were  parted,  and  the 

stain 
Of  blood  from  mortal  steel  fell  o'er  the 

fields  like  rain. 

VII 

For  now  the  despot's  bloodhounds  with 
their  prey, 

Unarmed    and  unaware,   were  gorging 
deep 

Their  gluttony  of  death ;  the  loose  ar- 
ray 

Of  horsemen  o'er  the  wide  fields  murder- 
ing sweep, 

And  with  loud  laughter  for  their  Tyrant 
reap 

A  harvest  sown  with  other  hopes;   the 
while, 

Far  overhead,  ships  from  Propontis  keep 

A  killing  rain  of  fire.     When  the  waves 
smile 
As  sudden  earthquakes  light  many  a  vol- 
cano isle, 

VIII 

Thus    sudden,    unexpected    feast    was 

spread 
For  the  carrion  fowls  of  Heaven.    I  saw 

the  sight  — 
I  moved  —  I  lived  —  as  o'er  the  heaps  of 

dead. 
Whose  stony  eyes  glared  in  the  morning 

light, 
I  trod;  to  me  there  came  no  thought  of 

flight, 
But   with    loud    cries   of    scorn,   which 

whoso  heard 
That  dreaded  death  felt  in  his  veins  the 

might 
Of  virtuous  shame  return,  the  crowd  I 

stirred. 
And  desperation's  hope  in  many  hearts  re- 
curred. 

IX 
A  band  of  brothers  gathering  round  me 

made, 
Although  unarmed,  a  steadfast  front,  and, 

still 
Retreating,  with  stem  looks  beneath  the 

shade 
Of  gathered  eyebrows,  did  the  victors 

fill 


With  doubt  even  in  success;  deliberate 
will 

Inspired  our  growing  troop;  not  over- 
thrown. 

It  gained  the  shelter  of  a  grassy  hill,  — 

And  ever  still  our  comrades  were  hewn 
down, 
And  their  defenceless  limbs  beneath  our 
footsteps  strown. 


Immovably  we  stood ;  in  joy  I  found 
Beside  me  then,  firm  as  a  giant  pine 
Among    the    mountain    vapors    driven 

around. 
The  old  man  whom  I  loved;  his  eyes 

divine 
With  a  mild  look  of  courage  answered 

mine. 
And   my  young  friend   was   near,   and 

ardently 
His  hand  grasped  mine  a  moment;  now 

the  line 
Of  war  extended,  to  our  rallying  cry 
As  myriads  flocked  in  love  and  brotherhood 

to  die. 


For  ever   while   the   sun  was  climbing 

Heaven 
The     horseman    hewed     our    unarmed 

myriads  down 
Safely,  though  when  by  thirst  of  camag^e 

driven 
Too  near,  those  slaves  were  swiftly  over- 
thrown 
By  hundreds  leaping  on  them;  flesh  and 

bone 
Soon  made  our  ghastly  ramparts;  then 

the  shaft 
Of  the  artillery  from  the  sea  was  thrown 
More  fast  and  fiery,  and  the  conquerors 

laughed 
In  pride  to  hear  the  wind  our  screams  of 

torment  waft. 

XII 

For  on  one  side  alone  the  hill  gave  shel- 
ter. 

So  vast  that  phalanx  of  unconquered 
men. 

And  there  the  living  in  the  blood  did 
welter 

Of  the  dead  and  dying,  which  in  that 
green  glen. 


CANTO   SIXTH 


93 


Like    stifled    torrents,   made   a  plashy 

fen 
Under  the  feet.     Thus  was  the  butchery 

waged 
While  the  sun  clomb  Heaven's  eastern 

steep;  but,  when 
It  'gan  to  sink,  a  fiercer  combat  raged, 
For  in  more  doubtful  strife  the  armies  were 

engaged. 

XIII 
Within  a  cave  upon  the  hill  were  found 
A  bundle  of  rude  pikes,  the  instrument 
Of  those  who  war  but  on  their  native 

ground 
For  natural  rights;  a  shout  of  joyance, 

sent 
Even    from   our  hearts,   the    wide    air 

pierced  and  rent, 
As  those  few  arms  the  bravest  and  the 

best 
Seized,  and  each  sixth,  thus  armed,  did 

now  present 
A  line  which  covered  and  sustained  the 

rest, 
A   confident   phalanx   which    the   foes   on 

every  side  invest. 

XIV 

That  onset  turned  the  foes  to  flight  al- 
most; 

But  soon  they  saw  their  present  strength, 
and  knew 

That  coming  night  would  to  our  resolute 
host 

Bring  victory ;  so,  dismounting,  close  they 
drew 

Their  glittering  files,  and  then  the  com- 
bat grew 

Unequal  but  most  horrible;  and  ever 

Our  myriads,  whom  the  swift  bolt  over- 
threw. 

Or  the  red  sword,  failed  like  a  mountain 
river 
Which   rushes   forth  in   foam   to   sink  in 
sands  forever. 

XV 

Sorrow  and  shame,  to  see  with  their  own 

kind 
Our  human  brethren  mix,  like  beasts  of 

blood. 
To  mutual  ruin  armed  by  one  behind 
W^ho   sits   aud   scoffs!  —  that   friend  so 

mild  and  good, 


Who  like  its  shadow  near  my  youth  had 

stood, 
Was     stabbed!  —  my     old     preserver's 

hoary  hair. 
With  the  flesh  clinging  to  its  roots,  was 

strewed 
Under  my  feet!     I  lost  all  sense  or  care, 
And   like  the  rest  I  grew  desperate  and 

unaware. 

XVI 

The    battle   became    ghastlier;    in    the 

midst 
I  paused,  and  saw  how  ugly  and  how  fell, 
O   Hate!  thou   art,   even  when  thy  life 

thou  shedd'st 
For  love.     The  ground  in  many  a  little 

dell 
Was  broken,  up  and  down  whose  steeps 

befell 
Alternate  victory  and  defeat;  and  there 
The  combatants  with  riige  most  horrible 
Strove,  and  their  eyes  started  with  crack- 
ing stare, 
And   impotent   their   tongues   they    lolled 
into  the  air, 

XVII 

Flaccid   and  foamy,   like  a   mad   dog's 

hanging. 
Want,  and  Moon-madness,  and  the  pest's 

swift  Bane, 
When   its  shafts   smite  —  while  yet  its 

bow  is  twanging  — 
Have  each   their  mark  and  sign,  some 

ghastly  stain; 
And  this  was  thine,  O  War  !  of  hate  and 

pain 
Thou  loathed  slave!    I  saw  all  shapes  of 

death, 
And  ministered  to  many,  o'er  the  plain 
While  carnage  in  the  sunbeam's  warmth 

did  seethe. 
Till  Twilight  o'er  the  east  wove  her  scren- 

est  wreath. 

XVIII 

The  few  who  yet  survived,  resolute  aud 

firm. 
Around  me  fought.     At  the  decline  of 

day, 
Winding  above   the   mountain's    snowy 

term, 
New   banners   shone;  they   quivered  in 

the  ray 


94 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


Of  the  sun's  unseen  orb;  ere  night  the 

array 
Of  fresh  troops  hemmed  us  in  —  of  those 

brave  bands 
I  soon  survived  alone  —  and  now  I  lay 
Vanquished    and    faint,    the    grasp    of 

bloody  hands 
1  felt,  and  saw  on  high  the  glare  of  falling 

brands, 


XIX 

When    on    my  foes    a 


sudden    terror 


And   they  fled,  scattering.  —  Lo  I   with 

reinless  speed 
A  black  Tartarian  horse  of  giant  frame. 
Comes   trampling    over   the   dead;    the 

living  bleed 
Beneath  the  hoofs  of   that   tremendous 

steed. 
On  which,  like  to  an  Angel,  robed  in 

white, 
Sate  one  waving  a  sword;  the  hosts  re- 
cede 
And   fly,   as   through  their  ranks,  with 

awful  might 
Sweeps  in  the  shadow  of  eve  that  Phantom 

swift  and  bright; 


And  its  path  made  a  solitude.     I  rose 
And  marked  its  coming;  it  relaxed  its 

course 
As  it  approached  me,  and  the  wind  that 

flows 
Through  night  bore  accents  to  mine  ear 

whose  force 
Might  create  smiles  in  death.     The  Tar- 
tar horse 
Paused,  and  I  saw  the  shape  its  might 

which  swayed. 
And  heard  her  musical  pants,  like  the 

sweet  source 
Of  waters  in  the  desert,  as  she  said, 
'Mount  with  me,  Laon,  now'  —  I  rapidly 

obeyed. 

XXI 

Then,   *  Away  !  away  ! '   she   cried,  and 

stretched  her  sword 
As  't  were  a  scourge  over  the  courser's 

head. 
And  lightly  shook  the  reins.     We  spake 

no  word, 
But  like  the  vapor  of  the  tempest  fled 


Over    the    plain;    her    dark    hair    was 

dispread 
Like  the  pine's  locks  upon  the  lingering 

blast ; 
Over  mine  eyes  its  shadowy  strings  it 

spread 
Fitfully,  and  the  hills  and  streams  fled 

fast. 
As  o'er  their  glimmering  forms  the  steed'c 

broad  shadow  passed. 


And  his  hoofs  ground  the  rocks  to  fire 

and  dust, 
His  strong  sides  made  the  torrents  rise 

in  spray. 
And  turbulence,  as  of  a  whirlwind's  gust, 
Surrounded  us;  —  and  still  away,  away, 
Through  the  debert  night  we  sped,  while 

she  alway 
Gazed  on  a  mountain  which  we  neared, 

whose  crest, 
Crowned  with  a  marble  ruin,  in  the  ray 
Of  the  obscure  stars  gleamed ;  its  rugged 

breast 
The  steed  strained  up,  and  then  his  impulse 

did  arrest. 

xxiri 

A     rocky     hill      which     overhung     the 

Ocean:  — 
From  that  lone  ruin,  when  the  steed  that 

panted 
Paused,  might  be  heard  the  murmur  of 

the  motion 
Of  waters,  as  in  spots  forever  haunted 
By  the  choicest  winds  of  Heaven  which 

are  enchanted 
To  music  by  the  wand  of  Solitude, 
That  wizard  wild,  —  and  the  far  tents 

implanted 
Upon  the  plain,  be  seen  by  those  who 

stood 
Thence  marking  the  dark  shore  of  Ocean's 

curved  flood. 

XXIV 

One  moment  these  were  heard  And  seen 

—  another 
Passed;  and  the  two  who  stood  beneath 

that  night 
Each  only  heard  or  saw  or  felt  the  other. 
As  from  the  lofty  steed  she  did  alight, 
Cythna  (for,  from  the  eye?  whose  deepest 

light 


CANTO   SIXTH 


9S 


Of  love  and  sadness  made  my  lips  feel 

pale 
With  influence  strange  of  mournfuUest 

delight, 
My  own  sweet  Cythna  looked)  with  joy 

did  quail, 
And  felt  her  strength  in  tears  of  human 

weakness  fail. 

XXV 
And  for  a  space   in   my  embrace   she 

rested, 
Her  head  on  my  unquiet  heart  reposing. 
While  my  faint  arms  her  languid  frame 

invested; 
At  length  she  looked  on  me,  and,  half 

unclosing 
Her  tremulous  lips,  said,  'Friend,  thy 

bands  were  losing 
The  battle,  as  I  stood  before  the  King 
In  bonds.   I  burst  them  then,  and,  swiftly 

choosing 
The   time,  did   seize  a  Tartar's   sword, 

and  spring 
Upon  his  horse,  and  swift  as  on  the  whirl- 
wind's wing 

XXVI 

'  Have  thou  and  I  been  borne  beyond  pur- 
suer, 
And  we  are  here.'     Then,  turning  to  the 

steed, 
She  pressed  the  white  moon  on  his  front 

with  pure 
And  rose-like  lips,  and  many  a  fragrant 

weed 
From  the  green  ruin  plucked   that   he 

might  feed; 
But  I  to  a  stone  seat  that  Maiden  led, 
And,  kissing  her  fair  eyes,  said,  '  Thou 

hast  need 
Of  rest,'  and  I  heaped  up  the  courser's 

bed 
In  a  green   mossy   nook,   with   mountain 

flowers  dispread. 

XXVII 

Within  that  ruin,  where  a  shattered 
portal 

Looks  to  the  eastern  stars  —  abandoned 
now 

By  man  to  be  the  home  of  things  im- 
mortal, 

Memories,  like  awful  ghosts  which  come 
and  go. 


And  must  inherit  all  he  builds  below 

When  he   is  gone — a  hall  stood;    o'er 
whose  roof 

Fair  clinging  weeds  with  ivy  pale  did 
grow. 

Clasping  its  gray  rents  with  a  verdurous 
woof, 
A  hanging  dome  of  leaves,  a  canopy  moon- 
proof. 

XXVIII 

The  autumnal  winds,  as  if  spell-bound, 

had  made 
A  natural  couch  of  leaves  in  that  recess, 
Which  seasons  none  disturbed;   but,  in 

the  shade 
Of  flowering  parasites,  did  Spring  love 

to  dress 
With  their  sweet  blooms  the  wintry  lone- 
liness 
Of    those   dead  leaves,   shedding  their 

stars  whene'er 
The  wandering  wind  her  nurslings  might 

caress ; 
Whose  intertwining  fingers  ever  there 
Made  music  wild  and  soft  that  filled  the 

listening  air. 

XXIX 

We   know  not   where  we   go,   or  what 

sweet  dream 
May  pilot  us  through  caverns   strange 

and  fair 
Of  far  and  pathless  passion,  while  the 

stream 
Of  life  our  bark  doth  on  its  whirlpools 

bear, 
Spreading  swift  wings  as  sails  to  the  dim 

air; 
Nor  should  we  seek  to  know,  so  the  de- 
votion 
Of  love  and  gentle  thoughts  be  heard 

still  there 
Louder    and    louder    from   the    utmost 

Ocean 
Of  universal  life,  attuning  its  commotion. 

XXX 

To  the  pure  all  things  are  pure!  Oblivion 

wrapped 
Our  spirits,  and  the  fearful  overthrow 
Of    public   hope    was    from    our   being 

snapped, 
Though  linked  years  had  bound  it  there; 

for  now 


96 


THE  REVOLT  OF   ISLAM 


A  power,  a  thirst,  a  knowledge,  which 
belovV 

All  thoughts,  like  light  beyond  the  at- 
mosphere 

Clothing  its  clouds  with  grace,  doth  ever 
flow, 

Came  on  us,  as  we  sate  in  silence  there, 
Beneath  the  golden  stars  of  the  clear  azure 
air;  — 

XXXI 

In  silence  which  doth  follow  talk  that 

causes 
The   baffled  heart  to  speak  with  sighs 

and  tears. 
When  wilderiug  passion  swalloweth  up 

the  pauses 
Of  inexpressive  speech;  —  the  youthful 

years 
Which  we  together  passed,  their  hopes 

and  fears. 
The  blood  itself   which   ran  within  our 

frames, 
That  likeness  of  the  features  which  en- 
dears 
The   thoughts   expressed  by  them,  our 

very  names, 
And  all  the  wingfed  hours  which  speechless 

memory  claims, 

XXXII 

Had  found  a  voice;  and  ere  that  voice 

did  pass. 
The   night   grew  damp  and   dim,   and, 

through  a  rent 
Of   the   ruin  where  we   sate,  from   the 

morass 
A  wandering  Meteor  by  some  wild  wind 

sent 
Hung  high  in  the  green  dome,  to  which 

it  lent 
A  faint  and    p<allid    lustre;    while   the 

song 
Of  blasts,  in  which  its  blue  hair  quiver- 
ing bent, 
Strewed   strangest   sounds   the   moving 

leaves  among; 
A  wondrous  light,  the  sound  as  of  a  spirit's 

tongue. 

XXXIII 

The  Meteor  showed  the  leaves  on  which 

we  sate, 
And   Cythna's   glowing   arms,  and    the 

thick  ties 


Of  her  soft  hair  which  bent  with  gath- 
ered weight 

My  neck  uear  hers;  her  dark  and  deep- 
ening eyes, 

Which,  as  twin  phantoms  of   one   star 
that  lies 

O'er  a  dim  well  move  though  the  star 
reposes, 

Swam  in  our  mute  and  liquid  ecstasies; 

Her   marble  brow,  and  eager  lips,  like 
roses, 
With    their   own    fragrance    pale,    which 
Spring  but  half  uncloses. 

XXXIV 

The  Meteor  to  its  far  morass  returned. 
The  beating  of  our  veins  one  interval 
Made  still;  and  then  I  felt  the  blood  that 

burned 
Within  her  frame  mingle  with  mine,  and 

fall 
Around   my  heart  like   fire;   and   over 

all 
A   mist   was  spread,  the  sickness  of  a 

deep 
And  speechless  swoon  of  joy,  as  might 

befall 
Two  disunited  spirits  when  they  leap 
In   union   from   this  earth's   obscure   and 

fading  sleep. 

XXXV 

Was   it  one   moment    that  confounded 

thus 
All  thought,  all  sense,  all  feeling,  into 

one 
Unutterable  power,  which  shielded  us 
Even  from  our  own  cold  looks,  when  we 

had  gone 
Into  a  wide  and  wild  oblivion 
Of  tumult  and  of  tenderness  ?  or  now 
Had  ages,  such  as  make  the  moon  and 

sun. 
The  seasons,  and  mankind  their  changes 
know. 
Left  fear  and  time  unfelt  by  us  alone  be- 
low ? 

XXXVI 

I  know  not.     What  are  kisses  whose  fire 

clasps 
The   failing   heart   in   languishment,  or 

limb 
Twined  within  limb  ?  or  the  quick  dying 

gasps 


CANTO   SIXTH 


97 


Of  the  life  meeting,  when  the  faint  eyes 

Fpw  were  the  liviug  hearts  which  could 

swim 

unite 

Through  tears  of  a  wide  mist  boundless 

Like  ours,  or  celebrate  a  bridal  night 

and  dim, 

With   such   close   sympathies,   for  they 

In  one  caress  ?     What  is  the  strong  con- 

had sprung 

trol 

From  linked  youth,  and  from  the  gentle 

Which  leads  the  heart  that  dizzy  steep 

might 

to  climb 

Of  earliest  love,  delayed  and  cherished 

Where  far  over  the  world  those  vapors 

long, 

roll 

Which  common  hopes  and  fears  made,  like 

Which  blend  two  restless  frames  in  one  re- 

a tempest,  strong. 

posing  soul  ? 

XL 

XXXVII 

And  such   is   Nature's  law  divine   that 

It  is  the  shadow  which  doth  float  unseen, 

those 

But  not  unfelt,  o'er  blind  mortality. 

Who  grow  together  cannot  choose  but 

Whose   divine   darkness    fled   not  from 

love. 

that  green 

If  faith  or  custom  do  not  interpose. 

And  lone  recess,  where  lapped  in  peace 

Or  common  slavery  mar  what  else  might 

did  lie 

move 

Our  linked  frames,  till,  from  the  chan- 

All gentlest  thoughts.     As  in  the  sacred 

ging  sky 

grove 

That   night  and   still  another   day  had 

Which  shades  the  springs  of  ^Ethiopian 

fled; 

Nile, 

And  then  I  saw  and  felt.   The  moon  was 

That   living  tree  which,  if   the   arrowy 

high, 

dove 

And  clouds,  as  of  a  coming  storm,  were 

Strike  with  her  shadow,  shrinks  in  fear 

spread 

awhile, 

Under  its  orb,  —  loud  winds  were  gather- 

But its  own  kindred  leaves  clasps  while  the 

ing  overhead. 

sunbeams  smile, 

XXXVIII 

XLI 

Cythna's  sweet  lips  seemed  lurid  in  the 

And  clings  to  them  when  darkness  may 

moon, 

dissever 

Her  fairest  limbs  with  the  night  wind 

The  close  caresses  of  all  duller  plants 

were  chill, 

Which  bloom  on  the  wide  earth;  —  thus 

And  her  dark  tresses  were  all  loosely 

we  forever 

strewn 

Were  linked,  for  love  had  nursed  us  in 

O'er  her  pale  bosom ;  all  within  was  still, 

the  haunts 

And  the  sweet  peace  of  joy  did  almost 

Where  knowledge  from  its  secret  source 

fill 

enchants 

The  depth  of  her  unfathomable  look ; 

Young  hearts  with  the  fresh  music  of  its 

And  we  sate  calmly,  though  that  rocky 

springing, 

hill 

Ere  yet  its  gathered  flood  feeds  human 

The   waves    contending    in    its   caverns 

wants 

strook, 

As  the  great  Nile  feeds  Egypt,  —  ever 

For  they  foreknew  the  storm,  and  the  gray 

flinging 

ruin  shook. 

Light  on  the  woven  boughs  which  o'er  its 

waves  are  swinging. 

XXXIX 

There  we  unheeding  sate  in  the   com- 

XLII 

munion 

The  tones  of  Cythna's  voice  like  echoes 

Of  interchanged  vows,  which,  with  a  rite 

were 

Of  faith  most  sweet  and  sacred,  stamped 

Of  those  far  murmuring  streams;  they 

our  union. 

rose  and  fell, 

98 


THE  REVOLT  OF   ISLAM 


Mixed  with  mine  own  in  the  tempestuous 

air; 
And  so  we  sate,  until  our  talk  befell 
Of  the  late  ruin,  swift  and  horrible. 
And  how  those  seeds  of  hope  might  yet 

be  sown, 
Whose    fruit  is   Evil's    mortal    poison. 

Well, 
For  us,  this  ruin  made  a  watch-tower 

lone, 
But  Cythna's  eyes  looked  faint,  and  now 

two  days  were  gone 

XLIII 
Since   she  had   food.     Therefore  I  did 

awaken 
The  Tartar  steed,  who,  from  his  ebon 

mane 
Soon  as  the   clinging  slumbers  he  had 

shaken. 
Bent  his  thin  head  to  seek  the  brazen 

rein. 
Following  me  obediently.     With  pain 
Of  lieart  so  deep  and  dread  that  one 

caress, 
When  lips  and  heart  refiise  to  part  again 
Till  they  have  told  their  fill,  could  scarce 

express 
The  anguish  of  her  mute  and  fearful  ten- 
derness, 

XLIV 

Cythna  beheld  me  part,  as  I  bestrode 
That  willing  steed.    The  tempest  and  the 

night. 
Which  gave  my  path  its  safety  as  I  rode 
Down  the  ravine  of  rocks,  did  soon  unite 
The  darkness  and  the  tumidt  of   their 

might 
Borne  on  all  winds.  —  Far  through  the 

streaming  rain 
Floating,  at  intervals  the  garments  white 
Of  Cythna  gleamed,  and  her  voice  once 

again 
Came  to  me  on  the  gust,  and  soon  I  reached 

the  plain. 

XLV 

I  dreaded  not  the  tempest,  nor  did  he 

Who  bore  me,  but  his  eyeballs  wide  and 
red 

Turned  on  the  lightning's  cleft  exult- 
i"glv; 

And  when  the  earth  beneath  his  tame- 
less tread 


Shook  with  the  sullen  tlmnder,  he  would 
spread 

His  nostrils  to  the  blast,  and  joyously 

Mock  the  fierce  peal  with  neighings; —   ^ 
thus  we  sped 

O'er  the  lit  plain,  and  soon  I  could  de- 
scry 
Where   Death  and   Fire  had   gorged  the 
spoil  of  victory. 

XLVI 

There  was  a  desolate  village  in  a  wood. 

Whose  bloom-inwoven  leaves  now  scat- 
tering fed 

The   hungry   storm;   it  was  a  place  of 
blood, 

A  heap  of  hearthless  walls;  —  the  fiames 
were  dead 

Within  those  dwellings  now,  —  the  life 
had  fled 

From  all  those  corpses  now,  —  but  the 
wide  sky 

Flooded  with  lightning  was  ribbed  over- 
head 

By  the   black  rafters,  and  around   did 
lie 
Women  and  babes  and  men,  slaughtered 
confusedly. 

XLVII 

Beside  the  fountain  in  the  market-place 
Dismounting,    I    beheld    those    corpses 

stare 
With  horny  eyes  upon  each  other's  face, 
And  on   the   earth,  and  on   the  vacant 

air, 
And  upon  me,  close  to  the  waters  where 
I  stooped  to  slake  my  thirst;  —  I  shrank 

to  taste. 
For   the   salt  bitterness  of    blood   was 

there! 
But  tied  the  steed  beside,  and  sought  in 

haste 
If  any  yet  survived  amid  that  ghastly  waste. 

XLVIII 

No  living  thing   was  there   beside  one 

woman 
Whom  I  found  wandering  in  the  streets, 

and  slie 
Was  withered  from  a  likeness  of  aught 

human 
Into  a  fiend,  by  some  strange  misery; 
Soon  as  she  beard  my  steps  she  leaped 

on  me, 


CANTO   SIXTH 


99 


And  glued  her  buruiug  lips  to  miue,  aud 

laughed 
With  a  loud,  long  and  frantic  laugh  of 

glee, 
And   cried,    'Now,   mortal,    thou    hast 

deeply  quaffed 
The    Plague's   blue  kisses  —  soon  millions 

shall  pledge  the  draught! 

XLIX 
'My  name  is  Pestilence;  this  bosom  dry 
Once   fed   two  babes  —  a  sister   and   a 

brother; 
When  I  came  home,  one  in  the  blood  did 

lie 
Of  three  death-wounds  —  the  flames  had 

ate  the  other! 
Since    then   I   have   no  longer   been   a 

mother, 
But  I  am  Pestilence;  hither  and  thither 
I  flit  about,  that  I  may  slay  aud  smother; 
All  lips  which  I  have  kissed  must  surely 

wither, 
But  Death's  —  if  thou  art  he,  we  '11  go  to 

work  together! 


♦  What  seek'st  thou  here?  the  moonlight 

comes  in  flashes; 
The  dew  is  rising  dauklj'  from  the  dell; 
'T  will  moisten  her!  aud  thou  shaH  see 

the  gashes 
In  my  sweet  boy,  now  full  of  worms.    But 

tell 
First  what  thou  seek'st.'  —  *  I  seek  for 

food.'  — "T  is  well. 
Thou  shalt  have  food.     Famine,  my  par- 
amour. 
Waits  for  us  at  the  feast  —  cruel  and  fell 
Is  Famine,  but  he  drives  not  from  his 

door 
Those  whom  these  lips  have  kissed,  alone. 

No  more,  no  more! ' 

LI 

As  thus  she  spake,  she  grasped  me  with 

the  strength 
Of    madness,    and    by   many   a   ruined 

hearth 
She  led,  and  over  many  a  corpse.     At 

length 
We  came  to  a  lone  hut,  where  on  the 

earth 
Which  made  its  floor  she  in  her  ghastly 

mirth, 


Gathering    from   all   those   homes   now 

desolate. 
Had  piled  three  heaps  of  loaves,  making 

a  dearth 
Among  the  dead  —  roimd  which  she  set 

in  state 
A  ring  of  cold,  stiff  babes;  silent  and  starli 

they  sate. 

LII 

She  leaped  upon  a  pile,  and  lifted  high 

Her   mad   looks   to  the   lightning,   and 
cried,  'Eat! 

Share  the   great   feast  —  to-morrow  we 
must  die! ' 

And  then  she  spurned  the   loaves  with 
her  pale  feet 

Towards    her    bloodless    guests ;  —  that 
sight  to  meet, 

Mine  eyes  and  my  heart  ached,  and  but 
that  she 

Who   loved   me  did  with   absent  looks 
defeat 

Despair,  I  might  have  raved  in  sympa- 
thy; 
But  now  I  took  the  food  that  woman  of- 
fered me; 

LIU 

And   vainly  having   with   her  madness 

striven 
If  I  might  win  her  to  return  with  me, 
Departed.     In    the    eastern    beams    of 

Heaven 
The  lightning  now  grew  pallid,  rapidly 
As  by  the  shore  of  the  tempestuous  sea 
The  dark  steed  bore  me;  aud  the  moun- 
tain gray 
Soon  echoed  to  his  hoofs,  and  I  could 

see 
Cythna  among  the  rocks,  where  she  al- 
way 
Had  sate  with  anxious  eyes  fixed  on  the 
lingering  day. 


And   joy  was  ours  to   meet.     She    was 

most  pale. 
Famished  and  wet  and  weary;  so  I  cast 
My    arms    around    her,   lest    her   steps 

should  fail 
As   to  our  home  we  went,  —  and,  thus 

embraced. 
Her  full  heart  seemed  a  deeper  joy  to 

taste 


xoo 


THE  REVOLT   OF  ISLAM 


Than    e'er    the   prosperous    know;    the 

steed  behind 
Trod    peacefully    along    the    mountain 

waste; 
We  reached  our  home  ere  morning  could 

unbind 
Night's  latest  veil,  and  on  our  bridal  couch 

reclined. 

LV 

Her  chilled  heart  having  cherished  in 
my  bosom, 

And  sweetest  kisses  past,  we   two  did 
share 

Our  peaceful  meal ;  as  an  autumnal  blos- 
som, 

Which  spreads  its  shrunk  leaves  in  the 
sunny  air 

After  cold  showers,  like  rainbows  woven 
there, 

Thus  in   her  lips  and  cheeks  the  vital 
spirit 

Mantled,  and  in  her  eyes  an  atmosphere 

Of   health   and   hope;  and   sorrow   lan- 
guished near  it, 
And  fear,  and  all  that  dark  despondence 
doth  inherit. 


CANTO   SEVENTH 
I 

So  we  sate  joyous  as  the  morning  ray 
Which  fed  upon  the  wrecks  of  night  and 

storm 
Now  lingering  on  the  winds;  light  airs 

did  play 
Among  the  dewy  weeds,  the   sun  was 

warm, 
And  we  sate  linked  in  the  inwoven  charm 
Of    converse    and    caresses    sweet  and 

deep  — 
Speechless  caresses,  talk  that  might  dis- 
arm 
Time,   though    he    wield    the    darts   of 

death  and  sleep, 
And  those  thrice  mortal  barbs  in  his  own 

poison  steep. 

II 

I  told  her  of  my  sufferings  and  my  mad- 
ness. 

And  how,  awakened  from  that  dreamy 
mood 

By  Liberty's  uprise,  the  strength  of 
gladness 


Came  to  my  spirit  in  my  solitude. 

And  all  that  now  I  was,  while  tears  pur- 
sued 

Each  other  down  her  fair  and  listening 
cheek 

Fast  as   the  thoughts  which  fed   them, 
like  a  flood 

From  sunbright  dales ;  and  when  I  ceased 
to  speak, 
Her  accents  soft  and  sweet  the  pausing  air 
did  wake. 

Ill 

She  told  me  a  strange  tale  of  strange 
endurance. 

Like  broken  memories  of  many  a  heart 

Woven  into  one;  to  which  no  firm  assur- 
ance, 

So  wild  were  they,  could  her  own  faith 
impart. 

She  said  that  not  a  tear  did  dare  to  start 

From   the   swolu   brain,   and    that    her 
thoughts  were  firm, 

When  from  all  mortal  hope  she  did  de- 
part. 

Borne  by  those  slaves  across  the  Ocean's 
term, 
And  that  she  reached  the  port  without  one 
fear  inlirm. 


One   was   she .  among  many  there,   the 

thralls 
Of  the  cold  Tyrant's  cruel  hist;  and  they 
Laughed   mournfully  in   those  polluted 

halls; 
But  she  was  calm  and  sad,  musing  alway 
On  loftiest  enterprise,  till  on  a  day 
The  Tyrant   heard   her  singing   to   her 

lute 
A  wild  and  sad  and  spirit-thrilling  lay. 
Like  winds  that  die  in  wastes  —  one  mo- 
ment mute 
The  evil  thoughts  it  made  which  did  his 
breast  pollute. 


Even  when  he  saw  her  wondrous  loveli- 
ness. 

One  moment  to  great  Nature's  sacred 
power 

He  bent,  and  was  no  longer  passionless; 

But  when  he  bade  her  to  liis  secret  bower 

Be  borne,  a  loveless  victim,  and  she 
tore 


CANTO   SEVENTH 


lOI 


Her  locks  in  agony,  and  her  words  of 

The  other  was  a  wretch  from  infancy 

flame 

Made  dumb  by  poison;  who  nought  knew 

And  mightier  looks  availed  not,  then  he 

or  meant 

bore 

But  to  obey;  from  the  fire  isles  came  he, 

Again  his  load  of  slavery,  and  became 

A  diver  lean  and  strong,  of  Oman's  coral 

A.  king,  a  heartless  beast,  a  pageant  and  a 
name. 

sea. 

VI 

IX 

They  bore  her  to  a  bark,  and  the  swift 

She  told  me  what  a  loathsome  agony 

stroke 

Is   that   when   selfishness   mocks   love's 

Of  silent  rowers  clove  the  blue  moonlight 

delight, 

seas. 

Foul  as  in  dreams,  most  fearful  imagery. 

Until  upon  their  path  the  morning  broke ; 

To  dally  with  the   mowing  dead;    that 

They   anchored   then,   where,    be    there 

night 

calm  or  breeze. 

All  torture,  fear,  or  horror  made  seem 

The  gloomiest  of  the  drear  Symplegades 

light 

Shakes    with    the    sleepless   surge;    the 

Which  the  soul  dreams  or  knows,  and 

^tbiop  there 

when  the  day 

Wound  Lis  long  arms  around  her,  and 

Shone   on   her   awful   frenzy,  from  the 

with  knees 

sight, 

Like  iron  clasped  her  feet,  and  plunged 

Where  like  a  Spirit  in  fleslily  chains  she 

with  her 

lay 

Among  the  closing  waves  out  of  the  bound- 

Struggling, aghast  and  pale  the  Tyrant  fled 

less  air. 

away. 

X 

VII 

'  Swift  as  an  eagle  stooping  from  the  plain 

Her  madness   was  a  beam  of  light,  a 

Of    morning   light   into   some   shadowy 

power 

wood. 

Which  dawned   through  the  rent   soul; 

He  plunged  through  the  green  silence  of 

and  words  it  gave, 

the  main, 

Gestures   and   looks,   such  as   in  whirl- 

Through many  a  cavern  which  the  eter- 

winds bore 

nal  flood 

(Which  might  not  be  withstood,  whence 

Had  scooped  as  dark  lairs  for  its  monster 

none  could  save) 

brood ; 

All  who  approached   their  sphere,  like 

And  among  might}'  shapes  which  fled  in 

some  calm  wave 

wonder, 

Vexed  into  whirlpools  by  the  chasms  be- 

And among  mightier  shadows  which  pur- 

neath ; 

sued 

And  sympathy  made  each  attendant  slave 

His  heels,  he  wound ;  until  the  dark  rocks 

Fearless   and   free,  and   they  began   to 

under 

breathe 

He  touched  a  golden  chain  —  a  sound  arose 

Deep  curses,  like  the  voice  of  flames  far 

like  thunder. 

underneath. 

XI 

VIII 

*  A  stunning  clang  of   massive   bolts  re- 

The King  felt  pale   upon  his  noon-day 

doubling 

throne. 

Beneath   the  deep  —  a  burst  of  waters 

At  night  two  slaves  he  to  her  chamber 

driven 

sent; 

As  from  the  roots  of  the  sea,  raging  and 

One  was  a  green  and  wrinkled  eunuch, 

bubbling: 

grown 

And  in  that  roof  of  crags  a  space  was 

From  human  shape  into  an  instrument 

riven 

Of  all  thiugs  ill  —  distorted,  bowed  and 

Through  which  there  shone  the  emerald 

bent; 

beams  of  heaven. 

loa 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


Shot  through  the  lines  of  many  waves 
inwoven, 

Like  sunlight  through  acacia  woods  at 
even, 

Through  which  his  way  the  diver  having 
cloven 
Passed  like  a  spark  sent  up  oat  of  a  burn- 
ing oven. 

XII 

*  And  then,'  she  said, '  he  laid  me  in  a  cave 
Above  the  waters,  by  that  chasm  of  sea, 
A  fountain  round  and  vast,  in  which  the 

wave 

Imprisoned,  boiled  and  leaped  perpet- 
ually, 

Down  which,  one  moment  resting,  he  did 
flee, 

Winning  the  adverse  depth;  that  spacious 
cell 

Like  an  hupaithric  temple  wide  and  high, 

Whose  aery  dome  is  inaccessible. 
Was  pierced  with  one  round  cleft  through 
which  the  sunbeams  fell. 

XIII 

*  Below,  the  fountain's  brink  was  richly 

paven 
With  the  deep's  wealth,  coral,  and  pearl, 

and  sand 
Like  spangling  gold,  and  purple  shells 

engraven 
With  mystic  legends  by  no  mortal  band, 
Left  there  when,  thronging  to  the  moon's 

command. 
The  gathering  waves  rent  the  Hesperian 

gate 
Of  mountains;  and  on  such  bright  floor 

did  stand 
Columns,  and   shapes  like   statues,  and 

the  state 
Of  kingless  thrones,  which  Earth  did  in  her 

heart  create. 

XIV 

'  The  fiend  of  madness  which  had  made 

its  prey 
Of  my  poor  heart  was  lulled  to  sleep 

awhile. 
There  was  an  interval  of  many  a  day; 
And  a  sea-eagle   brought  me  food  the 

while, 
Whose  nest  was  built  in  that  untrodden 

isle, 
And  who  to  be  the  jailer  had  been  taught 


Of  that  strange  dungeon;   as  a  friend 

whose  smile 
Like  light  and  rest  at  morn  and  even  is 

sought 
That  wild   bird  was   to  me,  till  madness 

misery  brought:  — 


*  The  misery  of  a  madness  slow  and  creep- 

ing, 
Which  made  the  earth  seem  fire,  the  sea 

seem  air. 
And  the  white  clouds  of  noon  which  oft 

were  sleeping 
In  the  blue  heaven  so  beautiful  and  fair, 
Like  hosts  of  ghastly  shadows  hovering 

there ; 
And   the  sea-eagle  looked  a  fiend  who 

bore 
Thy  mangled  limbs  for  food  !  —  thus  all 

things  were 
Transformed    into  the   agony   which    I 

wore 
Even  as  a  poisoned  robe  around  my  bosom's 

core. 

XVI 

'  Again  I  knew  the  day  and  night  fast 

fleeing. 
The  eajrle  and  the  fountain  and  the  air; 
Another  frenzy  came  —  there  seemed  a 

being 
Within   me  —  a  strange   load   my  heart 

did  bear, 
As  if  some  living  thing  had  made  its  lair 
Even  in  the  fountains  of  my  life;  —  a 

long 
And  wondrous  vision  wrought  from  my 

despair, 
Then  grew,  like  sweet  reality  among 
Dim  visionary  woes,  an  unreposing  throng. 

XVII 

*  Methought  I  was  about  to  be  a  mother. 
Month  after  month  went  by,  and  still  I 

dreamed 
That  we  should  soon  be  all  to  one  another, 
I  and   my  child;  and   still   new  pulses 

seemed 
To  beat  beside   my  heart,  and   still   I 

deemed 
There  was  a  babe  within  —  and  when  the 

rain 
Of   winter  through    the   rifted    caverc 

streamed, 


CANTO   SEVENTH 


103 


Methougbt,  after  a  lapse   of  lingering 

She  would  mark  one,  and  laugh  when, 

pain, 

that  command 

I  saw  that  lovely  shape   which  near  my 

Slighting,  it  lingered  there,  and  could  not 

heart  had  lain. 

understand. 

XVIII 

XXI 

•  It  was  a  babe,  beautiful  from  its  birth,  — 

'  Methought  her  looks  began  to  talk  with 

It  was  like  thee,  dear  love !  its  eyes  were 

me; 

thine, 

And  no  articulate  sounds,  but  something 

Its  brow,  its  lips,  and  so  upon  the  earth 

sweet 

It  laid  its  fingers  as  now  rest  on  mine 

Her  lips   would   frame,  —  so   sweet   it 

Thine   own,   belovM!  —  'twas  a  dream 

could  not  be 

divine; 

That  it  was  meaningless;  her  touch  would 

Even  to  remember  how  it  fled,  how  swift, 

meet 

How  utterly,  might  make  the  heart  re- 

Mine, and  our  pulses  calmly  flow  and 

pine,  — 

beat 

Though  't  was  a  dream.'  —  Then  Cythna 

In  response  while  we  slept;  and,  on  a  day 

did  uplift 

When  I  was  happiest  in  that  strange  re- 

Her looks  on  mine,  as  if  some  doubt  she 

treat. 

sought  to  shift  — 

With  heaps  of  golden  shells  we  two  did 

play  — 

XIX 

Both  infants,  weaving  wings  for  time's  per- 

A doubt  which  would  not  flee,  a  tender- 

petual way. 

ness 
Of  questioning  grief,  a  source  of  throng- 

XXII 

ing  tears; 

'  Ere  night,  methought,  her  waning  eyes 

Which  having  passed,  as  one  whom  sobs 

were  grown 

oppress 

Weary  with  joy  —  and,  tired  with  our 

She  spoke:   'Yes,  in  the  wilderness  of 

delight. 

years 

We,  on  the  earth,  like  sister  twins  lay 

Her  memory  aye  like  a  green  home  ap- 

down 

pears. 

On  one  fair  mother's  bosom:  —  from  that 

She  sucked  her  fill  even  at  this  breast. 

night 

sweet  love. 

She  fled,  —  like  those  illusions  clear  and 

For   many   months.     I   had   no   mortal 

bright. 

fears ; 

Which  dwell  in  lakes,  when  the  red  moon 

Methought  I  felt  her  lips  and  breath  ap- 

on high 

prove 

Pause  ere  it  wakens  tempest;   and  bar 

It  was  a  human  thing  which  to  my  bosom 

flight. 

clove. 

Though  't  was  the  death  of  brainless  fan- 

tasy. 

XX 

Yet  smote  my  lonesome  heart  more  than 

*I  watched  the  dawn  of  her  first  smiles; 

all  misery. 

and  soon 

When  zenith  stars  were  trembling  on  the 

XXIII 

wave. 

*  It  seemed  that  in  the  dreary  night  the 

Or  when  the  beams  of  the  invisible  moon 

diver 

Or  sun  from  many  a  prism  wthin  the 

Who   brought  me  thither  came   again, 

cave 

and  bore 

Their   gem-born  shadows  to  the  water 

My  child  away.    I  saw  the  waters  quiver, 

gave. 

When  he  so  swiftly  sunk,  as  once  before; 

Her  looks  wonld  hunt  them,  and  with 

Then  morning  came  —  it  shone  even  as 

outspread  hand. 

of  yore. 

From  the  swift  lights  which  might  that 

But  I  was  changed  —  the  very  life  was 

fountain  pave, 

gone 

I04 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


Out  of  my  heart  —  I  wasted  more  and 

more, 
Day  after  day,  and,  sitting  there  alone, 
Vexed  the  inconstant  waves  with  my  per- 
petual moan. 

XXIV 
'  I  was  no  longer  mad,  and  yet  methought 
My  breasts  were  swoln  and  changed :  — 

in  every  vein 
The  blood  stood  still  one  moment,  while 

that  thought 
Was  passing  —  with  a  gush  of  sickening 
pain 
.  It  ebbed  even  to  its  withered  springs 
f     again ; 
When  my  wan  eyes  in  stem  resolve  I 

turned 
From  that  most  strange  delusion,  which 

would  fain 
Have  waked  the  dream  for  which  my 
spirit  yearned 
With  more  than  human  love,  —  then  left  it 
unreturned. 


*  So  now  my  reason  was  restored  to  me 

I  struggled  with  that  dream,  which  like 
a  beast 

Most  fierce  and  beauteous  in  my  mem- 
ory 

Had  made  its  lair,  and  on  my  heart  did 
feast ; 

But  all  that  cave  and  all  its  shapes,  pos- 
sessed 

By  thoughts  which  could  not  fade,  re- 
newed each  one 

Some   smile,   some   look,  some   gesture 
which  had  blessed 

Me  heretofore;  I,  sitting  there  alone, 
Vexed  the  inconstant  waves  with  my  per- 
petual moan. 

XXVI 

*  Time  passed,  I  know  not  whether  months 

or  years; 
For  day,  nor  night,  nor  change  of  seasons 

made 
Its   note,  but   thoughts   and   unavailing 

tears ; 
And  I  became  at  last  even  as  a  shade, 
A  smoke,  a  cloud   on  which  the    winds 

have  preyed, 
Till  it  be  thin  as  air;  until,  one  even, 
A  Nautilus  upon  the  fountain  played, 


Spreading  his  azure  sail  where  breath  of 
heaven 
Descended    not,   among    the    waves    and 
whirlpools  driven. 

xxvn 

*  And  when  the  Eagle  came,  that  lovely 

thing. 
Oaring  with  rosy  feet  its  silver  boat. 
Fled   near  me  as  for  shelter;  on  slow 

wing 
The   Eagle   hovering  o'er  his  prey  did 

float; 
But  when  he  saw  that  I  with  fear  did 

note 
His  purpose,  proffering  my  own  food  to 

him. 
The     eager    plumes    subsided    on    his 

throat  — 
He  came  where  that  bi'ight  child  of  sea 

did  swim. 
And  o'er  it  cast  in  peace  his  shadow  broad 

and  dim. 

xxvin 

*  This   wakened   me,  it  gave  me  human 

strength; 

And  hope,  I  know  not  whence  or  where- 
fore, rose, 

But  I  resumed  my  ancient  powers   at 
length ; 

My  spirit  felt  again  like  one  of  those. 

Like  thine,  whose  fate  it  is  to  make  the 
woes 

Of  humankind  their  prey.     What  was 
tills  cave  ? 

Its   deep    foundation   no    firm    purpose 
knows 

Immutable,  resistless,  strong  to  save. 
Like  mind  while  yet  it  mocks  the  all-de- 
vouring grave. 

XXIX 

*  And  where  was  Laon  ?  might  my  heart 

be  dead. 
While  that  far  dearer  heart  could  move 

and  be? 
Or  whilst  over  the   earth  the  pall  was 

spread 
Which  I  had  sworn  to  rend  ?     I  might 

be  free. 
Could  I  but  win  that  friendly  bird  to  me 
To  bring  me  ropes;  and  long  in  vain  I 

sought 
By  intercourse  of  mutual  imagery 


CANTO   SEVENTH 


»oS 


Of  objects  if  such  aid  he  could  be  taught; 
But  fruit  and  flowers  and  boughs,  yet  uever 
ropes  he  brought. 

XXX 

•  We  live  iu  our  own  world,  and  mine  was 

made 

From  glorious  fantasies  of  hope  departed ; 

Aye  we  are  darkened  with  their  floating 
shade, 

Or  cast  a  lustre  on  them;  time  imparted 

Such  power  to  me  —  I  became  fearless- 
hearted. 

My  eye  and  voice  grew  firm,  calm  was 
my  mind. 

And  piercing,  like  the  morn,  now  it  has 
darted 

Its  lustre  on  all  hidden  things  behind 
Ton  dim  and  fading  clouds  which  load  the 
weary  wind. 

XXXI 

•  My  mind  became  the  book  through  which 

I  grew 
Wise  in  all  human  wisdom,  and  its  cave, 
Which  like  a  mine  I  rifled  through  and 

through, 
To  me  the  keeping  of  its  secrets  gave  — 
One  mind,  the  type  of  all,  the  moveless 

wave 
Whose  calm  reflects  all  moving  things 

that  are. 
Necessity,  and  love,  and  life,  the  g^ve. 
And   sympathy,  fountains  of   hope  and 

fear. 
Justice,  and  truth,  and  time,  and  the  world's 

natural  sphere. 

XXXIl 

•  And  on  the  sand  would  I  make  signs  to 

range 
These  woofs,  as  they  were  woven,  of  my 

thought; 
Clear  elemental  shapes,  whose  smallest 

change 
A    subtler    language    within    language 

wrought  — 
The  key  of  truths  which  once  were  dimly 

taught 
In  old  Crotona;  and  sweet  melodies 
Of  love  in  that  lorn  solitude  I  caught 
From    mine  own  voice  in  dream,  when 

thy  dear  eyes 
Shone  through  my  sleep,  and  did  that  utter- 
ance harmonize. 


XXXIII 

'  Thy  songs  were  winds  whereon  I  fled  at 

will. 
As  in  a  winged  chariot,  o'er  the  plain 
Of  crystal  youth;  and  thou  wert  there  to 

fill 
My  heart  with  joy,  and  there  we  sate 

again 
On  the  gray  margin  of  the  glimmering 

main, 
Happy  as  then  but  wiser  far,  for  we 
Smiled   on  the  flowery  grave  iu  which 

were  lain 
Fear,  Faith  and  Slavery:   and  mankind 

was  free, 
Equal,  and  pure,  and  wise,  in  Wisdom's 

prophecy. 

XXXIV 

*  For  to  my  will  my  fancies  were  as  slaves 
To   do   their   sweet  and    subtle    mini»- 

tries ; 
And    oft    from    that    bright    fountain's 

shadowy  waves 
They  would  make  human  throngs  gather 

and  rise 
To  combat  with  ray  overflowing  eyes 
And  voice   made  deep  with  passion;  — 

thus  I  grew 
Familiar  with   the   shock  and   the  sur- 
prise 
And  war  of  earthly  minds,  from  which  I 

drew 
The  power  which  has  been  mine  to  frame 

their  thoughts  anew. 

XXXV 

*  And  thus  my  prison  was  the  populous 

earth. 
Where  I  saw  —  even  as  misery  dreams 

of  morn 
Before    the    east    has    given   its  glory 

birth  — 
Religion's  pomp  made  desolate  by  the 

scorn 
Of  Wisdom's  faintest  smile,  and  thrones 

nptorn. 
And    dwellings  of    mild    people  inter- 
spersed 
With  undivided  fields  of  ripening  com, 
And  love  made  free  —  a  hope  which  we 

have  nursed 
Even  with  our  blood  and  tears, —  until  its 

glory  burst. 


>o6 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


XXXVI 

'  All  is  not  lost !     There  is  some  recom- 
pense 

For  hope  whose  fountain  can  be  thus  pro- 
found, — 

Even  throned  Evil's  splendid  impotence 

Girt   by  its  hell   of   power,   the   secret 
sound 

Of  hymns   to   truth  and   freedom,  the 
dread  bound 

Of  life  and  death  passed  fearlessly  and 
well, 

Dungeons  wherein   the  high  resolve  is 
found. 

Racks  which  degraded  woman's  greatness 
tell. 
And  what  may  else  be  good  and  irresistible. 

XXXVII 

♦  Such  are  the  thoughts  which,  like   the 

fires  that  flare 
In  storm-eucompassed  isles,  we  cherish 

yet 
In  this  dark  ruin  —  such  were  mine  even 

there; 
As  in  its  sleep  some  odorous  violet. 
While  yet  its  leaves  with  nightly  dews 

are  wet, 
Breathes  in  prophetic  dreams  of  day's 

uprise. 
Or  as,  ere  Scythian  frost  in  fear  has  met 
Spring's  messengers  descending  from  the 

skies, 
The  buds  foreknow  their  life  —  this  hope 

must  ever  rise. 

XXXVIII 

*  So  years  had  passed,  when  sudden  earth- 

quake rent 
The   depth   of   Ocean,  and  the   cavern 

cracked 
With  sound,  as  if  the  world's  wide  con- 
tinent 
Had  fallen  in  universal  ruin  wracked. 
And  through  the  cleft  streamed  in  one 

cataract 
The  stifling  waters :  —  when  I  woke,  the 

flood 
Whose  banded  waves  that  crystal  cave 

had  sacked 
Was  ebbing  round  me,  and  my  bright 

abode 
Before  me  yawned  —  a  chasm  desert,  and 

bare,  and  broad. 


XXXIX 

'  Above   me   was    the   sky,   beneath    the 

sea; 
I  stood  upon  a  point  of  shattered  stone. 
And  heard  loose  rocks  rushing  tumultu- 

ously 
With  splash  and  shock  into  the  deep  — 

anon 
All  ceased,  and  there  was  silence  wide 

and  lone. 
I  felt  that  I  was  free!    The  Ocean  spray 
Quivered   beneath   my  feet,   the   broad 

Heaven  shone 
Around,  and  in  my  hair  the  winds  did 

play 
Lingering    as   they  pursued    their  unim- 
peded way. 


'  My  spirit  moved  upon  the  sea  like  wind 
Which  round  some  thymy  cape  will  lag 

and  liover. 
Though  it  can  wake  the  still  cloud,  and 

unbind 
The  strength  of  tempest.     Day  was  al- 
most over. 
When  through  the  fading  light  I  could 

discover 
A    ship    approaching  —  its    white    sails 

were  fed 
With  the  north  wind  —  its  moving  shade 

did  cover 
The  twilight  deep;  the  mariners  in  dread 
Cast    anchor   when   they  saw   new   rocks 

around  them  spread. 

XLI 

*  And  when  they  saw  one  sitting  on  a  crag. 
They  sent   a  boat  to  me;    the   sailors 

rowed 
In  awe  through  many  a  new  and  fearful 

jag 
Of    overhanging    rock,   through    which 

there  flowed 
The  foam  of  streams  that  cannot  make 

abode. 
They  came  and  questioned  me,  but  when 

they  heard 
My  voice,  they  became  silent,  and  they 

stood 
And  moved  as  men  in  whom  new  lov* 

had  stirred 
Deep  thoughts;   so  to  the  ship  we  passed 

without  a  word. 


CANTO   EIGHTH 


107 


CANTO  EIGHTH 


*I  SATE  beside  the  steersman  then,  and 

gazing 
Upon  the  west  cried,  "  Spread  the  sails  ! 

behold  I 
The  sinking  moon  is  like  a  watch-tower 

blazing 
Over  the   mountains  yet;   the   City  of 

Gold 
Yon  Cape  alone  does  from  the  sight  with- 
hold; 
The  stream  is  fleet  —  the  north  breathes 

steadily 
Beneath  the  stars ;  they  tremble  with  the 

cold! 
Ye  cannot  rest  upon  the  dreary  sea !  — 
Haste,  haste  to  the  warm  home  of  happier 

destiny  ! " 


'  The  Mariners  obeyed ;  the  Captain  stood 
Aloof,  and  whispering  to  the  Pilot  said, 
"  Alas,  alas  !  I  fear  we  are  pursued 
By  wicked   ghosts;   a  Phantom   of   the 

Dead, 
The  night  before  we  sailed,  came  to  my 

bed 
In  dream,  like  that ! "     The  Pilot  then 

replied, 
"  It  cannot  be  —  she  is  a  human  maid  — 
Her  low  voice  makes  you  weep  —  she  is 

some  bride, 
Or  daughter  of  high  birth  —  she  can  be 

nought  beside." 


*  We  passed  the  islets,  borne  by  wind  and 

stream. 
And  as  we  sailed  the  Mariners  came  near 
And  thronged  around  to  listen;  in  the 

gleam 
Of  the  pale  moon  I  stood,  as  one  whom 

fear 
May  not  attaint,  and  my  calm  voice  did 

rear: 
"  Ye  are  all  human  —  yon  broad  moon 

gives  light 
To  millions  who  the  self-same  likeness 

wear, 
Even  while  I  speak  —  beneath  this  very 

night, 
Their  thoughts  flow  on  like  otirs,  in  sadness 

or  delight. 


• "  What  dream  ye  ?   Your  own  hands  have 

built  an  home 
Even  for  yourselves  on  a  beloved  shore; 
For  some,  fond  eyes  are  pining  till  they 

come  — 
How  they  will  greet  him  when  his  toils 

are  o'er, 
And  laughing  babes  rush  from  the  well- 
known  door! 
Is  this  your  care  ?  ye  toil  for  your  own 

good  — 
Ye  feel  and  think  —  has  some  immortal 

power 
Such  purposes  ?  or  in  a  human  mood 
Dream  ye  some  Power  thus  builds  for  man 

in  solitude? 


*  "  What  is  that  Power  ?     Ye  mock  your- 

selves, and  give 
A  human  heart  to  what  ye  cannot  know: 
As  if  the  cause  of  life  could  think  and 

live! 
'T  were  as  if  man's  own  works  should 

feel,  and  show 
The  hopes  and  fears  and  thoughts  from 

which  they  flow, 
And  he  be  like  to  them.    Lo  !    Plague  is 

free 
To  waste.  Blight,  Poison,   Earthquake, 

Hail,  and  Snow, 
Disease,  and  Want,  and  worse  Necessity 
Of  hate  and  ill,  and  Pride,  and  Fear,  and 

Tyranny. 

VI 

*  "  What  is   that   Power  ?     Some   moon- 

struck sophist  stood. 
Watching  the  shade  from  his  own  son] 

upthrown 
Fill  Heaven  and  darken  Earth,  and  in 

such  mood 
The  Form  he  saw  and  worshipped  was 

his  own, 
His  likeness  in  the  world's  vast  mirroi 

shown ; 
And  't  were  an  innocent  dream,  but  that 

a  faith 
Nursed  by  fear's  dew  of  poison  grows 

thereon. 
And  that  men  say  that  Power  has  chosen 

Death 
On  all  who  scorn  its  laws  to  wreak  immortal 

wrath. 


io8 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


VIl 

• "  Men  say  that  they  themselves  have  heard 
and  seen, 

Or  known  from  others  who  have  known 
such  things, 

A    Shade,   a    Form,   which  Earth    and 
Heaven  between 

Wields  an  invisible   rod  —  that   Priests 
and  Kings, 

Custom,    domestic    sway,    ay,    all    that 
brings 

Man's   free-born   soul   beneath   the   op- 
pressor's heel, 

Are  his  strong  ministers,  and  that  the 
stings 

Of  death  will   make  the  wise  his  ven- 
geance feel, 
Though  truth  and  virtue  arm  their  hearts 
with  tenfold  steel. 


***And  it  is  said  this  Power  will  punish 

wrong; 
Yes,  add  despair  to  crime,  and  pain  to 

paiu  ! 
And  deepest  hell,  and  deathless  snakes 

among. 
Will  bind  the  wretch  on  whom  is  fixed  a 

stain. 
Which,  like  a  plague,  a  burden,  and  a 

hane, 
Clung  to  him  while  he  lived;  for  love 

and  hate. 
Virtue  and  vice,  they  say,  are  difference 

vain  — 
The  will  of  strength  is  right.     This  hu- 
man state 
Tyrants,  that  they  may  rule,  with  lies  thus 

desolate. 


* "  Alas,  what  strength  ?    Opinion  is  more 

frail 
Than  yon  dim  cloud  now  fading  on  the 

moon 
Even  while  we  gaze,  though  it  awhile 

avail 
To  hide  the  orb  of  truth  —  and  every 

throne 
Of  Earth  or  Heaven,  though  shadow, 

rests  thereon, 
One  shape  of  many  names:  —  for  this  ye 

plough 
The    barren   waves    of    Ocean  —  hence 

each  one 


Is  slave  or  tyrant;  all  betray  and  bow, 
Command,  or  kill,  or  fear,  or  wreak  or 
suffer  woe. 


' "  Its  names  are  each  a  sign  which  mak- 

eth  holy 
All  power  —  ay,  the  ghost,  the  dream, 

the  shade 
Of   power  —  Inst,    falsehood,   hate,   and 

pride,  and  folly; 
The  pattern  whence  all  fraud  and  wrong 

is  made. 
A  law  to  which  mankind  has  been  be- 
trayed ; 
And   human   love  is  as  the  name  well 

known 
Of  a  dear  mother  whom  the  murderer 

laid 
In    bloody    grave,   and,    into    darkness 

thrown. 
Gathered  her  wildered  hahes  around  him 

as  his  own. 


' "  O  Love,  who  to  the  hearts  of  wander- 
ing men 

Art  as  the  calm  to  Ocean's  weary  waves  ! 

Justice,  or  Truth,  or  Joy  !  those  only  can 

From  slavery  and  religion's  labyrinth- 
caves 

Guide  us,  as  one  clear  star  the  seaman 
saves. 

To  give  to  all  an  equal  share  of  good, 

To  track  the  steps  of  Freedom,  though 
through  graves 

She  pass,  to  suffer  all  in  patient  mood, 
To  weep  for  crime  though  stained  with 
thy  friend's  dearest  blood, 


*  "  To  feel  the  peace  of  self-contentment's 

lot, 
To  own  all  sympathies,  and  outrage  none. 
And  in  the  inmost  bowers  of  sense  and 

thought. 
Until  life  s  sunny  day  is  quite  gone  down. 
To  sit  and  smile  with  Joy,  or,  not  alone, 
To  kiss  salt  tears  from  the  worn  cheek 

of  Woe; 
To  live  as  if  to  love  and  live  were  one,  — » 
This  is  not  faith  or  law,  nor  those  who 

bow 
To  thrones  on  Heaven  or  Earth  such  destiny 

may  know. 


CANTO   EIGHTH 


109 


♦ "  But  children  near  their  parents  tremble 
now, 

Because    they    must    obey;    one     rules 
another, 

And,  as  one  Power  rules  both  high  and 
low. 

So  man  is  made  the  captive  of  his  brother. 

And  Hate  is  throned  on  high  with  Fear 
his  mother 

Above  the  Highest;  and  those  fountain- 
cells. 

Whence  love  yet  flowed  when  faith  had 
choked  all  other, 

Are  darkened —  Woman  as  the  bond- 
slave dwells 
Of  man,  a  slave;  and  life  is  poisoned  in  its 
wells. 


'"Man  seeks  for  gold  in  mines  that  he 

may  weave 
A  lasting  chain  for  his  own  slavery; 
In  fear  and  restless  care  that  he  may  live 
He  toils  for  others  who  must  ever  be 
The  joyless  thralls  of  like  captivity; 
He  murders,  for  his  chiefs  delight  in  ruin ; 
He  builds  the  altar  that  its  idol's  fee 
May  be  his  very  blood;  he  is  pursuing  — 
Oh,  blind  and  willing  wretch  !  —  his  own 

obscure  undoing. 

XV 

'"Woman!  —  she  is   his   slave,  she  has 

become 
A  thing  I  weep  to  speak  —  the  child  of 

scorn, 
The  outcast  of  a  desolated  home; 
Falsehood,  and  fear,  and  toil,  like  waves 

have  worn 
Channels  upon  her  cheek,  which  smiles 

adorn 
As  calm  decks  the  false  Ocean :  —  well 

ye  know 
What  Woman  is,  for  none  of  Woman  born 
Can  choose  but  drain  the  bitter  dregs  of 

woe, 
Which  ever  from  the  oppressed  to  the  op- 
pressors flow. 


•"This  need  not  be;  ye  might  arise,  and 
will 
That  gold  should  lose  its  power,  and 
thrones  their  glory; 


That  love,  which  none  may  bind,  be  free 

to  fill 
The   world,  like   light;    and  evil  faith, 

grown  hoary 
With   crime,   be   quenched   and   die. — 

Yon  promontory 
Even     now     eclipses     the     descending 

moon  !  — 
Dungeons  and  palaces  are  transitory  — 
High   temples   fade  like   vapor  —  Man 

alone 
Remains,  whose  will  has  power  when  all 

beside  is  gone. 


'"Let  all    be   free    and    equal!  —  from 
your  hearts 
I  feel  an  echo ;  through  my  inmost  frame 
Like  sweetest  sound,  seeking  its  mate, 

it  darts. 
Whence  come  ye,  friends  ?     Alas,  I  can- 
not name 
All  that  I  read  of  sorrow,  toil  and  shame 
On  your  worn  faces;  as  in  legends  old 
Which   make   immortal  the    disastrous 

fame 
Of  conquerors  and  impostors  false  and 
bold. 
The  discord  of  your  hearts  I  in  your  looks 
behold. 

XVIII 

*  "  Whence  come  ye,  friends  ?  from  pour- 
ing human  blood 

Forth  on  the  earth  ?  or  bring  ye  steel 
and  gold. 

That  kings  may  dupe  and  slay  the  multi- 
tude? 

Or  from  the  famished  poor,  pale,  weak 
and  cold. 

Bear  ye  the  earnings  of  their  toil  ?  un- 
fold ! 

Speak  !  are   your  hands  in   slaughter's 
sanguine  hue 

Stained   freshly  ?    have  your  hearts  in 
guile  grown  old  ? 

Know  yourselves  thus  !  ye  shall  be  pure 
as  dew, 
And  I  will  be  a  friend  and  sister  unto  you. 

XIX 

'  "  Disguise  it  not  —  we  have  one  human 
heart  — 
All  mortal  thoughts  confess  a  common 
home; 


no 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


Blush  not  for  what  may  to  thyself  impart 
Stains  of  inevitable  crime;  the  doom 
Is  this,  which  has,  or  may,  or  must,  be- 
come 
Thine,   and  all  humankind's.      Ye   are 

the  spoil 
Which  Time  thus  marks  for  the  devour- 
ing tomb  — 
Thou  and  thy  thoughts,  and  they,  and  all 
the  toil 
Wherewith  ye  twine  the  rings  of  life's  per- 
petual coil. 


* "  Disguise  it  not  —  ye  blush  for  what  ye 

hate, 
And  Enmity  is  sister  unto  Shame; 
Look  on  your  mind  —  it  is  the  book  of 

fate  — 
Ah!   it  is   dark  with  many  a  blazoned 

name 
Of  misery  —  all  are  mirrors  of  the  same; 
But  the  dark  fiend  who  with  his  iron  pen. 
Dipped  in   scorn's  fiery   poison,   makes 

his  fame 
Enduring  there,  would  o'er  the  heads  of 

men 
Pass   harmless,  if  they  scorned   to  make 

their  hearts  his  den. 

XXI 

* "  Yes,  it  is  Hate,  that  shapeless  fiendly 

thing 
Of  many  names,  all  evil,  some  divine. 
Whom  self-contempt  arms  with  a  mortal 

sting; 
Which,  when  the  heart  its  snaky  folds 

entwine, 
Is  wasted  quite,  and  when  it  doth  repine 
To  gorge  such  bitter  prey,  on  all  beside 
It  turns  with  ninefold  rage,  as  with  its 

twine 
When  Amphisbsena  some  fair  bird  has 

tied. 
Soon  o'er  the  putrid  mass  he  threats  on 

every  side. 

XXII 

' "  Reproach  not  thine  own  sonl,  but  know 

thyself. 
Nor  hate  another's  crime,  nor  loathe  thine 

own. 
It  is  the  dark  idolatry  of  self. 
Which,  when  our  thoughts  and  actions 

once  are  gone^ 


Demands   that  man   should   weep,  and 

bleed,  and  groan ; 
Oh,  vacant  expiation  !  be  at  rest ! 
The  past  is  Death's,  the  future  is  thine 

own; 
And  love  and  joy  can  make  the  foulest 

breast 
A  paradise  of  flowers,  where  peace  might 

build  her  nest. 

XXIII 

*  "  Speak  thou  !   whence  come  ye  ?  "  — 

A  youth  made  reply,  — 
"Wearily,   wearily  o'er  the    boundless 

deep 
We  sail;  thou  readest  well  the  misery 
Told  in  these  faded  eyes,  but  much  doth 

sleep 
Within,  which  there  the  poor  heart  loves 

to  keep. 
Or  dare   not  write   on  the   dishonored 

brow; 
Even  from  our  childhood  have  we  learned 

to  steep 
The  bread  of  slavery  in  the  tears  of  woe, 
And  never  dreamed  of  hope  or  refuge  un- 
til now. 

XXIV 

*  "Yes — I  must  speak  —  my  secret  should 

have  perished 
Even   with   the  heart  it   wasted,   as  a 

brand 
Fades  in  the  dying  flame  whose  life  it 

cherished, 
But  that  no  human  bosom  can  withstand 
Thee,   wondrous    Lady,   and    the    mild 

command 
Of  thy  keen  eyes:  —  yes,  we  are  wretched 

slaves. 
Who  from  their  wonted  loves  and  native 

land 
Are  reft,  and  bear  o'er  the  dividing  waves 
The  unregarded  prey  of  calm  and  happy 

graves. 

XXV 

'  "  We  drag  afar  from  pastoral  vales  the 

fairest 
Among  the  daughters  of  those  mountains 

lone ; 
We  drag  them  there  where  aU  things 

best  and  rarest 
Are  stained  and  trampled;  years  have 

come  and  gone 


CANTO  NINTH 


III 


Since,  like  the  ship  which  bears  me,  I 

have  known 
No  thought;  but  now  the  eyes  of  one 

dear  maid 
On  mine  with  light  of  mutual  love  have 

shone  — 
She  is  my  life  —  I  am  but  as  the  shade 
Of  her  —  a  smoke  sent  up  from  ashes,  soon 

to  fade ! — 

XXVI 

* "  For  she   must  perish  in  the  Tyrant's 

hall  — 
Alas,  alas !  "  —  He   ceased,  and  by  the 

sail 
Sat  cowering  —  but  his  sobs  were  heard 

by  all, 
And  still  before  the  Ocean  and  the  gale 
The  ship  fled  fast  till  the  stars  'gan  to 

fail; 
And,  round    me    gathered  with    mute 

countenance, 
The  Seamen  gazed,  the  Pilot,  worn  and 

pale 
With  toil,  the  Captain  with  gray  locks 

whose  glance 
Met  mine  in  restless  awe  —  they  stood  as 

in  a  trance. 

XXVII 

* "  Recede  not !  pause  not  now  !  thou  art 

grown  old, 
But   Hope  will   make   thee  young,  for 

Hope  and  Youth 
Are  children  of  one  mother,  even  Love 

—  behold! 
The  eternal  stars  gaze  on  us  !  —  is  the 

truth 
Within  your  soul  ?  care  for  your  own, 

or  ruth 
For  others'  sufferings  ?  do  ye  thirst  to 

bear 
A  heart  which  not  the  serpent  Custom's 

tooth 
May  violate  ?  —  be  free  !  and  even  here, 
Swear  to  be  firm  till  death  !  "  —  they  cried, 

"  We  swear !  we  swear ! " 

XXVIII 

*  The  very  darkness  shook,  as  with  a  blast 
Of  subterranean  thunder,  at  the  cry; 
The   hollow  shore  its  thousand  echoes 

cast 
Into  the  night,  as  if  the  sea  and  sky 
And  earth  rejoiced  with  new-born  liberty, 


For  in  that  name  they  swore  !      Bolts 

were  undrawn, 
And  on  the  deck  with  unaccustomed  eye 
The   captives  gazing  stood,  and   every 

one 
Shrank  as  the  mconstant  torch  upon  her 

countenance  shone. 

XXIX 

'They    were     earth's     purest     children, 
young  and  fair. 

With  eyes  the  shrines  of  unawakened 
thought, 

And  brows  as  bright  as  spring  or  morn- 
ing, ere 

Dark  time   had   there  its    evil  legend 
wrought 

In  characters  of  cloud  which  wither  not. 

The  change  was  like  a  dream  to  them; 
but  soon 

They  knew  the  glory  of  their  altered 
lot  — 

In  the  bright  wisdom  of  youth's  breath- 
less noon, 
Sweet  talk  and  smiles  and  sighs  all  bosoms 
did  attune. 


'  But  one  was  mute ;  her  cheeks  and  lips 

most  fair, 
Changing  their    hue   like   lilies    newly 

blown 
Beneath  a  bright  acacia's  shadowy  hair 
Waved  by  the  wind  amid  the  sunny  noon. 
Showed  that  her  soul  was  quivering;  and 

full  soon 
That  youth  arose,  and  breathlessly  did 

look 
On  her  and  me,  as  for  some  speechless 

boon; 
I  smiled,  and  both  their  hands  in  mine  I 

took, 
And  felt  a  soft  delight  from  what  their 

spirits  shook. 

CANTO   NINTH 


'  That  night  we  anchored  in  a  woody  bay, 
And  sleep  no  more  around  us  dared  to 

hover 
Than,  when  all  doubt  and  fear  has  passed 

away, 
It  shades  the  couch  of  some  unresting 

lover 


112 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


Whose  heart  is  now  at  rest;  thus  night 

passed  over 
In  mutual  joy;  around,  a  forest  g^w 
Of  poplars  and  dark  oaks,  whose  shade 

did  cover 
The  waning  stars  pranked  in  the  waters 

blue, 
And  trembled  in  the  wind  which  from  the 

morning  flew. 


*  The  joyous  mariners  and  each  free  maiden 
Now  brought  from  the  deep  forest  many 

a  bough, 
With   woodland  spoil    most  innocently 

laden; 
Soon  wreaths  of  budding  foliage  seemed 

to  flow 
Over  the  mast  and  sails;  the  stem  and 

prow 
Were  canopied  with  blooming  boughs; 

the  while 
On  the  slant  sun's  path  o'er  the  waves 

we  go 
Rejoicing,  like  the  dwellers  of  an  isle 
Doomed  to  pursue  those  waves  that  cannot 

cease  to  smile. 


*  The  many  ships  spotting  the  dark  blue 
deep 

With  snowy  sails,  fled  fast  as  ours  came 
nigh. 

In  fear  and  wonder;  and  on  every  steep 

Thousands  did  gaze.     They  heard  the 
startling  cry, 

like  earth's  own  voice  lifted  unconquer- 
ably 

To  all  her  children,  the  unbounded  mirth, 

The  glorious  joy  of  thy  name  —  Liberty  ! 

They  heard  !  —  As  o'er  the   mountains 
of  the  earth 
From  peak  to  peak  leap  on  the  beams  of 
morning  8  birth, 

IV 
'  So  from   that  cry  over  the  boundless 

hills 
Sudden  was  caught  one  universal  sound. 
Like  a  volcano's   voice  whose   thunder 

fills 
Remotest  skies,  —  such  glorious  madness 

found 
A    path    through     human    hearts   with 

stream  which  drowned 


Its  struggling  fears  and  cares,  dark  Cus- 
tom's brood; 

They  knew  not  whence  it  came,  but  felt 
around 

A  wide  contagion  poured  —  they  called 
aloud 
On  Liberty  —  that  name  lived  on  the  sunny 
flood. 


'  We  reached  the  port.     Alas  f  from  many 

spirits 
The  wisdom  which  had  waked  that  cry 

was  fled, 
Like  the  brief  glory  which  dark  Heaven 

inherits 
From  the  false  dawn,  which  fades  ere  it 

is  spread. 
Upon   the    night's  devouring    darkness 

shed; 
Yet  soon  bright  day  will  burst  —  even 

like  a  chasm 
Of  fire,  to  burn  the  shrouds  outworn  and 

dead 
Which  wrap  the  world;  a  wide  enthusi- 
asm, 
To  cleanse  the  fevered  world  as  with  an 

earthquake's  spasm ! 


*I  walked  through  the  great  City  then, 

but  free 
From   shame   or   fear;    those  toil-worn 

mariners 
And  happy  maidens  did  encompass  me; 
And    like    a    subterranean    wind    that 

stirs 
Some  forest  among  caves,  the  hopes  and 

fears 
From    every    human    soul    a    murmur 

strange 
Made  as  I  passed;  and  many  wept  with 

tears 
Of  joy  and  awe,  and  winged  thoughts  did 

range. 
And  half-extinguished  words  which  prophe- 
sied of  change. 


•  For  with  strong  speech  I  tore  the  veil 
that  hid 

Nature,  and  Truth,  and  Liberty,  and 
Love,  — 

As  one  who  from  some  mountain's  pyra- 
mid 


CANTO   NINTH 


''^S 


Points  to  the  uurisen  sun  !  the   shades 
approve 

His  truth,  and  flee  from  every  stream 
and  grove. 

Thus,  gentle  thoughts  did  many  a  bosom 
fill, 

Wisdom  the  mail  of  tried  affections  wove 

For  many  a  heart,  and  tameless  scoru  of 
ill 
Thrice  steeped  in  molten  steel  the  uncon- 
querable will. 

VIII 

*  Some   said   I  was   a  maniac  wild  and 

lost; 
Some,  that  I  scarce  had  risen  from  the 

grave  > 
The  Prophet's  virgin  bride,  a  heavenly 

ghost; 
Some  said  I  was  a  fiend  from  my  weird 

cave, 
Who  had  stolen  human  shape,  and  o'er 

the  wave, 
The   forest,  and    the   mountain,    came; 

some  said 
I  was  the  child  of  God,  sent  down  to  save 
Woman  from  bonds  and  death,  and  on 

my  head 
The  burden  of  their  sins  would  frightfully 

be  laid. 


'  But  soon  my  human  words  found  sympa- 
thy 

In  himian  hearts;  the  purest  and  the  best, 

As   friend   with   friend,  made   common 
cause  with  me, 

And   they  were  few,  but  resolute;  the 
rest. 

Ere    yet     success    the    enterprise    had 
blessed, 

Leagued  with  me  in  their  hearts;  their 
meals,  their  slumber. 

Their  hourly  occupations,  were  possessed 

By  hopes  which  I  had  armed  to  over- 
number 
Those  hosts  of  meaner  cares  which  life's 
strong  wings  encumber. 


'  But  chiefly  women,  whom  my  voice  did 

waken 
From  their  cold,  careless,  willing  slavery, 
Sought  me ;  one  truth  their  dreary  prison 

has  shaken, 


They  looked  around,  and  lo!    they  be- 
came free  ! 

Their  many  tyrants,  sitting  desolately 

In  slave-deserted  balls,  could  none  re- 
strain ; 

For  wrath's  red  fire  had  withered  in  the 
eye 

Whose  lightning  once  was  death,  —  nor 
fear  nor  gain 
Could  tempt  one  captive  now  to  lock  an- 
other's chain. 

XI 

*  Those  who  were  sent  to  bind  me  wept, 

and  felt 
Their   minds   outsoar   the   bonds  which 

clasped  them  round, 
Even  as  a  waxen  shape  may  waste  and 

melt 
In   the    white   furnace;  and  a  visioned 

swound, 
A  pause  of  hope  and  awe,  the  City  bomid. 
Which,  like  the  silence  of  a  tempest's 

birth, 
When  in  its  awful  shadow  it  has  wound 
The  sun,  the  wind,  the  ocean,  and  the 

earth. 
Hung  terrible,  ere  yet  the  lightnings  have 

leaped  forth. 

XII 

'  Like  clouds  inwoven  in  the  silent  sky 
By  winds  from  distant  regions  meeting 

there. 
In  the  high  name  of  Truth  and  Liberty 
Around  the  City  millions  gathered  were 
By  hopes  which  sprang   from   many   a 

hidden  lair, — 
Words  which  the  lore  of  truth  in  hues  of 

grace 
Arrayed,  thine  own  wild  songs  which  in 

the  air 
Like   homeless  odors  floated,  and    the 

name 
Of  thee,  and  many  a  tongue  which  thou 

hadst  dipped  in  flame. 


*  The   Tyrant  knew  his  power  was  gone, 

but  Fear, 
The  nurse  of  Vengeance,  bade  him  wait 

the  event  — 
That    perfidy    and     custom,    gold    and 

prayer, 
And  whatsoe'er,  when  Force  is  impotent, 


"♦ 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


To  Fraud  the  sceptre  of  the  world  has 

lent, 
Might,  as  he  judged,  confirm  his  failing 

sway. 
Therefore   throughout    the   streets,   the 

Priests  he  sent 
To  curse  the  rebels.     To  their  gods  did 

they 
For  Earthquake,  Plague  and  Want,  kneel 

in  the  public  way. 

XIV 

'  And  grave  and  hoary  men  were  bribed  to 

tell. 
From  seats  where  law  is  made  the  slave 

of  wrong. 
How  glorious  Athens  in  her  splendor  fell. 
Because  her  sons  were  free,  —  and  that 

among 
Mankind,  the  many  to  the  few  belong 
By  Heaven,  and  Nature,  and  Necessity. 
They  said,  that  age  was  truth,  aud  that 

the  young 
Marred  with  wild   hopes    the  peace   of 

slavery. 
With  which  old  times  and  men  had  quelled 

the  vain  and  free. 

XV 

*  And  with  the  falsehood  of  their  poisonous 

lips 
They  breathed  on  the  enduring  memory 
Of  sages  and  of  bards  a  brief  eclipse. 
There  was  one  teacher,  who  necessity 
Had    arined    with  strength  and   wrong 

against  mankind, 
His  slave  and  his  avenger  aye  to  be; 
That  we  were  weak  and  sinful,  frail  and 

blind. 
And  that  the  will  of  one  was  peace,  and 

we 
Should  seek  for  nought  on  earth  but  toil 

and  misery  — 


•  "  For  thus  we  might  avoid  the  hell  here- 
after." 

So  spake  the  hypocrites,  who  cursed  and 
lied. 

Alas,  their  sway  was  passed,  and  tears 
;>nd  laughter 

Clung  to  their  hoary  hair,  withering  the 
pride 

Which  in  their  hollow  hearts  dared  still 
abide; 


And  yet  obscener  slaves  with  smoother 

brow. 
And  sneers  on  their  strait  lips,  thin,  blue 

and  wide, 
Said  that  the  rule  of  men  was  over  now, 
And   hence  the  subject  world  to  woman's 

will  must  bow. 


'  And    gold  was   scattered    through    the 

streets,  and  wine 
Flowed  at  a  hundred  feasts  within  the 

wall. 
In  vain  !  the  steady  towers  in  Heaven 

did  shine 
As  they  were  wont,  nor  at  the  priestly  call 
Left  Plague  her  banquet  ia  the  .^thiop's 

hall. 
Nor  Famine  from  the  rich  man's  portal 

came. 
Where  at  her  ease  she  ever  preys  on  all 
Who  throng  to  kneel  for  food ;  nor  fear, 

nor  shame. 
Nor  faith,  nor  discord,  dimmed  hope's  newly 

kindled  flame. 

XVIII 

'  For  gold  was  as  a  god  whose  faith  be- 
gan 

To  fade,  so  that  its  worshippers  were 
few; 

And  Faith  itself,  which  in  the  heart  of 
man 

Gives  shape,  voice,  name,  to  spectral 
Terror,  knew 

Its  downfall,  as  the  altars  lonelier  grew. 

Till  the  Priests  stood  alone  within  the 
fane; 

The  shafts  of  falsehood  unpollutingflew, 

And  the  cold  sneers  of  calumny  were  vain 
The  union  of  the  free  with  discord's  brand 
to  stain. 

XIX 

*  The  rest  thou  kuowest.  —  Lo  !  we  two 

are  here  — 
We  have  survived  a  ruin  wide  and  deep  — 
Strange  thouglits  are  mine.      I  cannot 

grieve  or  fear. 
Sitting  with  thee  upon  this  lonely  steep 
I  smile,  though  human  love  should  make 

me  weep. 
We  have  survived  a  joy  that  knows  no 

sorrow, 
Aud  I  do  feel  a  mighty  calmness  creep 


CANTO  NINTH 


"5 


Over  my   heart,   which   can   no  longer 

Thy  mother  Autumn,   for  whose  grave 

borrow 

thou  bearest 

Its  hues  from  chance  or  change,  dark  chil- 

Fresh flowers,  and  beams  like  flowers, 

dren  of  to-morrow. 

with  gentle  feet. 

Disturbing  not  the  leaves  which  are  her 

XX 

winding  sheet. 

'  We  know  not  what  will  come.    Yet,  Laon, 

dearest, 

XXIII 

Cythna  shall  be  the  prophetess  of  Love; 

*  Virtue  and  Hope  and  Love,  like   light 

Her  lips  shall  rob  thee  of  the  grace  thou 

and  Heaven, 

wearest, 

Surround  the  world.    We  are  their  choseu 

To  hide  thy  heart,  and  clothe  the  shapes 

slaves. 

which  rove 

Has  not  the  whirlwind  of  our  spirit  driven 

Within    the  homeless    Future's    wintry 

Truth's  deathless  germs  to  thought's  re- 

grove; 

motest  caves  ? 

For    I    now,   sitting    thus   beside  thee. 

Lo,  Winter  comes !  —  the  grief  of  many 

seem 

graves. 

Even  with  thy  breath  and  blood  to  live 

The  frost  of  death,  the  tempest  of  the 

and  move, 

sword. 

And  violence  and  wrong  are  as  a  dream 

The   flood  of  tyranny,  whose  sanguine 

Which  rolls  from  steadfast  truth,  —  an  iin- 

waves 

returning  stream. 

Stagnate  like  ice  at  Faith  the  enchanter's 

word. 

XXI 

And  bind  all   human  hearts  in  its  repose 

'The  blasts  of  Autumn  drive  the  wingfed 

abhorred. 

seeds 

Over  the  earth;  next  come  the   snows. 

XXIV 

and  rain. 

'  The  seeds  are  sleeping  in  the  soil.    Mean- 

And frosts,  and   storms,  which   dreary 

while 

Winter  leads 

The  Tyrant  peoples  dungeons  with  his 

Out  of  his  Scythian  cave,  a  savage  train. 

prey; 

Behold !  Spring  sweeps  over  the  world 

Pale    victims   on   the   guarded   scaffold 

again. 

smile 

Shedding  soft  dews   from   her  ethereal 

Because  they  cannot  speak;  and,  day  by 

wings ; 

day. 

Flowers  on  the  mountains,  fruits   over 

The   moon    of   wasting    Science   wanes 

the  plain, 

away 

And  music  on  the  waves  and  woods  she 

Among  her  stars,  and  in  that  darkness 

flings. 

vast 

And  love  on  all  that  lives,  and  calm  on  life- 

The sons  of  earth  to  their  foul  idols  pray, 

less  things. 

And    gray    Priests    triumph,   and    like 

blight  or  blast 

XXII 

A  shade  of  selfish  care  o'er  human  looks  is 

♦  0  Spring,  of  hope  and  love  and  youth  and 

cast. 

gladness 

Wind-winged   emblem !   brightest,   best 

XXV 

and  fairest ! 

'  This  is  the  Winter  of  the  world  ;  and 

Whence  coniest  thou,  when,  with  dark 

here 

Winter's  sadness 

We  die,  even  as  the  winds  of  Autumn 

The  tears  that  fade  in  sunny  smiles  thou 

fade. 

sharest  ? 

Expiring  in  the  frore  and  foggy  air. 

Sister  of  joy !    thou  art  the  child  who 

Behold  !  Spring  comes,  though  we  must 

wearest 

pass  who  made 

Thy  mother's  dying  smile,  tender  and 

The  promise  of  its  birth,  —  even  as  the 

sweet; 

shade 

1x6 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


Which  from  our  death,  as  from  a  moun- 
tain, flings 

The   future,  a  broad  sunrise;   thus  ar- 
rayed 

As  with   the  plumes  of  overshadowing 
wings, 
From  its  dark  gulf  of  chains  Earth  like  an 
eagle  springs. 

XXVI 

^O  dearest  love!    we  shall  be  dead  and 

cold 
Before  this  morn  may  on  the  world  arise. 
Wouldst  thou  the  glory  of  its  dawn  be- 
hold ? 
Alas  !   gaze  not  on  me,  but  turn   thine 

eyes 
On  thine  own  heart  —  it  is  a  Paradise 
Which  everlasting  spring  has  made  its 

own. 
And  while  drear  winter  fills  the  naked 

skies. 
Sweet   streams   of   sunny    thought,  and 

flowers  fresh  blown. 
Are  there,  and  weave  their  sounds  and  odors 

into  one. 

XXVII 

'In  their  own  hearts  the  earnest  of  the 

hope 
Which  made  them  great  the  good  will 

ever  find; 
And   though   some   envious   shade  may 

interlope 
Between   the  effect  and   it.  One  comes 

behind, 
Who  aye   the   future   to   the   past  will 

bind  — 
Necessity,  whose  sightless  strength  for- 
ever 
Evil   with   evil,  good   with  good,  must 

wind 
In  bands  of  union,  which  no  power  may 

sever; 
They  must  bring  forth  their  kind,  and  be 

divided  never  ! 

XXVIII 

*  The  good  and  mighty  of  departed  ages 
Are  in  their  graves,   the    innocent  and 

free, 
Heroes,  and  Poets,  and  prevailing  Sages, 
Who  leave  the  vesture  of  their  majesty 
To  adorn  and  clothe  this  naked  world; 

—  and  we 


Are  like  to  them  —  such  perish,  but  they 

leave 
All  hope,  or  love,  or  truth,  or  liberty, 
Whose  forms  their  mighty  spirits  could 
conceive. 
To  be  a  rule  and  law  to  ages  that  survive. 

XXIX 

'  So  be  the  turf  heaped  over  our  remains 
Even    in    our    happy   youth,   and    that 

strange  lot, 
Whate'er  it  be,  when  in  these  mingling 

veins 
The  blood  is  still,  be  ours;  let  sense  and 

thought 
Pass  from  our  being,  or  be  numbered 

not 
Among  the  things  that  are;  let  those 

who  come 
Behind,  for  whom  our  steadfast  will  has 

bought 
A  calm  inheritance,  a  glorious  doom. 
Insult  with  careless   tread   our  undivided 

tomb. 

XXX 

'  Our  many  thoughts  and  deeds,  our  life 

and  love. 
Our  happiness,  and  all  that  we  have  been, 
Immortally   must    live    and    burn    and 

move 
When  we  shall  be  no  more;  —  the  world 

has  seen 
A  type   of  peace;    and  as  some   most 

serene 
And  lovely  spot  to  a  poor  maniac's  eye  — 
After  long  years  some  sweet  and  moving 

scene 
Of  youthful  hope  returning  suddenly  — 
Quells  his  long  madness,  thus  Man  shall 

remember  thee. 

XXXI 

'And  Calumny  meanwhile  shall  feed  on 

us 
As  worms  devour  the  dead,  and  near  tha 

throne 
And  at  the  altar  most  accepted  thus 
Shall  sneers  and  curses  be ;  —  what  we 

liave  done 
None   shall   dare   vouch,   though   it   be 

truly  known; 
That    record   shall   remain   when    they 

must  pass 
Who  built  their  pride  on  its  oblivion. 


CANTO  TENTH 


117 


And  fame,  in  human  hope  which  sculp- 
tured was, 
Survive  the  perished  scrolls  of  unenduring 
brass. 

XXXII 

•  The  while  we  two,  belovfed,  must  depart. 
And  Sense  and  Reason,  those  enchanters 

fair. 
Whose  wand  of  power  is  hope,  would 

bid  the  heart 
That  gazed   beyond  the   wormy   grave 

despair  ; 
These  eyes,  these  lips,  this  blood,  seems 

darkly  there 
To  fade  in  hideous  ruin  ;  no  calm  sleep, 
Peopling  with  golden  dreams  the  staguant 

air, 
Seems  our  obscure  and  rotting  eyes  to 

steep 
In   joy;  —  but    senseless    death  —  a  ruin 

dark  and  deep  ! 

XXXIII 

*  These  are  blind  fancies.     Keason  cannot 

know 
"What  sense  can  neither  feel  nor  thought 

conceive ; 
There  is   delusion  in   the  world  —  and 

woe. 
And    fear,    and    pain  —  we    know    not 

whence  we  live. 
Or  why,  or  how,  or  what  mute  Power 

may  give 
Tlieir  being  to  each  plant,  and  star,  and 

beast, 
Or   even   these   thoughts.  —  Come  near 

me  !     I  do  weave 
A  chain  I  cannot  break  —  I  am  possessed 
With  thoughts  too  swift  and  strong  for  one 

lone  human  breast. 

XXXIV 

'  Yes,  yes  —  thy   kiss   is  sweet,  thy  lips 

are  warm  — 
Oh,  willingly,  belovfed,  would  these  eyes 
Might  they  no  more  drink  being  from 

thy  form, 
Even  as  to  sleep  whence  we  again  arise, 
Close  their  faint  orbs  in  death.     1  fear 

nor  prize 
Aught  that  can  now  betide,  unshared  by 

thee. 
Yes,   Love   when  Wisdom   fails   makes 

Cythna  wise; 


Darkness  and  death,  if  death  be  true, 
must  be 
Dearer  than  life  and  hope  if  unenjoyed 
with  thee. 

XXXV 

•  Alas!  our  thoughts  flow  on  with  stream 

whose  waters 
Return  not  to  their  fountain;  Earth  and 

Heaven, 
The  Ocean  and  the  Sun,  the  clouds  their 

daughters. 
Winter,    and    Spring,   and    Morn,   and 

Noon,  and  Even  — 
All  that  we  are  or  know,  is  darkly  driven 
Towards  one  gulf.  —  Lo !  what  a  change 

is  come 
Since  I  first  spake  —  but  time  shall  be  for- 
given. 
Though  it  change  all  but  thee  ! '     She 

ceased  —  night's  gloom 
Meanwhile  had  fallen  on  earth  from  the 

sky's  sunless  dome. 

XXXVI 

Though  she  had  ceased,  her  countenance 

uplifted 
To  Heaven  still  spake  with  solemn  glory 

bright; 
Her  dark  deep  eyes,  her  lips,  whose  mo- 
tions gifted 
The   air  they  breathed   with  love,  her 

locks  undight; 
*  Fair  star  of  life  and  love,'  I  cried,  *  my 

soul's  delight, 
Why   lookest    thou    on  the   crystalline 

skies  ? 
Oh,  that  my  spirit  were  yon  Heaven  of 

night. 
Which  gazes  on  thee  with  its  thousand 

eyes ! ' 
She  turned  to  me  and  smiled  —  that  smile 

was  Paradise ! 

CANTO   TENTH 
I 

Was  there  a  human  spirit  in  the  steed 
That  thus  with  his  proud  voice,  ere  night 

was  gone. 
He  broke  our  linked  rest  ?  or  do  indeed 
All  living  things  a  common  nature  own, 
And  thought  erect  an  universal  throne, 
Where   many  shapes   one   tribute  eve* 

bear  ? 


ii8 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


And  Earth,  their  mutual  mother,  does 

The  armies  of  the  leagued  kings  around 

she  groan 

Their  files  of  steel  and  flame;  the  conti< 

To  see  her  sons  contend  ?  and  makes  she 

neut 

bare 

Trembled,  as  with  a  zone  of  ruin  bound, 

Her  breast  that  all  in  peace  its  drainless 

Beneath    their  feet  —  the   sea  shook  with 

stores  may  share  ? 

their  Navies'  sound. 

II 
I  have  heard  friendly  sounds  from  many 

V 

From   every  nation  of   the   earth    they 

a  tongue 

came. 

Which  was  not  human;  the  lone  nightin- 

Tlie multitude  of  moving  heartless  things. 

gale 

Whom  slaves  call  men;  obediently  they 

Has  answered  me  with  her  most  soothing 

came, 

song, 

Like  sheep  whom  from  the  fold  the  shep- 

Out of  her  ivy  bower,  when  I  sate  pale 

herd  brings 

With  grief,  and  sighed   beneath;   from 

To  the  stall,  red  with  blood;  their  many 

mauy  a  dale 

kings 

The  antelopes  who  flocked  for  food  have 

Led  them,  thus  erring,  from  their  native 

spoken 

land  — 

With   happy  sounds   and   motions  that 

Tartar  and   Frank,  and  millions  whom 

avail 

the  wings 

Like  man's  own  speech;  and  such  was 

Of  Indian  breezes  lull ;  and  many  a  band 

now  the  token 

The  Arctic  Anarch  sent,  and  Idumea's  sand 

Of  waning  night,  whose  calm  by  that  proud 

neigh  was  broken. 

VI 

Fertile  in  prodigies  and  lies.     So  there 

Ill 

Strange  natures  made  a  brotherhood  of 

Each  night  that  mighty  steed  bore  me 

ill. 

abroad, 

The  desert  savage  ceased  to  grasp  in  fear 

And  I  returned  with  food  to  our  retreat. 

His  Asian  shield  and  bow  when,  at  the 

And  dark  intelligence;  the  blood  which 

will 

flowed 

Of  Europe's  subtler  son,  the  bolt  would 

Over  the  fields  had  stained  the  courser's 

kill 

feet; 

Some  shepherd  sitting  on  a  rock  secure; 

Soon  the  dust  drinks  that  bitter  dew,  — 

But  smiles   of  wondering  joy  his   face 

then  meet 

would  fill. 

The  vulture,  and  the  wild-dog,  and  the 

And  savage  sympathy;  those  slaves  im- 

snake, 

pure 

The  wolf,  and  the  hyena  gray,  and  eat 

Each  one  the  other  thus  from  ill  to  ill  did 

The  dead  in  horrid  truce;  their  throngs 

lure. 

did  make 

Behind  the  steed  a  chasm  like  waves  in  a 

VII 

ship's  wake. 

For  traitorously  did  that  foul  Tyrant 

robe 

IV 

His  countenance  in  lies;  even  at  the  hour 

For  from   the   utmost  realms  of  earth 

When  he  was  snatched  from  death,  then 

came  pouring 

o'er  the  globe, 

The  banded  slaves  whom  every  despot 

With  secret  signs  from  many  a  moun- 

sent 

tain  tower, 

At  that  throned  traitor's  summons;  like 

With  smoke  by  day,  and  fire  by  night. 

the  roaring 

the  power 

Of  fire,  whose  floods  the  wild  deer  cir- 

Of  Kings  and  Priests,  those  dark  con- 

cumvent 

spirators. 

In  the  scorched  pastures  of  the  south,  so 

He   called;   tiiey  knew  his  cause   tkeii 

bent 

own,  and  swore 

CANTO   TENTH 


"9 


Like  wolves  and  serpents  to  their  mu- 
tual wars 
Strange   truce,    with   many   a  rite   which 
Earth  and  Heaven  abhors. 

VIII 

Myriads   had   come  —  millions  were  on 

their  way; 
The  Tyrant  passed,  surrounded  by  the 

steel 
Of  hired  assassins,  through  the  public 

way, 
Choked  with  his  country's  dead;  his  foot- 
steps reel 
On  the  fresh  blood  —  he  smiles.     *  Ay, 

now  I  feel 
I  am  a  King  in  truth ! '  he  said,  and  took 
His  royal  seat,  and  bade  the  torturing 

wheel 
Be  brought,  and  fire,  and  pincers,  and 

the  hook, 
And  scorpions,  that  his  soul  on  its  revenge 

might  look. 

IX 
*  But  first,  go  slay  the  rebels  —  why  return 

The  victor    bands  ?  '  he  said,  '  millions 
yet  live, 

Of   whom   the  weakest  with  one  word 
might  turn 

The  scales  of  victory  yet;  let  none  sur- 
vive 

But  those  within  the  walls  —  each  fifth 
shall  give 

The  expiation  for  his  brethren  here. 

Go   forth,   and   waste   and   kill  ! '  — '  O 
king,  forgive 

My  speech,'  a  soldier  answered,  '  but  we 
fear 
The  spirits  of  the  night,  and  mom  is  draw- 
ing near; 


'  For  we  were  slaying  still  without  remorse. 
And  now  that  dreadful  chief  beneath  my 

baud 
Defenceless  lay,  when  on  a  hell-black 

horse 
An  Angel  bright  as  day,  waving  a  brand 
Which  flashed  among  the  stars,  passed.' 

—  '  Dost  thou  stand 
Parleying  with  me,  thou   wretch  ?  *  the 

king  replied; 
'Slaves,  bind  him  to  the  wheel;   and  of 

this  band 


Whoso  will  drag  that  woman  to  his  side 
That  scared  him  thus  may  burn  his  dearest 
foe  beside; 

XI 

'And  gold  and  glory  shall   be  his.     Go 

forth  ! ' 
They  rushed  into  the  plain.     Loud  was 

the  roar 
Of  their  career;  the  horsemen  shook  the 

earth ; 
The  wheeled  artillery's  speed  the  pave- 
ment tore; 
The  infantry,  tile  after  file,  did  pour 
Their  clouds  on  the  utmost  hills.     Five 

days  they  slew 
Among  the  wasted  fields;  the  sixth  saw 

gore 
Stream  through  the  City;  on  the  seventh 

the  dew 
Of  slaughter  became  stifP,  and  there  was 

peace  anew: 

XII 

Peace  in  the  desert  fields  and  villages, 
Between  the  glutted  beasts  and  mangled 

dead  ! 
Peace  in  the  silent  streets  !   save  when 

the  cries 
Of  victims,  to  their  fiery  judgment  led. 
Made  pale  their  voiceless  lips  who  seemed 

to  dread, 
Even  in  their  dearest  kindred,  lest  some 

tongue 
Be  faithless  to  the  fear  yet  unbetrayed; 
Peace  in  the  Tyrant's  palace,  where  the 

throng 
Waste  the  triumphal  hours  in  festival  and 


song 


XIII 


Day  after  day  the  burning  Sun  rolled  on 

Over  the  death-polluted  land.     It  came 

Out  of  the  east  like  fire,  and  fiercely 
shone 

A  lamp  of  autumn,  ripening  with  its 
flame 

The  few  lone  ears  of  corn;  the  sky  be- 
came 

Stagnate  with  heat,  so  that  each  cloud 
and  blast 

Languished  and  died;  the  thirsting  air 
did  claim 

AU  moisture,  and  a  rotting  vapor  passed 
From  the  unburied  dead,  invisible  and  fast 


I20 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


XIV 

First  Want,  then  Plague,  came  on  the 

beasts;  their  food 
Failed,  and  they  drew  the  breath  of  its 

decay. 
Millions  on  millions,  whom  the  scent  of 

blood 
Had    lured,   or   who  from   regions  far 

away 
Had  ti-acked  the  hosts  in  festival  array, 
From    their    dark   deserts,   gaunt    and 

wasting  now 
Stalked    like   fell  shades  among  their 

perished  prey ; 
In  their  green  eyes  a  strange  disease  did 

glow  — 
They  sank  in  hideous  spasm,  or  pains  severe 

and  slow. 

XV 

The  fish  were  poisoned  in  the  streams; 

the  birds 
In  the  green  woods  perished;  the  insect 

race 
Was  withered  up;  the  scattered  flocks 

and  herds 
Who  had  survived  the  wild  beasts'  hun- 
gry chase 
Died  moaning,  each  upon  the  other's  face 
In   helpless   agony   gazing;     round   the 

City 
All   night,   the   lean  hyenas    their    sad 

case 
Like  starving  infants  wailed  —  a  woful 

ditty; 
And  many  a  mother  wept,  pierced  with 

unnatural  pity. 


Amid  the  aerial  minarets  on  high 
The  ^Ethiopian  vultures  fluttering  fell 
From  their  long  line  of  brethren  in  the 

sky. 
Startling    the    concourse    of    mankind. 

Too  well 
These   signs   the   coming   mischief    did 

foretell. 
Strange  panic  first,  a  deep  and  sickening 

dread, 
Within  each  heart,  like  ice,  did  sink  and 

dwell, 
A  voiceless  thought  of  evil,  which  did 

spread 
With  the  quick  glance  of  eyes,  like  wither- 
ing lightnings  shed. 


Day  after  day,  when  the  year  wanes,  the 

frosts 
Strip  its  green  crown  of  leaves  till  all  is 

bare; 
So  on   those   strange   and   congregated 

hosts 
Came  Famine,  a  swift  shadow,  and  the 

air 
Groaned  with  the  burden  of  a  new  de- 
spair; 
Famine,  than  whom  Misrule  no  deadlier 

daughter 
Feeds  from  her  thousand  breasts,  though 

sleeping  there 
With  lidless  eyes  lie  Faith  and  Plague 

and  Slaughter  — 
A  ghastly  brood  conceived  of  Lethe's  sullen 

water. 

XVIII 

There  was  no  food;  the  corn  was  tram- 
pled down, 
The  flocks  and  herds  had  perished;  on 

the  shore 
The   dead   and    putrid    fish   were   ever 

thrown ; 
The  deeps  were  foodless,  and  the  winds 

no  more 
Creaked  with  the  weight  of  birds,  but  as 

before 
Those  winged  things  sprang  forth,  were 

void  of  shade ; 
The  vines  and  orchards,  autumn's  golden 

store, 
Were  burned ;  so  that  the  meanest  food 

was  weighed 
With  gold,  and  avarice  died  before  the  god 

it  made. 

XIX 
Tliere  was  no  corn  —  in  the  wide  market- 
place 
All  loathliest  things,  even  human  flesh, 

was  sold; 
They  weighed  it   in  small  scales — and 

many  a  face 
Was   fixed  in  eager  horror  then.     His 

gold 
The  miser  broiight;    the   tender  maid, 

grown  bold 
Through    hunger,    bared    her    scorned 

charms  in  vain; 
The   mother   brought   her  eldest  born, 

controlled 


CANTO  TENTH 


121 


By  instinct  blind  as  love,  but  turned  again 
And   bade  ber   infant  suck,  and   died  in 
silent  pain. 

XX 

Then  fell  blue  Plague  upon  the  race  of 
man. 
'  Oh,  for  the  sheathM  steel,  so  late  which 
gave 

Oblivion  to  the  dead  when  the  streets  ran 

With    brothers'   blood  !     Oh,    that    the 
earthquake's  grave 

Would  gape,  or  Ocean  lift  its   stifling 
wave  ! ' 

Vain  cries  —  throughout  the  streets  thou- 
sands pursued 

Each  by  his  fiery  torture  howl  and  rave 

Or  sit  in  frenzy's  unimagiued  mood 
Upon  fresh   heaps   of    dead  —  a  ghastly 
multitude. 

XXI 

It    was    not    hunger    now,  but    thirst- 
Each  well 
Was   choked  with  rotting  corpses,  and 

became 
A  caldron  of  green  mist  made  visible 
At   sunrise.     Thither  still   the  myriads 

came, 
Seeking  to  quench  the  agony  of  the  flame 
Which  raged  like  poison  through  their 

bursting  veins; 
Naked  they  were  from  torture,  without 

shame. 
Spotted  with  nameless   scars  and   lurid 

blains  — 
Childhood,  and  youth,  and  age,  writhing  in 

savage  pains. 

XXII 

It  was  not  thirst,  but  madness  !     Many 

saw 
Their  own  lean  image  everywhere  —  it 

went 
A  ghastlier  self  beside  them,  till  the  awe 
Of  that  dread  sight   to  self-destruction 

sent 
Those  shrieking  victims;  some,  ere  life 

was  spent, 
Sought,  with  a  horrid  sympathy,  to  shed 
Contagion  on  the  sound;  and  others  rent 
Their  matted  hair,  and  cried  aloud, '  We 

tread 
On  fire  !  the  avenging  Power  his  hell  on 

earth  has  spread.' 


XXIII 

Sometimes  the  living  by  the  dead  were 

hid. 
Near  the  great  fountain  in  the  public 

square, 
Where  corpses  made  a  crumbling  pyra- 
mid 
Under   the   sun,  was  heard  one   stifled 

prayer 
For  life,  in  the  hot  silence  of  the  air; 
And   strange   't  was   'mid   that  hideous 

heap  to  see 
Some  shrouded  In  their  long  and  golden 

hair. 
As  if  not  dead,  but  slumbering  quietly. 
Like   forms   which   sculptors  carve,   then 

love  to  agony. 

XXIV 

Famine   had   spared   the  palace  of  the 

King; 
He  rioted  in  festival  the  while. 
He   and   his   guards   and    Priests;     but 

Plague  did  fling 
One  shadow  upon  all.    Famine  can  smile 
On  him  who  brings   it   food,  and  pass, 

with  guile 
Of  thankful  falsehood,  like   a  courtier 

gray. 
The  house-dog  of  the  throne;  but  many 

a  mile 
Comes    Plague,    a    wingfed    wolf,  who 

loathes  alway 
The  garbage  and  the  scum  that  strangers 

make  her  prey. 

XXV 

So,  near  the  throne,  amid  the  gorgeous 
feast, 

Sheathed  in  resplendent  arms,  or  loosely 
dight 

To  luxury,   ere   the   mockery  yet  had 
ceased 

That  lingered  on  his  lips,  the  warrior's 
might 

Was  loosened,  and  a  new  and  ghastlier 
night 

In  dreams  of  frenzy  lapped  his  eyes;  he 
fell 

Headlong,  or  with  stiff  eyeballs  sate  up- 
right 

Among  the  guests,  or  raving  mad  did 
tell 
Strange  truths  —  a  dying  seer  of  dark  op- 
pression's hell. 


122 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


XXVI 

The  Princes  and  the  Priests  were  pale 

with  terror; 
That    monstrous  faith   wherewith  they 

ruled  mankind 
Fell,  like  a  shaft  loosed  by  the  bowman's 

error, 
On   their  own  hearts;   they  sought  and 

they  could  find 
No  refuge  —  't  was  the  blind  who  led  the 

blind ! 
So,  through  the  desolate  streets  to  the 

high  fane, 
The  many-tongued   and  endless  armies 

wind 
In  sad  procession;  each  among  the  train 
To   his   own   idol    lifts    his    supplications 

vain. 

XXVII 

'  O  God  ! '  they  cried,  *  we  know  our  secret 

pride 
Has  scorned  thee,  and  thy  worship,  and 

thy  name ; 
Secure  in  human  power,  we  have  defied 
Thy  fearful  might;  we  bend  in  fear  and 

shame 
Before  thy  presence;  with  the  dust  we 

claim 
Kindred;  be  merciful,  O  King  of  Heaven! 
Most  justly  have  we   suffered  for  thy 

fame 
Made  dim,  but  be  at  length  our  sins  for- 
given. 
Ere  to  despair  and  death  thy  worshippers 

be  driven ! 

XXVIII 

•  0   King  of  Glory !      Thou  alone  hast 

power  ! 
Who  can  resist  thy  will  ?  who  can  re- 
strain 
Thy  wrath  when  on  the  gniltj  thou  dost 

shower 
The  shafts  of  thy  revenge,  a  blistering 

rain? 
Greatest  and  best,  be  merciful  again  ! 
Have  we  not  stabbed  thine  enemies,  and 

made 
The  Earth  an  altar,  and  the  Heavens  a 

fane. 
Where  thou  wert  worshipped  with  their 

blood,  and  laid 
Those   hearts   in    dust   which   would    thy 

searchless  works  have  weighed  ? 


XXIX 

'  Well  didst  thou  loosen  on  this  impious 
.  City 
Thine  angels   of  revenge  I  recall  them 

now; 
Thy  worshippers  abased  here  kneel  for 

pity, 
And   bind  their  souls   by  an  immortal 

vow. 
We  swear  by  thee  —  and  to  our  oath  do 

thou 
Give  sanction  from  thine  hell  of  fiends 

and  flame  — 
That  we  will  "kill  with  fire  and  torments 

slow 
The  last  of  those  who  mocked  thy  holy 

name 
And  scorned  the  sacred  laws  thy  prophets 

did  proclaim.' 

XXX 

Thus    they    with  trembling  limbs    and 

pallid  lips 
Worshipped    their  own    hearts'  image, 

dim  and  vast. 
Scared   by   the   shade   wherewith    they 

would  eclipse 
The  light  of  other  minds;  troubled  they 

passed 
From   the   great  Temple;  fiercely  still 

and  fast 
Tlie  arrows  of  the  plague  among  them 

fell. 
And  tliey  on  one  another  gazed  aghast, 
And  through  the  hosts  contention  wild 

befell. 
As  each  of  his  own  god  the  wondrous  works 

did  tell. 

XXXI 

And  Oromaze,  Joshua,  and  Mahomet, 
Moses,  and  Buddh,  Zerdusht,  and  Brahm, 

and  Fob, 
A  tumult  of  strange  names,  which  never 

met 
Before,  as  watchwords  of  a   single  woe, 
Arose;  eacli  raging  votary 'gan  to  throw 
Aloft   his   armed  hands,  and  each   did 
howl 
'  Our  God  alone  is  God  ! '  and  slaughter 
now 
Would  have  gone  forth,  when  from  be- 
neath a  cowl 
A  voice  came  forth  which  pierced  like  ice 
through  every  soul. 


CANTO  TENTH 


123 


XXXII 

'T  was  an  Iberian  Priest  from  whom  it 

came, 
A  zealous   man,  who  led  the   legioned 

West, 
With  words  which  faith  and  pride  had 

steeped  in  flame, 
To  quell  the  unbelievers;  a  dire  guest 
Even  to  his  friends  was  he,  for  in  his 

breast 
Did  hate  and  g^ile  lie  watchful,  inter- 
twined. 
Twin  serpents  in  one  deep  and  winding 

nest; 
He  loathed  all  faith  beside  his  own,  and 

pkiied 
To  wreak  his  fear  of  Heaven  in  vengeance 

on  mankind. 

XXXIIl 

But  more  he  loathed  and  hated  the  clear 

light 
Of  wisdom  and  free  thought,  and  more 

did  fear, 
Lest,   kindled    once,   its    beams    might 

pierce  the  night. 
Even  where  his  Idol  stood;  for  far  and 

near 
Did  many  a  heart  in  Europe  leap  to  hear 
That  faith  and  tyranny  were  trampled 

down,  — 
Many  a  pale  victim,  doomed  for  truth  to 

share 
The  murderer's  cell,  or  see  with  helpless 

groan 
The  Priests  his  children  drag  for  slaves  to 

serve  their  own. 

XXXIV 

He  dared  not  kill  the  infidels  with  fire 
Or  steel,  in  Europe;  the  slow  agonies 
Of  legal  torture  mocked  his  keen  desire; 
So  he  made  truce  with  those  who  did  de- 
spise 
The  expiation  and  the  sacrifice, 
That,  though  detested,  Islam's  kindred 

creed 
Might  crush  for  him  those  deadlier  ene- 
mies; 
For  fear  of  God  did  in  his  bosom  breed 
A  jealous  hate  of  man,  an  unreposing  need. 

XXXV 

•  Peace  !  Peace  ! '  he  cried,  *  when  we  are 
dead,  the  Day 


Of  Judgment  comes,  and  all  shall  surely 

know 
Whose  God  is  God;  each  fearfully  shall 

The  errors  of  his  faith  in  endless  woe  ! 
But  there   is  sent  a  mortal  vengeance 

now 
On  earth,  because  an  impious  race  had 

spurned 
Him  whom  we  all  adore,  —  a  subtle  foe, 
By  whom  for  ye  this  dread  reward  was 

earned, 
And  kingly  thrones,  which  rest  on  faith, 

uigh  overturned. 

XXXVI 

*  Think  ye,   because  ye  weep  and  kneel 

and  pray. 

That  God  will  lull  the  pestilence  ?     It 
rose 

Even   from  beneath  his  throne,  where, 
many  a  day. 

His  mercy  soothed  it  to  a  dark  repose; 

It  walks  upon  the  earth  to  judge  his  foes. 

And  what  art  thou  and  I,  that  he  should 
deign 

To  curb  his  ghastly  minister,  or  close 

The  gates  of  death,  ere  they  receive  the 
twain 
Who  shook  with  mortal  spells  his  unde- 
fended reign  ? 

XXXVII 

*  Ay,  there  is  famine  in  the  gulf  of  hell. 
Its  giant  worms  of  fire  forever  yawn,  — 
Their  lurid  eyes  are  on  us !  those  who  fell 
By  the   swift  shafts   of  pestilence   ere 

dawn 
Are  in  their  jaws !  they  hunger  for  the 

spawn 
Of  Satan,  their  own  brethren,  who  were 

sent 
To  make  our  souls  their  spoil.    See,  see  ! 

they  fawn 
Like  dogs,  and  they  will  sleep,  with  lux- 

nry  spent. 
When  those  detested  hearts  their  iron  fangs 

have  rent  1 

XXXVIII 

*  Our  God   may  then   lull   Pestilence   to 

sleep. 
Pile  high  the  pyre  of  expiation  now  ! 
A  forest's  spoil  of  boughs;  and  on  the 

heap 


X24 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


Pour  venomous  gums,  which  sullenly  and 

slow, 
Wheu  touched  hy  flame,  shall  bum,  and 

melt,  and  flow, 
A  stream  of  clinging  fire,  —  and  fix  on 

high 
A  net  of  iron,  and  spread  forth  below 
A  couch  of  snakes,  and  scorpions,  and 

the  fry 
Of  centipedes  and  worms,  earth's  hellish 

progeny  ! 

XXXIX 

'  Let  Laon  and  Laone  on  that  pyre, 
Linked  tight  with  burning  brass,  perish! 

—  then  pray 
That  with  this  sacrifice  the  withering  ire 
Of  Heaven  may  be  appeased.'    He  ceased, 

and  they 
A  space  stood  silent,  as  far,  far  away 
The   echoes   of   his  voice  among  them 

died; 
And  he  knelt  down  upon  the  dust,  alway 
Muttering  the  curses  of  his  speechless 

pride, 
Whilst  shame,  and  fear,  and  awe,  the  armies 

did  divide. 

XL 

His  voice  was  like  a  blast  that  burst  the 

portal 
Of  fabled  hell;  and  as  he  spake,  each 

one 
Saw  gape  beneath  the  chasms  of  fire  im- 
mortal, 
And  Heaven  above  seemed  cloven,  where, 

on  a  throne 
Girt  round  with  storms  and  shadows,  sate 

alone 
Their  King  and  Judge.     Fear  killed  in 

every  breast 
All  natural  pity  then,  a  fear  unknown 
Before,  and  with  an  inward  fire  possessed 
They   raged   like   homeless  beasts   whom 

burning  woods  invest. 


T  was  mom.  —  At  noon  the  public  crier 
went  forth, 

Proclaiming  through  the  living  and  the 

dead, — 
'The  Monarch  saith  that  bis  g^eat  em- 
pire's worth 

Is  set  on  Laon  and  Laone's  head; 

He  who  but  one  yet  living  here  can  lead, 


Or  who  the  life  from  both  their  hearts 

can  wring. 
Shall  be  the  kingdom's  heir  —  a  glorious 

meed  I 
But  he  who  both  alive  can  hither  bring 
The  Princess  shall  espouse,  and  reign  an 

equal  King.' 


Ere  night  the  pyre  was  piled,  the  net  of 
iron 

Was  spread  above,  the  fearful  couch  be- 
low; 

It  overtopped  the  towers  that  did  environ 

That  spacious  square;  for  Fear  is  never 
slow 

To  build  the  thrones  of  Hate,  her  mate 
and  foe; 

So  she  scourged  forth  the  mauiau  mul- 
titude 

To  rear   this  pyramid  —  tottering  and 
slow. 

Plague-stricken,  foodless,  like  lean  herds 
pursued 
By  gadflies,  they  have  piled  the  heath  and 
gums  and  wood. 

XLIII 

Night  came,  a  starless  and  a  moonless 
gloom. 

Until  the  dawn,  those  hosts  of  many  a 
nation 

Stood  round  that  pile,  as  near  one  lover's 
tomb 

Two  gentle  sisters  mourn  their  desola- 
tion; 

And  in  the  silence  of  that  erpectation 

Was  heard  on  high  the  reptiles'  hiss  and 
crawl  — 

It  was  so  deep,  save  when  the  devastation 

Of  the  swift  pest  with  fearful  interval, 
Marking  its  path  with  shrieks,  among  the 
crowd  would  fall, 

XLIV 

Mom   came.  —  Among   those    sleepless 

multitudes, 
Madness,   and    Fear,  and   Plague,   and 

Famine,  still 
Heaped  corpse  on  corpse,  as  in  autumnal 

woods 
The  frosts  of  many  a  wind  with  dead 

leaves  fill 
Earth's  cold  and  sullen  brooks;  in  silence 

still. 


CANTO   ELEVENTH 


"S 


The  pale  survivors  stood;  ere  noon  the 

fear 
Of  Hell  became  a  panic,  which  did  kill 
Like   hunger  or  disease,  with  whispers 

drear, 
As  *  Hush  !  hark  !  come  they  yet  ?  —  Just 

Heaven,  thine  hour  is  near  ! ' 


And  Priests  rushed  through  their  ranks, 
some  counterfeiting 

The  rage  they  did  inspire,  some  mad  in- 
deed 

With  their  own  lies.  They  said  their 
god  was  waiting 

To  see  his  enemies  writhe,  and  burn,  and 
bleed,  — 

And  that,  till  then,  the  snakes  of  Hell  had 
need 

Of  human  souls;  three  hundred  furnaces 

Soon  blazed  through  the  wide  City, 
where,  with  speed, 

Men  brought  their  infidel  kindred  to  ap- 
pease 
God's  wrath,  and,  while  they  burned,  knelt 
round  on  quivering  knees. 

XLVI 

The  noontide  sun  was  darkened  with  that 

smoke ; 
The  winds  of  eve  dispersed  those  ashes 

gray. 
The  madness,  which  these  rites  had  lulled, 

awoke 
Again  at  sunset.     Who  shall  dare  to  say 
The  deeds  which  night  and  fear  brought 

forth,  or  weigh 
In  balance  just  the  good  and  evil  there  ? 
He   might    man's   deep   and   searchless 

heart  display, 
And  cast  a  light  on  those  dim  labyrinths 

where 
Hope  near  imagined  chasms  is  struggling 

with  despair. 

XL  VII 

'Tis  said  a  mother  dragged  three  chil- 
dren then 

To  those  fierce  flames  which  roast  the 
eyes  in  the  head, 

And  laughed,  and  died;  and  that  unholy 
men. 

Feasting  like  fiends  upon  the  infidel  dead. 

Looked  from  their  meal,  and  saw  an 
angel  tread 


The  visible  floor  of  Heaven,  and  it  was 

she  ! 
And,  on  that  night,  one  without  doubt  or 

dread 
Came  to  the  fire,  and  said,  '  Stop,  I  am 

he! 
Kill  me  ! '  —  They  burned  them  both  with 

hellish  mockery. 

XLVIII 

And,   one    by   one,   that    night,   young 

maidens  came, 
Beauteous  and  calm,  like  shapes  of  living 

stone 
Clothed  in  the  light  of  dreams,  and  by 

the  flame. 
Which  shrank  as  overgorged,  they  laid 

them  down, 
And   sung  a  low  sweet  song,  of  which 

alone 
One   word   was    heard,   and    that    was 

Liberty; 
And  that  some  kissed  their  marble  feet, 

with  moan 
Like  love,  and  died,  and  then  that  they 

did  die 
With  happy  smiles,  which  sunk  in  white 

tranquillity. 


CANTO   ELEVENTH 


She  saw  me  not  —  she  heard  me  not  — 

alone 
Upon   the   mountain's   dizzy  brink  she 

stood; 
She  spake  not,  breathed  not,  moved  not 

—  there  was  thrown 
Over  her  look  the  shadow  of  a  mood 
Which  only  clothes  the  heart  in  solitude, 
A    thought    of   voiceless    depth ;  —  she 

stood  alone  — 
Above,  the  Heavens  were  spread  —  be- 
low, the  flood 
Was  murmuring  in  its  caves  —  the  vnnd 

had  blown 
Her  hair  apart,  through  which  her  eyes 

and  forehead  shone. 


A  cloud  was  hanging  o'er   the  western 

mountains ; 
Before  its  blue  and  moveless  depth  were 

flying 


136 


THE  REVOLT  OF   ISLAM 


Gray  mists  poured  forth  from   the  un- 
resting fountains 

Of  darkness  in  the  North;  the  day  was 
dying; 

Sudden,  the  sun  shone  forth  —  its  beams 
were  lying 

Like  boiling  gold  on  Ocean,  strange  to 
see, 

And    on    the    shattered  vapors   which, 
defying 

The  power  of  light  in  vain,  tossed  rest- 
lessly 
In  the  red  Heaven,  like  wrecks  in  a  tem- 
pestuous sea. 

Ill 

It  was  a  stream  of  living  beams,  whose 

bank 
On  either  side  by  the  cloud's  cleft  was 

made; 
And  where  its  chasms  that  flood  of  glory 

drank, 
Its  waves  gushed  forth  like  fire,  and  as 

if  swajed 
By  some  mute  tempest,  rolled   on  her; 

the  shade 
Of  her  bright  image  floated  on  the  river 
Of  liquid  light,  which  then  did  end  and 

fade  — 
Her  radiant   shape  upon   its  verge  did 

shiver; 
Aloft,  her  flowing  hair  like  strings  of  flame 

did  quiver. 


I  stood  beside  her,  but  she  saw  me  not  — 
She  looked  upon  the  sea,  and  skies,  and 

earth. 
Rapture  and  love  and  admiration  wrought 
A  passion  deeper  far  than  tears,  or  mirth. 
Or  speech,  or  gesture,  or  whate'er  has 

birth 
From    common    joy;     which   with    the 

speechless  feeling 
That  led  her  there  united,  and  shot  forth 
From  her  far  eyes  a  light  of  deep  re- 
vealing. 
All  but  her  dearest  self  from  my  regard 
concealing. 


Her  lips  were  parted,  and  th*»  measured 
breath 

Was  now  heard  there;  her  dark  and  in- 
tricate eyes, 


Orb   within   orb,  deeper   than   sleep  or 

death. 
Absorbed    the    glories  of    the   burning 

skies. 
Which,  mingling  with  her  heart's  deep 

ecstasies, 
Burst  from  her  looks  and  gestures;  and 

a  light 
Of  liquid  tenderness,  like  love,  did  rise 
From  her  whole  frame  —  an  atmosphere 

which  quite 
Arrayed  her  in  its  beams,  tremulous  and 

soft  and  bright. 


She  would  have  clasped  me  to  her  glow- 
ing frame; 

Those  warm  and  odorous  lips  might  soon 
have  shed 

On  mine  the  fragrance  and  the  invisible 
flame 

Which   now  the  cold  winds  stole;  she 
would  have  laid 

Upon  mj-  languid  heart  her  dearest  head; 

1  might  have  heard  her  voice,  tender  and 
sweet; 

Her   eyes,   mingling   with   mine,  might 
soon  have  fed 

My  soul  with  their  own  joy.  —  One  mo- 
ment yet 
I  gfazed  —  we  parted  then,  never  again  to 
meet ! 

VII 

Never  but  once  to  meet  on  earth  again  f 
She  heard  me  as  I  fled  —  her  eager  tone 
Sunk  on  my  heart,  and  almost  wove  a 

chain 
Around  my  will  to  link  it  with  her  own, 
So   that  my  stem   resolve   M*as  almost 

gone. 
'  I  cannot  reach  thee  !  whither  dost  thou 

fly? 
My  steps  are  faint.  —  Come  back,  thou 

dearest  one  — 
Return,   ah   me  !    return ! '  —  the   wind 

passed  by 
On  which  those  accents  died,  faint,  far,  and 

lingeringly. 

VIII 

Woe  !    woe  !    that   moonless   midnight  I 

Want  and  Pest 
Were  horrible,  but  one  more  fell  doth 

rear, 


CANTO   ELEVENTH 


127 


As  in  a  hydra's  swarming  lair,  its  crest 
Eminent  among  those  victims  —  even  the 

Fear 
Of  Hell;  each  girt  by  the  hot  atmosphere 
Of  his  blind  agony,  like  a  scorpion  stung 
By  his  own  rage  upon  his  burning  bier 
Of  circling  coals  of  fire.     But  still  there 

clung 
One  hope,  like  a  keen  sword  on   starting 

threads  upbuug:  — 


Not  death  —  death  was  no  more  refuge 

or  rest; 
Not  life  —  it  was  despair  to  be  !  —  not 

sleep. 
For  fiends  and  chasms  of  fire  had  dis- 
possessed 
All  natural  dreams;  to  wake  was  not  to 

weep. 
But  to  gaze,  mad  and  pallid,  at  the  leap 
To    which    the    Future,   like    a    snaky 

scourge. 
Or  like  some  tyrant's  eye  which  aye  doth 

keep 
Its  withering  beam  upon  his  slaves,  did 

urge 
Their  steps;  they  heard  the  roar  of  Hell's 

sulphureous  surge. 


Each  of  that  multitude,  alone  and  lost 
To  sense  of  outward   things,  one   hope 

yet  knew; 
As  on  a  foam-girt   crag  some   seaman 

tossed 
Stares  at  the  rising  tide,  or  like  the  crew 
Whilst  now  the  ship  is  splitting  through 

and  through; 
Each,  if  the  tramp  of  a  far  steed  was 

heard. 
Started  from  sick  despair,  or  if  there 

flew 
One  murmur  ou  the  wind,  or  if  some 

word 
Which   none   can  gather  yet   the  distant 

crowd  has  stirred. 

XI 

Why  became  cheeks,  wan  with  the  kiss 
of  death. 

Paler  from  hope  ?  they  had  sustained 
despair. 

Why  watched  those  myriads  with  sus- 
pended breath 


Sleepless  a  second  night  ?  they  are  not 
here. 

The  victims  —  and  hour  by  hour,  a  vision 
drear. 

Warm  corpses  fall  upon   the  clay-cold 
dead; 

And  even  in  death  their  lips  are  wreathed 
with  fear. 

The  crowd  is  mute  and  moveless  —  over- 
head 
Silent  Arcturus  shines  —  ha  !  hear'st  thoa 
not  the  tread 

XII 

Of  rushing  feet  ?  laughter  ?  the  shout, 

the  scream 
Of  triumph  not  to  be  contained  ?     See  ! 

hark  1 
They  come,  they  come  !  give  way  I  Alas, 

ye  deem 
Falsely  —  't  is  but  a  crowd  of  maniacs 

stark 
Driven,  like  a  troop  of  spectres,  through 

the  dark 
From  the  choked  well,  whence  a  bright 

death-fire  sprung, 
A  lurid  earth-star,  which  dropped  many 

a  spark 
From    its    blue    train,    and,    spreading 

widely,  clung 
To  their  wild  hair,  like  mist  the  topmost 

pines  among. 

XIII 

And   many,   from   the   crowd  collected 

there, 
Joined    that    strange   dance   in   fearful 

sympathies; 
There  was  the  silence  of  a  long  despair, 
When  the  last  echo  of  those  terrible <;ries 
Came  from  a  distant  street,  like  agonies 
Stifled    afar.  —  Before    the     Tyrant's 

throne 
All   night  his   ag6d   Senate   sate,  their 

eyes 
In  stony  expectation  fixed;  when  one 
Sudden  before  them  stood,  a  Stranger  and 

alone. 

XIV 

Dark    Priests    and    haughty  Warriors 

gazed  on  him 
With  baffled  wonder,  for  a  hermit's  vest 
Concealed  his  face;  but  when  he  spake, 

his  tone 


[28 


THE  REVOLT  OF   ISLAM 


Ere  yet   the  matter  did  their  thoughts 

arrest  — 
Earnest,    benignant,   calm,   as    from    a 

breast 
Void  of  all  hate  or  terror  —  made  them 

start ; 
For  as  with  gentle  accents  he  addressed 
His   speech  to  them,  on  each  unwilling 

heart 
Unusual   awe   did   fall  —  a  spirit-quelling 

dart. 

XV 

*  Ye  Princes  of  the  Earth,  ye  sit  aghast 
Amid   the   ruin  which   yourselves    have 

made; 
Yes,  Desolation  heard   your  trumpet's 

blast, 
And  sprang  from  sleep  !  —  dark  Terror 

has  obeyed 
Your  bidding.    Oh,  that  I,  whom  ye  have 

made 
Your  foe,  could  set  my  dearest  enemy 

free 
From  pain  and  fear !  but  evil  casts  a 

shade 
Which  cannot  pass  so  soon,  and   Hate 

must  be 
The  nurse  and  parent  still  of  an  ill  progeny. 

XVI 

*  Ye  turn  to  Heaven  for  aid  in  your  dis- 

tress ; 

Alas,  that  ye,  the  mighty  and  the  wise, 

Who,  if  ye  dared,  might  not  aspire  to 
less 

Than  ye  conceive  of  power,  should  fear 
the  lies 

Which  thou,  and  thou,  didst  frame  for 
•    mysteries 

To  blind  your  slaves  !  consider  your  own 
thought  — 

An  empty  and  a  cruel  sacrifice 

Ye  now  prepare  for  a  vain  idol  wrought 
Out  of  the  fears  and  hate  which  vain  de- 
sires have  brought. 


Ye  seek  for  happiness  —  alas  the  day  I 
Ye  find  it  not  in  luxury  nor  in  gold. 
Nor  in  the  fame,  nor  in  the  envied  sway 
For  which,  0  willing  slaves  to  Custom 

old, 
Severe   task  -  mistress,   ye  your  hearts 

have  sold. 


Ye  seek  for  peace,  and,  when  ye  die,  to 

dream 
No  evil  dreams;  —  all  mortal  things  are 

cold 
And  senseless  then;  if  aught  survive,  I 

deem 
It  must  be  love  and  joy,  for  they  immortal 

seem. 

XVIII 

'  Fear  not  the  future,  weep  not   for  the 

past. 
Oh,  could  I  win  your  ears  to  dare  be  now 
Glorious,  and  great,  and  calm  !  that  ye 

would  cast 
Into  the  dust  those  symbols  of  your  woe, 
Purple,   and   gold,  and  steel !   that  ye 

would  go 
Proclaiming  to  the  nations  whence  ye 

came 
That  Want  and  Plague  and  Fear  from 

slavery  flow; 
And  that  mankind  is  free,  and  that  the 

shame 
Of  royalty  and  faith  is  lost  in  freedom's 

fame  I 

XIX 

'  If  thus  't  is  well  —  if  not,  I  come  to  say 
That    Laon  — '      While    the    Stranger 

spoke,  among 
The  Council  sudden  tumult  and  affray 
Arose,  for  many  of  those  warriors  young 
Had  on   his   eloquent  accents   fed   and 

hung 
Like    bees    on    mountain-flowers;    they 

knew  the  truth. 
And  from   their  thrones  in  vindication 

sprung; 
The  men  of  faith  and  law  then  without 

ruth 
Drew  forth  their  secret  steel,  and  stabbed 

each  ardent  youth. 

XX 

They   stabbed  them   in   the   back    and 

sneered  —  a  slave. 
Who    stood    behind    the    throne,  those 

corpses  drew 
Each    to  its    bloody,   dark    and  secret 

grave ; 
Aud  one  more  daring  raised  his   steel 

anew 
To  pierce    the   Stranger:    '  What   bast 

thou  to  do 


CANTO  TWELFTH 


129 


With  me,  poor  wretch  ? '  —  Calm,  sol- 
emn and  severe, 

That  voice  unstrung  his  sinews,  and  he 
threw 

His  dagger  on  the  ground,  and,  pale  with 
fear, 
Sate    silently  —  his    voice    then    did    the 
Stranger  rear. 


*  It  doth  avail  not  that  I  weep  for  ye  — 
Ye  cannot  change,  since  ye  are  old  and 

gray. 
And  ye   have    chosen  your  lot  —  your 

fame  must  be 
A  book  of  blood,  whence  in  a  milder  day 
Men   shall    learn    truth,   when   ye    are 

wrapped  iu  clay; 
Now   ye   shall   triumph.     I   am   Laon's 

friend, 
And  him  to  your  revenge  will  I  betray, 
So  ye  concede  one  easy  boon.     Attend  ! 
For  now  I  speak  of  things  which  ye  can 

apprehend. 

XXII 

*  There  is  a  People  mighty  in  its  youth, 
A  land  beyond  the  Oceans  of  the  West, 
Where,  though  with  rudest  rites.  Free- 
dom and  Truth 

Are    worshipped;  from  a   glorious   Mo- 
ther's breast, 

Who,  since  high  Athens  fell,  among  the 
rest 

Sate  like  the  Queen  of  Nations,  but  in 
woe. 

By  inbred  monsters   outraged   and  op- 
pressed. 

Turns  to  her  chainless  child  for  succor 
now, 
It  draws  the  milk  of  Power  in  Wisdom's 
fullest  flow. 

XXIII 

*  That  land  is  like  an  Eagle,  whose  young 

gaze 
Feeds    on    the    noontide    beam,   whose 

golden  plume 
Floats  moveless  on  the  storm,  and  in  the 

blaze 
Of  sunrise  gleams  when  earth  is  wrapped 

in  gloom ; 
An  epitajili  of  glory  for  the  tomb 
Of  murdered  Europe  may  thy  fame  be 

made, 


Great  People  !  as  the  sands  shalt  thou 
become ; 

Thy  growth  is  swift  as  morn  when  night 
must  fade; 
The  multitudinous   Earth  shall  sleep  be- 
neath thy  shade. 

XXIV 

*  Yes,  in  the  desert  there  is  built  a  home 
For  Freedom.      Genius  is  made  strong 

to  rear 
The    monuments  of    man  beneath   the 

dome 
Of  a  new  Heaven;    myriads   assemble 

there. 
Whom  the  proud  lords  of  man,  in  rage 

Of  fear. 
Drive  from  their  wasted  homes.      The 

boon  I  pray 
Is  this  —  that  Cythna  shall  be  convoyed 

there,  — 
Nay,  start  not  at  the  name  —  America  ! 
And  then  to  you  this  night  Laon  will  I 

betray. 

XXV 

'With  me  do  what  ye  will.     I  am  vour 

foe  ! ' 
The   light  of  such  a  joy  as  makes  the 

stare 
Of  hungry  snakes  like  living  emeralds 

glow 
Shone    in   a    hundred    human    eyes. — 

'  Where,  where 
Is  Laon  ?  haste  !  fly  !  drag  him  swiftly 

here  ! 
W^e  grant  thy  boon.'  —  *  I  put  no  trust 

in  ye, 
Swear  by  the  Power  ye  dread.'  —  *  We 

swear,  we  swear  ! ' 
The   Stranger  threw  his  vest  back  sud- 
denly, 
And  smiled  in  gentle  pride,  and  said,  '  Lo  ! 

I  am  he  ! ' 


CANTO  TWELFTH 


The  transport  of  a  fierce  and  monstrous 

gladness 
Spread  through  the  multitudinous  streets, 

fast  flying 
Upon  the  winds  of  fear;  from  his  dull 

madness 


13° 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


The  starveling  waked,  and  died  in  joy; 

the  dying, 
Among  the  corpses  in  stark  agony  lying, 
Just  heard   the   happy  tidings,  and  in 

hope 
Closed  their  faint  eyes;  from  house   to 

house  replying 
With   loud   acclaim,   the    living    shook 

Heaven's  cope. 
And  filled  the  startled  Earth  with  echoes. 

Morn  did  ope 


Its  pale  eyes  then;    and  lo !   the  long 

array 
Of  guards  in  golden  arms,  and  Priests 

beside,  , 

Singing  their  bloody  hymns,  whose  garbs 

betray 
The  blackness  of  the  faith  it  seems  to 

hide; 
And     see   the    Tyrant's     gem-wrought 

chariot  glide 
Among  the  gloomy  cowls  and  glittering 

spears  — 
A  Shape  of  light  is  sitting  by  his  side, 
A   child  most  beautiful.     I'   the  midst 

appears 
LaoD  —  exempt  alone  from  mortal  hopes 

and  fears. 

Ill 
His  head  and  feet  are  bare,  his   hands 

are  bound 
Behind  with  heavy  chains,  yet  none  do 

wreak 
Their    scoffs   on    him,   though  myriads 

throng  around; 
There  are  no  sneers  upon  his  lip  which 

speak 
That  scorn  or  hate  has  made  him  bold; 

his  cheek 
Resolve  has  not  turned  pale;  his  eyes  are 

mild 
And  calm,  and,  like  the  morn  about  to 

break, 
Smile  on  mankind;  his  heart  seems  re- 
conciled 
To   all   things  and   itself,  like  a  reposing 

child. 


Tumult  was  in  the  soul  of  all  beside, 
111  joy,  or  doubt,  or  fear;  but  those  who 
saw 


Their  tranquil  victim  pass  felt  wonder 
glide 

Into  their  brain,  and  became  calm  with 
awe.  — 

See,  the  slow  pageant  near  the  pile  doth 
draw. 

A  thousand  torches  in  the  spacious 
square, 

Borne  by  the  ready  slaves  of  ruthless  law, 

Await  the  signal  round ;  the  morning  fair 
Is  changed  to  a  dim  night  by  that  unnat- 
ural glare. 


And  see  !  beneath  a  sun-bright  canopy, 
Upon  a  platform  level  with  the  pile. 
The   anxious  Tyrant  sit,  enthroned  on 

high, 
Girt  by  the  chieftains  of  the  host;  all 

smile 
In  expectation  but  one  child:  the  while 
I,  Laon,  led  by  mutes,  a.scend  my  bier 
Of  fire,  and  look  around ;  —  each  distant 

isle 
Is  dark  in  the  bright  dawn;  towers  far 

and  near 
Pierce  like  reposing  flames  the  tremulous 

atmosphere. 

VI 

There  was  such  silence  through  the  host 

as  when 
An  earthquake,  trampling  on  some  popu- 
lous town. 
Has  crushed  ten  thousand  with  one  tread, 

and  men 
Expect  the  second;  all  were  mute  but 

one. 
That  fairest  child,  who,  bold  with  love, 

alone 
Stood  up  before  the  king,  without  avail. 
Pleading   for   Laon's   life  —  her   stifled 

groan 
Was  heard  —  she  trembled  like  one  aspen 

pale 
Among  the  gloomy  pines  of  a  Norwegian 

vale. 

VII 

What  were  his   thoughts  linked  in  the 

morning  sun. 
Among    those    reptiles,    stingless    with 

delay. 
Even  like  a  tyrant's  wrath? — the  sig- 

nal-ffuu 


CANTO   TWELFTH 


131 


Roared  —  hark,   agaiu  I    in   that  dread 

pause  he  lay 
As  in  a  quiet  dream  —  the  slaves  obey  — 
A  thousand   torches  drop,  —  and   hark, 

the  last 
Bursts  on  that  awful  silence ;  far  away 
Millions,  with  hearts  that  beat  both  loud 

and  fast, 
Watch  for  the  springing  flame  expectant 

and  aghast. 

VIII 

They  fly  —  the   torches  fall  —  a  cry  of 

fear 
Has  startled    the    triumphant !  —  they 

recede  ! 
For,  ere  the  cannon's  roar  has  died,  they 

hear 
The  tramp  of  hoofs  like  earthquake,  and 

a  steed 
Dark  and  gigantic,  with   the   tempest's 

speed. 
Bursts   through   their   ranks;   a  woman 

sits  thereon. 
Fairer  it  seems   than  aught  that  earth 

can  breed. 
Calm,  radiant,  like  the  phantom  of  the 

dawn, 
A  spirit  from  the  caves  of  daylight  wan- 
dering gone. 


All  thought  it  was  God's  Angel  come  to 

sweep 
The  lingering  guilty  to  their  fiery  grave; 
The  Tyrant  from  his  throne  in  dread  did 

leap,  — 
Her  innocence  his  child  from  fear  did 

save ; 
Scared  by  the  faith  they  feigned,  each 

priestly  slave 
Knelt  for  His  mercy  whom  they  served 

with  blood, 
And,   like   the   refluenoe    of    a    mighty 

wave 
Sucked  into  the  lond  sea,  the  multitude 
With  crushing  panic  fled  in  terror's  altered 

mood. 


They  pause,  they  blush,  they  gaze;  a 
gathering  shout 

Bursts  like  one  sound  from  the  ten  thou- 
sand streams 

Of  a  tempestuous  sea;  that  sudden  rout 


One  checked  who  never  in  his  mildest 

dreams 
Felt  awe  from  grace  or  loveliness,  the 

seams 
Of  his  rent  heart  so  hard  and  cold  a  creed 
Had  seared  with  blistering  ice;  but  he 

misdeems 
That  he  is  wise  whose  wounds  do  only 

bleed 
Inly  for  self,  —  thus  thought  the  Iberian 

Priest  indeed, 


And  others,  too,  thought  he  was  wise  to 

see 
In  pain,  and  fear,  and  hate,  something 

divine  — 
In  love  and  beauty,  no  divinity. 
Now  with  a  bitter  smile,  whose  light  did 

shine 
Like  a  fiend's  hope   upon  his  lipa  and 

eyne, 
He  said,  and  the  persuasion  of  that  sneer 
Rallied  his  trembling  comrades  —  'Is  it 

mine 
To  stand  alone,  when  kings  and  soldiers 

fear 
A   woman  ?     Heaven   has   sent    its   other 

victim  here.' 

XII 

*  Were  it  not  impious,'  said  the  King,  '  to 

break 
Our  holy  oath  ?  '  — '  Impious  to  keep  it, 

.say!' 
Shrieked  the  exulting  Priest :  —  *  Slaves, 

to  the  stake 
Bind  her,  and  on  my  head  the  burden  lay 
Of  her  just  torments;  at  the  Judgment 

Day 
Will  I  stand  up  before  the  golden  throne 
Of  Heaven,  and  cry,  —  "  To  Thee  did  I 

betray 
An  infidel !  but  for  me  she  would  have 

known  > 

Another   moment's   joy ! "    the    glory    be 

thine  own.' 


They    trembled,   but    replied    not,   nor 

obej'ed. 
Pausing   in   breathless  silence.     Cytlma 

sprung 
From   her   gigantic   steed,  who,   like   a 

shade 


'32 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


Chased  by  the  winds,  those  vacant  streets 

among 
Fled   tameless,  as  the  brazen  rein  she 

flung 
Upon  his  neck,  and  kissed  his  mooned 

brow. 
A  piteous  sight,  that  one  so  fair  and 

young 
The  clasp  of  such  a  fearful  death  should 

woo 
With  smiles  of  tender  joy  as  beamed  from 

Cythna  now. 

XIV 
The  warm  tears  burst  in  spite  of  faith 

and  fear 
From  many  a  tremulous  eye,  but,  like 

soft  dews 
Which  feed  spring's  earliest  buds,  hung 

gathered  there, 
Frozen  by  doubt,  —  alas  !  they  could  not 

choose 
But  weep;  for,  when  her  faint  limbs  did 

refuse 
To  climb  the  pyre,  upon  the  mutes  she 

smiled ; 
And  with  her  eloquent  gestures,  and  the 

hues 
Of  her  quick  lips,  even  as  a  weary  child 
Wins  sleep  from  some  fond  nurse  with  its 

caresses  mild, 

XV 

She  won  them,  though  unwilling,  her  to 

bind 
Near  me,  among  the  snakes.   When  then 

had  fled 
One  soft  reproach  that  was  most  thrilling 

kind. 
She  smiled  on  me,  and  nothing  then  we 

said, 
But  each  upon  the  other's  countenance 

fed 
Looks  of  insatiate  love;  the  mighty  veil 
Which  doth  divide  'the  living  and  the 

dead 
Was  almost  rent,  the  world  grew  dim 

and  pale  — 
Ail  light  in  Heaven  or  Earth  beside  our 

love  did  fail. 

XVI 
Yet  —  yet  —  one  brief  relapse,  like  the 

last  beam 
Of  dying  flames,  the  stainless  air  around 


Hung  silent  and  serene  —  a  blood-red 

gleam 
Burst  upwards,  hurling  fiercely  from  the 

ground 
The  globM  smoke;  I  heard  the  mighty 

sound 
Of  its  ujirise,  like  a  tempestuous  ocean ; 
And,  through  its  chasms  I  saw,  as  in  a 

SWOHUd, 

The  Tyrant's  child  fall  without  life  or 
motion 
Before  his  tlirone,  subdued  by  some  unseen 
emotion.  — 

xvri 

And  is  this  death  ?  —  The  pyre  has  dis- 
appeared. 
The    Pestilence,   the    Tyrant,    and    the 

throng; 
The  flames  grow  silent  —  slowly  there  is 

heard 
The  music  of  a  breath-suspending  song, 
Which,  like  the  kiss  of  love  when  life  is 

young, 
Steeps  the  faint  eyes  in  darkness  sweet 

and  deep; 
With  ever-changing  notes  it  floats  along. 
Till  on  my  passive  soul  there  seemed  to 

creep 
A  melody,  like  waves  on  wrinkled  sands 

that  leap. 

XVIII 

The  warm  touch  of  a  soft  and  tremulous 

hand 
Wakened  me  then;  lo,  Cythna  sate  re- 
clined 
Beside  me,  on  the  waved  and  golden  sand 
Of  a  clear  pool,  upon  a  bank  o'ertwined 
With   strange    and    star-bright    flowers 

which  to  the  wind 
Breathed  divine  odor;   high  above  was 

spread 
The  cn)era]d  heaven  of  trees  of  unknown 

kind, 
Whose  moonlike  blooms  and  bright  fruit 

overhead 
A  shadow,  which  was  light,  upon  the  waters 

shed. 


And  round  about  sloped  many  a  lawny 

mountain 
With   incense-bearing  forests  and  vast 

caves 


CANTO  TWELFTH 


^33 


Of  marble  radiance,  to  that  mighty  foun- 
tain; 
And,  where  the  flood  its  own  bright  mar- 
gin laves, 
Their  echoes  talk  with  its  eternal  waves. 
Which  from    the   depths   whose   jagged 

caverns  breed 
Their  unreposing  strife  it  lifts  and  heaves, 
Till  through  a  chasm  of  hills  they  roll, 
and  feed 
A  river  deep,  which  flies  with  smooth  but 
arrowy  speed. 


As  we  sate  gazing  in  a  trance  of  wonder, 
A  boat  approached,  borne  by  the  musical 

air 
Along  the  waves  which  sung  and  sparkled 

under 
Its  rapid  keel.     A  wingfed   Shape  sate 

there, 
A   child   with    silver-shining   wings,    so 

fair 
That,  as  her  bark  did  through  the  waters 

glide. 
The  shadow  of  the  lingering  waves  did 

wear 
Light,  as  from  starry  beams;  from  side 

to  side 
While  veering  to  the  wind  her  plumes  the 

bark  did  guide. 

XXI 

The  boat  was  one  curved  shell  of  hollow 

pearl. 
Almost  translucent  with  the  light  divine 
Of  her  within;  the  prow  and  stern  did 

curl, 
Horned  on  high,  like  the  young  moon 

supine, 
When  o'er  dim  twilight  mountains  dark 

with  pine 
It  floats  upon  the  sunset's  sea  of  beams, 
Whose  golden  waves  in  many  a  purple 

line 
Fade  fast,  till,  borne  on  sunlight's  ebbing 

streams. 
Dilating,  on  earth's  verge  the  sunken  me- 
teor gleams. 

XXII 

Its  keel  has  struck  the  sands  beside  our 

feet. 
Then  Cythna  turned  to  me,  and  from  her 

eyes, 


Which  swam  with  unshed  tears,  a  look 
more  sweet 

Than  happy  love,  a  wild  and  glad  sur- 
prise, 

Glanced  as  she  spake:  '  Ay,  this  is  Para- 
dise 

And  not  a  dream,  and  we  are  all  united  I 

Lo,  that  is  miue  own  child,  who  in  the 
guise 

Of  madness  came,  like  day  to  one  be- 
nighted 
In  lonesome  woods;  my  heart  is  now  too 
well  requited  I  * 

XXIII 

And  then  she  wept  aloud,  and  in  her  arms 
Clasped  that  bright  Shape,  less  marvel- 
lously fair 
Than  her  own  human  hues  and   living 

cliarms, 
Which,  as  she  leaned  in  passion's  silence 

there, 
Breathed  warmth  on  the  cold  bosom  of 

the  air. 
Which  seemed  to  blush  and  tremble  with 

delight; 
The  glossy  darkness  of  her  streaming  hair 
Fell  o'er  that  snowy  child,  and  wrapped 

from  sight 
The  fond  and  long  embrace  which  did  their 

hearts  unite. 

XXIV 
Then     the    bright     child,    the    plunifed 

Seraph,  came, 
And  fixed  its  blue  and  beaming  eyes  on 

mine. 
And  said,  *  I  was  disturbed  by  tremulous 

shame 
When  once  we  met,  yet  knew  that  I  was 

thine 
From  the  same  hour  in  which  thy  lips 

divine 
Kindled   a   clinging  dream   within    my 

brain, 
Wliieh  ever  waked  when  I  might  sleep, 

to  twine 
Thine     image   with   her  memory   dear; 

again 
We  meet,  exempted  now  from  mortal  fear 

or  pain. 

XXV 

'  When  the  consuming  flames  had  wrapped 
ye  round. 


«34 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 


The  hope  whiuh   I   bad  cherished  went 

away; 
I  fell  iu  agony  on  the  senseless  ground, 
And  hid  mine  eyes  iu  dust,  and  far  astray 
My  mind  was   gone,  when    bright,  like 

dawniug  day. 
The  Specti-e  of  the  Plague  before  me  flew, 
And  breathed  upon  my  lips,  and  seemed 

to  say, 
"  They  wait  for  thee,  belovM  !  "  —  then 

I  knew 
The  deatli-mark  ou  my  breast,  and  became 

calm  anew. 

XXVI 

*  It   was  the   calm  of  love  —  for  I  was 

dying- 
I  saw  the  black  and   half-extinguished 

pyre 
In   its   own   gray  and   shrunken   ashes 

lying; 

The  pitchy  smoke  of  the  departed  fire 
Still  hung  in  many  a  hollow  dome  and 

spire 
Above  the  towers,  like  night,  —  beneath 

whose  shade, 
Awed  b}'  the  ending  of  their  own  desire, 
The  armies  stood ;  a  vacancy  was  made 
In  expectation's  depth,  and  so  they  stood 

dismayed. 

xxvil 

•  The  frightful  silence  of  that  altered  mood 
Tlie  tortures  of  the  dying  clove  alone, 
Till  one  uprose  among  the  multitude, 
And  said  —  "  The  flood  of  time  is  rolling 

on; 

We  stand  upon  its  brink,  whilst  they  are 
gone 

To  glide  iji  peace  down  death's  myste- 
rious stream. 

Have  ye  done  well  ?  they  moulder,  flesh 
and  bone, 

Who  might  have  made  this  life's  enven- 
omed dream 
A  sweeter  draught  than  ye  will  ever  taste, 
I  deem. 

XXVIII 

• "  These  perish  as  the  good  and  great  of 

yore 
Have  perished,  and  their  mnrderers  will 

repent ; 
Yes,  vain  and  barren  tears  shall  flow 

before 


Yon  smoke  has  faded  from   the  firmar 

meut. 
Even  for  this  cause,  that  ye,  who  must 

lament 
The  death  of  those  that  made  this  world 

so  fair, 
Cannot  recall  them  now;  but  then  is  lent 
To  man  the  wisdom  of  a  high  despair, 
When  such  cau  die,  and  he   live   on  and 

linger  here. 

XXIX 

'  "  Ay,  ye  may  fear  not  now  the  Pestilence, 

From  fabled   hell  as  by  a  charm  with- 
doawn; 

All   power  and   faith  must  pass,  since 
calmly  hence 

In  pain  and  fire  have  unbelievers  gone; 

And  ye  must  sadly  turn  away,  and  moan 

In  secret,  to  his  home  each  one  returning; 

And    to   long   ages   shall   this   hour   be 
known, 

And  slowly  shall  its  memory,  ever  burn- 
ing. 
Fill   this   dark   night   of    things    with   an 
eternal  morning. 

XXX 

' "  For  me  that  world  is  grown  too  void 

and  cold. 
Since  hope  pursues  immortal  destiny 
With  steps   thus  slow  —  therefore  shall 

ye  behold 
How  those  who  love,  yet  fear  not,  dar» 

to  die; 
Tell  to  your  children  this!  "then  suddenly 
He  sheathed  a  dagger  in  his  heart,  and 

fell; 
My  brain  grew  dark  in  death,  and  yet  to 

me 
There  came  a  murmur  from  the  crowd 

to  tell 
Of  deep  and  mighty  change  which  suddenly 
befell. 

XXXI 

'  Then  suddenly  I  stood,  a  wingM  Thought, 
Before  the  immortal  Senate,  and  the  seat 
Of   that   star-shining   Spirit,  whence   is 

wrought 
The  strength  of  its  dominion,  good  and 

great, 
The  Better  Genius  of  this  world's  estate. 
His  realm  around  one  mighty   Fane   is 

spread, 


CANTO   TWELFTH 


135 


Elysian  islands  bright  and  fortunate, 
Calm  dwellings  of  the  free  and  happy 

dead, 
Where  I  am  sent  to  lead  I '    These  winged 

words  she  said, 

XXXII 

And   with   the  silence  of  her  eloquent 

smile, 
Bade  us  embark  in  her  divine  canoe; 
Then  at  the  helm  we  took  our  seat,  the 

while 
Above  her  head  those  plumes  of  dazzling 

hue 
Into    the   winds'    invisible    stream    she 

threw. 
Sitting  beside  the  prow;  like  gossamer 
On  the  swift  breath  of  morn  the  vessel 

flew 
O'er  the  bright  whirlpools  of  that  foun- 
tain fair. 
Whose  shores  receded  fast  while  we  seemed 

lingering  there; 

XXXIII 

Till  down  that  mighty  stream  dark,  calm 

and  fleet, 
Between  a  chasm  of  cedam  mountains 

riven, 
Chased  by  the   thronging  winds   whose 

viewless  feet, 
As  swift  as  twinkling  beams,  had  under 

Heaven 
From  woods  and  waves  wild  sounds  and 

odors  driven. 
The  boat  fled  visibly;  three  nights  and 

days, 
Borne  like  a  cloud  through  mom,  and 

noon,  and  even. 
We  sailed  along  the  winding  watery  ways 
Of  the  vast  stream,  a  long  and  labyrinthine 

maze. 

XXXIV 

A  scene  of  joy  and  wonder  to  behold,  — 

That  river's  shapes  and  shadows  chang- 
ing ever, 

Where  the  broad  sunrise  filled  with 
deepening  gold 

Its  whirlpools  where  all  hues  did  spread 
and  quiver; 

And  wliere  melodious  falls  did  burst  and 
shiver 

Among  rocks  clad  with  flowers,  the  foam 
and  spray 


Sparkled  like  stars  upon  the  sunny  river; 
Or,  when  the  moonlight  poured  a  holier 

day. 
One  vast  and  glittering  lake  around  green 

islands  lay. 

XXXV 
Morn,  noon  and  even,  that  boat  of  pearl 

outran 
The   streams   which   bore    it,   like    the 

arrowy  cloud 
Of  tempest,  or  the  speedier  thought  of 

man. 
Which   flieth    forth  and  cannot    make 

abode ; 
Sometimes    through   forests,   deep  like 

night,  we  glode, 
Between  the  walls  of  mighty  mountains 

crowned 
With    Cyclopean    piles,    whose    turrets 

proud, 
The     homes    of     the    departed,    dimly 

frowned 
O'er  the  bright  waves  which  girt  their  dark 

foundations  round. 

XXXVI 

Sometimes  between  the  wide  and  flow- 
ering meadows 
Mile   after   mile    we   sailed,  and   't  was 

delight 
To  see  far  off  the  sunbeams  chase  the 

shadows 
Over  the  grass;  sometimes  beneath  the 

night 
Of  wide  and  vaulted  caves,  whose  roofs 

were  bright 
With  starry  gems,  we  fled,  whilst  from 

their  deep 
And  dark  green  chasms  shades  beautiful 

and  white. 
Amid  sweet  sounds  across  our  path  would 

sweep, 
Like  swift  and  lovely  dreams  that  walk  the 

waves  of  sleep. 

XXXVII 

And  ever  as  we  sailed,  our  minds  were 
full 

Of  love  and  wisdom,  which  would  over- 
flow 

In  converse  wild,  and  sweet,  and  won- 
derful; 

And  in  quick  smiles  whose  light  would 
come  and  go, 


136 


ROSALIND   AND    HELEN 


Like  music  o'er  wide  waves,  and  in  the 
flow 

Of  sudden  tears,  and  in  the  route  caress; 

For  a  deep  shade  was  cleft,  and  we  did 
know, 

That  virtue,  though  obscured  on  Earth, 
not  less 
Survives  all  mortal  change  in  lasting  love- 
liness. 

XXXVIII 

Three  days  and  nights  we  sailed,  as 
thought  and  feeling 

Number  delightful  hours  —  for  through 
the  sky 

The  sphered  lamps  of  day  and  night,  re- 
vealing 

New  changes  and  new  glories,  rolled  on 
high, 

Sun,  Moon  and  moonlike  lamps,  the 
progeny 

Of  a  diviner  Heaven,  serene  and  fair; 

On  the  fourth  day,  wild  as  a  wind- 
wrought  sea 

The  stream  became,  and  fast  and  faster 
bare 
The  spirit-winged  boat,  steadily  speeding 
there. 

XXXIX 

Steady  and  swift,  where  the  waves  rolled 
like  mountains 

Within  the  vast  ravine,  whose  rifts  did 
pour 

Tumultuous  floods  from  their  ten  thou- 
sand fountains, 

The  thunder  of  whose  earth-uplifting 
roar 

Made  the  air  sweep  in  whirlwinds  from 
the  shore, 


Calm  as  a  shade,  the  boat  of  that  fair 

child 
Seciu-ely  fled  that  rapid  stress  before, 
Amid   the   topmost  spray  and  sunbows 

wild 
Wreathed  in   the  silver  mist;  in  joy  and 

pride  we  smiled. 


The  torrent  of  that  wide  and  raging  river 

Is  passed,  and  our  aerial  speed  suspended. 

We  look  behind;  a  golden  mist  did  quiver 

When  its  wild  surges  with  the  lake  were 
blended ; 

Our  bark  hung  there,  as  on  a  line  sus- 
pended 

Between   two  heavens,  —  that  windless, 
waveless  lake. 

Which  four  great  cataracts   from   four 
vales,  attended 

By   mists,    aye    feed;    from   rocks   and 
clouds  they  break, 
And  of  that  azure  sea  a  silent  refuge  make. 


Motionless  resting  on  the  lake  awhile, 
I  saw  its  marge  of  snow-bright  moun- 
tains rear 
Their  peaks  aloft;   I  saw  each  radiant 

isle; 
And  in  the  midst,  afar,  even  like  a  sphere 
Hung  in  one  hollow  sky,  did  there  ap- 
pear 
The  Temple  of  the  Spirit;  on  the  sound 
Which  issued  thence  drawn  nearer  and 

more  near 
Like  the  swift  moon  this  glorious  earth 
around. 
The  charmed  boat  approached,  and  there 
its  haven  found. 


ROSALIND   AND   HELEN 
A   MODERN    ECLOGUE 


Rosalind  and  Helen  was  beg'un  at  Marlow  as 
early  as  the  summer  of  1817,  and  wa.s  suffi- 
ciently far  advanced  to  lead  Shelley  to  send 
copy  to  the  publisher  just  before  leaving 
England  in  March,  1818 ;  it  was  finished  in 
August,  at  the  Baths  of  Lucca,  and  published 
in  the  spring  of  1819.  Shelley's  original  Ad- 
vertisement to  the  volume,  dated  Naples,  De- 
cember 20,  1818,  opens  with  the  following : 

'The   story   of  Rosalind  and  Helen  is,  un- 


doubtedly, not  an  attempt  in  the  highest  style 
of  poetry.  It  is  in  no  degree  calculated  to 
excite  profound  meditation ;  and  if,  by  inter- 
esting the  affections  and  amusing  the  imagin- 
ation, it  awaken  a  certain  ideal  melancholy 
favorable  to  the  reception  of  more  important 
impressions,  it  will  produce  in  the  reader  all 
that  the  writer  experienced  in  the  composition. 
I  resigned  myself,  as  I  MTote,  to  the  impulse 
of  the  feelings  which  moulded  the  conception 


ROSALIND   AND   HELEN 


137 


of  the  story ;  and  this  impulse  determined  the 
pauses  of  a  measure,  which  only  pretends  to 
be  regular  inasmuch  as  it  corresponds  with, 
and  expresses,  the  irregularity  of  the  imagin- 
ations which  inspired  it.' 

The  feelings  here  spoken  of '  which  moulded 
the  conception  of  the  story  '  were  suggested,  in 
part,  by  the  relation  of  Mrs.  Shelley  with  a 
friend  of  her  girlhood,  Isabel  Baxter,  who  fell 
away  from  her  early  attachment  in  consequence 
of  Mrs.  Shelley's  flight  with  Shelley  in  July, 
1814,  and  was  afterward  reconciled  with  her. 
(Dowden,  Life,  ii.  130,  131.)  Forman  (Type 
Facsimile  of  the  original  edition,  Shelley  Soci- 
ety's Publications,  Second  Series,  No.  17,  In- 
troduction) discusses  the  matter  at  length, 
together  with  the  reflection  of  political  events 
in  England  possibly  to  be  detected  in  the 
poem.  Shelley  wrote  to  Peacock.  '  I  lay  no 
stress  on  it  one  way  or  the  other.'  Mrs. 
Shelley's  note  develops  the  reason  for  this 
indifference  : 

'  Rosalind  and  Helen  was  begun  at  Marlow, 
and  thrown  aside,  till  I  found  it ;  and,  at  my 


request,  it  was  completed.  Shelley  had  no 
care  for  any  of  his  poems  that  did  not  ema- 
nate from  the  depths  of  his  mind,  and  develop 
some  high  or  abstruse  truth.  When  he  does 
touch  on  human  life  and  the  human  heart,  no 
pictures  can  be  more  faithful,  more  delicate, 
more  subtle,  or  more  pathetic.  He  never  men- 
tioned Love,  but  he  shed  a  gprace,  borrowed 
from  his  own  nature,  that  scarcely  any  other 
poet  has  bestowed  on  that  passion.  When  he 
spoke  of  it  as  the  law  of  life,  which  inasmuch 
as  we  rebel  against,  we  err  and  injure  ouraelves 
.and  others,  he  promulgated  that  which  he  con- 
sidered an  irrefragable  truth.  In  his  eyes  it 
was  the  essence  of  our  being,  and  all  woe  and 
pain  arose  from  the  war  made  against  it  by 
selfishness,  or  insensibility,  or  mistake.  By 
reverting  in  his  mind  to  this  first  principle,  he 
discovered  the  source  of  many  emotions,  and 
could  disclose  the  secrets  of  all  hearts,  and  his 
delineations  of  passion  and  emotion  touch  the 
finest  chords  in  our  nature.  Rosalind  and  Hehn 
was  finished  during  the  summer  of  1818,  while 
we  were  at  the  Baths  of  Lucca.' 


ROSALIND  AND    HELEN 

RosAUNB,  Helen,  and  her  Child. 
Scene.     The  Shore  of  the  Lake  of  Como. 

HELEN 

Come  hither,  my  sweet  Rosalind. 

'T  is  long  since  thou  and  I  have  met; 

And  yet  methinks  it  were  unkind 

Those  moments  to  forget. 

Come,  sit  by  me.     I  see  thee  stand 

By  this  lone  lake,  in  this  far  land, 

Thy  loose  hair  in  the  light  wind  flying, 

Thy  sweet  voice  to  each  tone  of  even 

United,  and  thine  eyes  replying 

To  the  hues  of  yon  fair  heaven.  10 

Come,  gentle  friend  !  wilt  sit  by  me  ? 

And  be  as  thou  wert  wont  to  be 

Ere  we  were  disunited  ? 

None  doth  behold  us  now;  the  power 

That  led  us  forth  at  this  lone  hour 

Will  be  bnt  ill  requited 

If  thou  depart  in  scorn.     Oh,  come, 

And  talk  of  our  abandoned  home  ! 

Remember,  this  is  Italy, 

And  we  are  exiles.     Talk  with  me  20 

Of  that  our  land,  whose  wilds  and  floods. 

Barren  and  dark  although  they  be. 

Were  dearer  than  these  chestnut  woods; 

Those  heathy  paths,  that  inland  stream. 

And  the  blue  mountains,  shapes  which  seem 

Like  wrecks  of  childhood's  sunny  dream; 


Which  that  we  have  abandoned  now. 
Weighs  on  the  heart  like  that  remorse 
Which  altered  friendship  leaves.     I  seek 
No  more  our  youthful  intercourse.  30 

That  cannot  be  !     Rosalind,  speak, 
Speak  to  me  !   Leave  me  not !    When  morn 

did  come. 
When  evening  fell  upon  our  common  home. 
When   for  one  hour  we  parted,  —  do  not 

frown; 
I  would  not  chide  thee,  though  thy  faith  is 

broken ; 
But  turn  to  me.     Oh!    by   this  cherished 

token 
Of  woven  hair,  which  thou  wilt  not  disown, 
Turn,  as  't  were  but  the  memory  of  me, 
And  not  myscornfed  self  who  prayed  to  thee ! 

ROSALIND 
Is  it  a  dream,  or  do  I  see  40 

And  hear  frail  Helen  ?     I  would  flee 
Thy  tainting  touch;  but  former  years 
Arise,  and  bring  forbidden  tears; 
And  my  o'erburdened  memory 
Seeks  yet  its  lost  repose  in  thee. 
I  share  thy  crime.     I  cannot  choose 
But  weep  for  thee;  mine  own  strange  grief 
But  seldom  stoops  to  such  relief; 
Nor  ever  did  I  love  thee  less. 
Though  mourning  o'er  thy  wickedness      50 
Even  with  a  sister's  woe.     I  knew 
What  to  the  evil  world  b  due, 


138 


ROSALIND   AND   HELEN 


And  therefore  sternly  did  refuse 
To  link  me  with  the  infamy 
Of  one  so  lost  as  Helen.     Now, 
Bewildered  by  my  dire  despair, 
Wondering  I  blush,  and  weep  that  thou 
Sbouldst    love    me    still  —  thou    only  !  — 

There, 
Let  us  sit  on  that  gray  stone 
Till  our  mournful  talk  be  done.  60 


Alas  !  not  there;  I  cannot  bear 

The  murmur  of  this  lake  to  hear. 

A  sound  from  there,  Rosalind  dear, 

Which  never  yet  I  heard  elsewhere 

But  in  our  native  land,  recurs. 

Even  here  where  now  we  meet.     It  stirs 

Too  much  of  suffocating  sorrow  ! 

In  the  dell  of  j'on  dark  chestnut  wood 

Is  a  stone  seat,  a  solitude 

Less  like  our  own.     The  ghost  of  peace  70 

Will  not  desert  this  spot.     To-morrow, 

If  thy  kind  feelings  should  not  cease. 

We  may  sit  here. 

ROSALIND 

Thou  lead,  my  sweet. 
And  I  will  follow. 

HENRY 

'T  is  Fenici's  seat 
Where  you  are  going?     Tins  is  not  the 

way, 
Mamma;  it  leads  behind  those  trees  that 

grow 
Close  to  the  little  river. 


Yes,  I  know; 
I  was  bewildered.     Kiss  me  and  be  gay. 
Dear  boy ;  why  do  you  sob  ? 


I  do  not  know; 
But  it  might  break  any  one's  heart  to  see  80 
You  and  the  lady  cry  so  bitterly. 

HELEN 

It  is  a  gentle  child,  my  friend.     Go  home, 
Henry,  and  play  with  Lilla  till  I  come. 
We  only  cried  with  joy  to  see  each  other; 
We  are  quite  merry  now.     Good  night. 

The  boy 
Lifted  a  sudden  look  tipon  his  mother, 


And,  in  the  gleam  of  forced  and  hollow 

joy 
Which  lightened  o'er  her  face,  laughed  with 

the  glee 
Of  light  and  unsuspecting  infancy. 
And  whispered  in  her  ear,  'Bring  home 

with  you  90 

That  sweet  strange  lady-friend.'    Then  off 

he  flew. 
But  stopped,  and  beckoned  with  a  meaning 

smile. 
Where   the   road   turned.     Pale  Eosalind 

the  while. 
Hiding  her  face,  stood  weeping  silently. 

In  silence  then  they  took  the  way 
Beneath  the  forest's  solitude. 
It  was  a  vast  and  antique  wood, 
Through  which  they  took  their  way; 
And  the  gray  shades  of  evening 
O'er  that  green  wilderness  did  fling  100 

Still  deeper  solitude. 
Pursuing  still  the  path  that  wound 
The  vast  and  knotted  trees  around. 
Through  which  slow  shades  were  wander- 
ing. 
To  a  deep  lawny  dell  they  came, 
To  a  stone  seat  beside  a  spring, 
O'er  which  the  columned  wood  did  frame 
A  roofless  temple,  like  the  fane 
Where,   ere   new  creeds   could   faith   ob- 
tain, 
Man's  early  race  once  knelt  beneath        no 
The  overhanging  deity. 
O'er  this  fair  fountain  hung  the  sky, 
Now  spangled  with  rare  stars.    The  snake, 
The  pale  snake,  that  with  eager  breath 
Creeps  here  his  noontide  thirst  to  slake, 
Is  beaming  with  many  a  mingled  hue, 
Shed  from  yon  dome's  eternal  blue. 
When   he   floats  on  that  dark  and   lucid 

flood 
In  the  light  of  his  own  loveliness; 
And  the  birds,  that  in  the  fountain  dip    izo 
Their  plumes,  with  fearless  fellowship 
Above  and  round  him  wheel  and  hover. 
The  fitful  wind  is  heard  to  stir 
One  solitary  leaf  on  high; 
The  chirping  of  the  grasshopper 
Fills  every  pause.     There  is  emotion 
In  all  that  dwells  at  noontide  here; 
Then  through  the  intricate  wild  wood 
A  maze  of  life  and  light  and  motion 
Is  woven.    But  there  is  stillness  now  —  ijo 
Gloom,  and  the  trance  of  Nature  now. 


ROSALIND  AND  HELEN' 


»39 


The  snake  is  in  his  cave  asleep; 

The  birds  are  on  the  branches  dreaming; 

Only  the  shadows  creep; 

Only  the  glow-worm  is  gleaming; 

Only  the  owls  and  the  nightingales 

Wake  in  this  dell  when  daylight  fails, 

And  gray  shades  gather  in  the  woods; 

And  the  owls  have  all  fled  far  away 

In  a  merrier  glen  to  hoot  and  play,  140 

For  the  moon  is  veiled  and  sleeping  now. 

The  accustomed  nightingale  still  broods 

On  her  accustomed  bough, 

But  she  is  mute ;  for  her  false  mate 

Has  fled  and  left  her  desolate. 

This  silent  spot  tradition  old 
Had  peopled  with  the  spectral  dead. 
For  the  roots  of  the  speaker's  hair  felt  cold 
And  stiff,  as  with  tremulous  lips  he  told 
That  a  hellish  shape  at  midnight  led         150 
The  ghost  of  a  youth  with  hoary  hair, 
And  sate  on  the  seat  beside  him  there. 
Till  a  naked  child  came  wandering  by. 
When  the  fiend  would  change  to  a  lady 

fair  ! 
A  fearful  tale  !  the  truth  was  worse; 
For  here  a  sister  and  a  brother 
Had  solemnized  a  monstrous  curse, 
Meeting  in  this  fair  solitude; 
For  beneath  yon  very  sky. 
Had  they  resigned  to  one  another  160 

Body  and  soul.     The  multitude. 
Tracking  them  to  the  secret  wood, 
Tore  limb  from  limb  their  innocent  child, 
And  stabbed  and  trampled  on  its  mother; 
But  the  youth,  for  God's  most  holy  grace, 
A  priest  saved  to  burn  in  the  market-place. 

Duly  at  evening  Helen  came 

To  this  lone  silent  spot, 

From  the  wrecks  of  a  tale  of  wilder  sorrow 

So  much  of  sympathy  to  borrow  170 

As  soothed  her  own  dark  lot. 

Duly  each  evening  from  her  home. 

With  her  fair  child  would  Helen  come 

To  sit  upon  that  antique  seat. 

While  the  hues  of  day  were  pale; 

And  the  bright  boy  beside  her  feet 

Now  lay,  lifting  at  intervals 

His  broad  blue  eyes  on  her; 

Now,  where  some  sudden  impulse  calls, 

Following.     He  was  a  gentle  boy  180 

And  in  all  gentle  sports  took  joy. 

Oft  in  a  dry  leaf  for  a  boat. 

With  a  small  feather  for  a  sail. 


His  fancy  on  that  spring  would  float, 
If  some  invisible  breeze  might  stir 
Its  marble  calm;  and  Helen  smiled 
Through  tears  of  awe  on  the  gay  child, 
To  think  that  a  boy  as  fair  as  he. 
In  years  which  never  more  may  be. 
By  that  same  fount,  in  that  same  wood,  190 
The  like  sweet  fancies  had  pursued; 
And  that  a  mother,  lost  like  her. 
Had  mournfully  sate  watching  him. 
Then  all  the  scene  was  wont  to  swim 
Through  the  mist  of  a  burning  tear. 
For  many  months  had  Helen  known 
This  scene;  and  now  she  thither  turned 
Her  footsteps,  not  alone. 
The     friend     whose     falsehood    she     bad 

mourned 
Sate  with  her  on  that  seat  of  stone.  200 

Silent  they  sate;  for  evening. 
And  the  power  its  glimpses  bring. 
Had  with  one  awful  shadow  quelled 
The  passion  of  their  grief.     They  sate 
With  linked  hands,  for  nnrepelled 
Had  Helen  taken  Rosalind's. 
Like  the  autumn  wind,  when  it  unbinds 
The  tangled  locks  of  the  nightshade's  hair 
Which  is  twined  in  the  sultry  summer  air 
Round  the  walls  of  an  outworn  sepulchre, 
Did  the  voice  of  Helen,  sad  and  sweet,    211 
And  the  sound  of  her  heart  that  ever  beat 
As  with  sighs  and  words  she  br,eathed  ou 

her. 
Unbind  the  knots  of  her  friend's  despair. 
Till  her  thoughts  were  free  to  float  and  flow; 
And  from  her  laboring  bosom  now. 
Like  the  bursting  of  a  prisoned  flame, 
The  voice  of  a  long-pent  sorrow  came. 

ROSALIND 
I  saw  the  dark  earth  fall  upon 
The  coffin;  and  I  saw  the  stone  »2o 

Laid  over  him  whom  this  cold  breast 
Had  pillowed  to  his  nightly  rest ! 
Thou  knowest  not,  thou  canst  not  know 
My  agony.     Oh  !  I  could  not  weep. 
The  sources  whence  such  blessings  flow 
Were  not  to  be  approached  by  me  ! 
But  I  could  smile,  and  I  could  sleep. 
Though  with  a  self-accusing  heart. 
In  morning's  light,  in  evening's  gloom, 
I   watched  —  and   would   not  thence    de- 
part —  a3o 
My  husband's  unlamented  tomb. 
My  children  knew  their  sire  was  gone; 
But  when  I  told  them,  'He  is  deaid/ 


I40 


ROSALIND  AND   HELEN 


They  laughed  aloud  iu  frantic  glee, 

They  clapped  their  hands  and  leaped  about, 

Answering  each  other's  ecstasy 

With  many  a  prank  and  merry  shout. 

But  I  sate  silent  and  alone, 

Wrapped  in  the  mock  of  mourning  weed. 

They  laughed,  for  he  was  dead;  but  I      240 
Sate  with  a  hard  and  tearless  eye. 
And  with  a  heart  which  would  deny 
Tlie  secret  joy  it  could  not  quell, 
Low  muttering  o'er  his  loathM  name; 
Till  from  that  self-contention  came 
Remorse  where  sin  was  none ;  a  hell 
Which  in  pure  spirits  should  not  dwell. 

I  '11  tell  thee  truth.     He  was  a  man 

Hard,  selfish,  loving  only  gold. 

Yet  full  of  guile;  his  pale  eyes  ran  250 

With  tears  which  each  some  falsehood  told. 

And  oft  his  smooth  and  bridled  tongue 

Would  give  the  lie  to  his  flushing  cheek; 

He  was  a  coward  to  the  strong; 

He  was  a  tyrant  to  the  weak. 

On  whom  his  vengeance  he  would  wreak; 

For  scorn,  whose  arrows  search  the  heart, 

Froin  manj'  a  stranger's  eye  would  dart, 

And  on  bis  memory  cling,  and  follow 

His  soul  to  its  home  so  cold  and  hollow.  260 

He  was  a  tyrant  to  the  weak, 

And  we  were  such,  alas  the  day  ! 

Oft,  when  my  little  ones  at  play 

Were  in  youth's  natural  lightness  gay. 

Or  if  they  listened  to  some  tale 

Of  travellers,  or  of  fairyland, 

When  the  light  from  the  wood-fire's  dying 

brand 
Flashed  on  their  faces,  —  if  they  heard 
Or  thought  they  heard  upon  the  stair 
His  footstep,  the  suspended  word  270 

Died  on  my  lips;  we  all  grew  pale; 
The  babe  at  my  bosom  was  hushed  with 

fear 
If  it  thought  it  heard  its  father  near; 
And  my  two  wild  boys  would  near  my  knee 
Cling,  cowed  and  cowering  fearfully. 

I  Ml  tell  thee  truth :  I  loved  another. 
His  name  in  my  ear  was  ever  ringing. 
His  form  to  my  brain  was  ever  clinging; 
Yet,  if  some  stranger  breathed  that  name. 
My  lips  turned  wliite,  and  my  heart  beat 

fast,  280 

My  nights  were  once  haunted  by  dreams  ->£ 

flame, 


My  days  were  dim  in  the  shadow  cast 

By  the  memory  of  the  same  ! 

Day  and  night,  day  and  night. 

He  was  my  breath  and  life  and  light, 

For   three   short  years,  which  soon    were 

passed. 
On  the  fourth,  my  gentle  mother 
Led  me  to  the  shrine,  to  be 
His  sworn  bride  eternally. 
And  now  we  stood  on  the  altar  stair,        290 
When  my  father  came  from  a  distant  land, 
And  with  a  loud  and  fearful  cry 
Rushed  between  us  suddenly. 
I  saw  the  stream  of  his  thin  gray  hair, 
I  sav/  his  lean  and  lifted  hand. 
And  heard  his  words  —  and  live  !    O  God  ! 
WHierefore  do  I  live  ?  — '  Hold,  hold  ! ' 
He  cried,  '  I  tell  thee  't  is  her  brother  ! 
Thy  mother,  boy,  beneath  the  sod 
Of  yon  churchyard  rests  in  her  shroud  so 

cold ;  300 

I  am  now  weak,  and  pale,  and  old; 
We  were  once  dear  to  one  another, 
I  and  that  corpse  !     Thou  art  our  child  ! ' 
Then  with  a  laugh  both  long  and  wild 
The  youth  upon  the  pavement  fell. 
They  fotmd   him   dead  !     All   looked  on 

me. 
The  spasms  of  my  despair  to  see; 
But  I  was  calm.     I  went  away; 
I  was  clammj-cold  like  claj'. 
I  did  not  weep;  I  did  not  speak;  310 

But  day  by  day,  week  after  week, 
I  walked  about  like  a  coqjse  alive. 
Alas  !  sweet  friend,  you  must  believe 
This  heart  is  stone  —  it  did  not  break. 

My  father  lived  a  little  while. 

But  all  might  see  that  he  was  dying. 

He  smiled  with  such  a  woful  smile. 

When  he  was  in  the  churchyard  lying 

Among  the  worms,  we  grew  quite  poor, 

So  that  no  one  would  give  us  bread;        320 

My  mother  looked  at  me,  and  said 

Faint  words  of  cheer,  which  only  meant 

That  she  could  die  and  be  content; 

So  I  went  forth  from  the  same  church  door 

To  another  husband's  bed. 

And  this  was  he  who  died  at  last. 

When  weeks  and  months  and  years  had 

passed. 
Through  which  I  firmly  did  fulfil 
My  duties,  a  devoted  ^v^fe, 
Witli  the  stern  step  of  vanquished  will    330 
Walking  beneath  the  night  of  life, 


ROSALIND  AND   HELEN 


141 


Whose  hours  extinguished,  like  slow  rain 

Falling  forever,  pain  by  pain, 

The  very  hope  of  death's  dear  rest; 

Which,  since  the  heart  within  my  breast 

Of  natural  life  was  dispossessed. 

Its  strange  sustaiuer  there  had  been. 

When   flowers  were  dead,  and   grass  was 

green 
Upon  my  mother's  grave  —  that  mother 
Whom  to  outlive,  and  cheer,  and  make   340 
My  wan  eyes  glitter  for  her  sake. 
Was  ray  vowed  task,  the  single  care 
Which  once  gave  life  to  my  despair  — 
When  she  was  a  thing  that  did  not  stir, 
And  the  crawling  worms  were  cradling  her 
To  a  sleep  more  deep  and  so  more  sweet 
Than  a  baby's  rocked  on  its  nurse's  knee, 
I  lived ;  a  living  pulse  then  beat 
Beneath  my  heart  that  awakened  me. 
What  was  this  pulse  so  warm  and  free  ?  350 
Alas  !  I  knew  it  could  not  be 
My  own  dull  blood.    'Twas  like  a  thought 
Of  liquid  love,  that  spread  and  wrought 
Under  my  bosom  and  in  my  brain. 
And  crept  with  the  blood   through  every 

vein. 
And  hour  by  hour,  day  after  day, 
The  wonder  could  not  charm  away 
But  laid  in  sleep  my  wakeful  pain, 
Until  I  knew  it  was  a  child, 
And  then  I  wept.    For  long,  long  years  360 
These  frozen  eyes  had  shed  no  tears; 
But  now  —  't  was  the  season  fair  and  mild 
When  April  has  wept  itself  to  May; 
I  sate  through  the  sweet  sunny  day 
Bj  my  window  bowered  round  with  leaves, 
And  down  my  cheeks  the  quick  tears  ran 
Like  twinkling  rain-drops  from  the  eaves. 
When  warm  spring  showers  are    passing 

o'er. 

0  Helen,  none  can  ever  tell 

The  joy  it  was  to  weep  once  more  !  370 

1  wept  to  think  how  hard  it  were 
To  kill  my  babe,  and  take  from  it 
The  sense  of  light,  and  the  warm  air, 
And  my  own  fond  and  tender  care, 
And  love  and  smiles;  ere  I  knew  yet 
That  these  for  it  might,  as  for  me, 
Be  the  masks  of  a  grinning  mockery. 
And  haply,  I  would  dream,  't  were  sweet 
To  feed  it  from  ray  faded  breast. 

Or  mark  my  own  heart's  restless  beat      380 
Rock  it  to  its  untroubled  rest, 


And  watch  the  growing  soul  beneath 
Dawn  in  faint  smiles;  and  hear  its  breath, 
Half  interrupted  by  calm  sighs. 
And  search  the  depth  of  its  fair  eyes 
For  long  departed  memories  ! 
And  so  I  lived  till  that  sweet  load 
Was  lightened.     Darkly  forward  flowed 
The  stream  of  years,  and  on  it  bore 
Two  shapes  of  gladness  to  my  sight;        39c 
Two  other  babes,  delightful  more. 
In  my  lost  soul's  abandoned  night. 
Than  their  own  country  ships  may  be 
Sailing  towards  wrecked  mariners 
Who  cling  to  the  rock  of  a  wintry  sea. 
For   each,   as   it   came,    brought   soothing 

tears ; 
And  a  loosening  warmth,  as  each  one  lay 
Sucking  the  sullen  milk  away. 
About  my  frozen  heart  did  play. 
And  weaned  it,  oh,  how  pfiinfully  —        400 
As  they  themselves  were  weaned  each  one 
From   that   sweet   food  —  even   from   the 

thirst 
Of  death,  and  nothingness,  and  rest. 
Strange  inmate  of  a  living  breast. 
Which  all  that  I  had  undergone 
Of  grief  and  shame,  since  she  who  first 
The  gates  of  that  dark  refuge  closed 
Came  to  my  sight,  and  almost  burst 
The  seal  of  that  Lethean  spring  — 
But  these  fair  shadows  interposed.  410 

For  all  delights  are  shadows  now  ! 
And  from  my  brain  to  my  dull  brow 
The  heavy  tears  gather  and  flow. 
I  cannot  speak  —  oh,  let  me  weep  ! 

The  tears  which  fell  from  her  wan  eyes 
Glimmered  among  the  moonlight  dew. 
Her  deep  hard  sobs  and  heavy  sighs 
Their  echoes  in  the  darkness  threw. 
When  she  grew  calm,  she  thus  did  keep 
The  tenor  of  her  tale:  — 

He  died;        42a 
I  know  not  how;  he  was  not  old, 
If  age  be  numbered  by  its  years; 
But  he  was  bowed  and  bent  with  fears. 
Pale  with  the  quenchless  thirst  of  gold, 
Which,  like  fierce  fever,  left  him  weak; 
And  his  strait  lip  and  bloated  cheek 
Were  warped  in  spasms  by  hollow  sneers; 
And  selfish  cares  with  barren  plough, 
Not  age,  had  lined  his  narrow  brow. 
And  foul  and  cruel  thoughts,  which  feed  <3« 
Upon  the  withering  life  within. 


142 


ROSALIND   AND   HELEN 


Like  vipers  on  some  poisonous  weed. 
Whether  his  ill  were  death  or  sin 
None  knew,  until  he  died  indeed, 
And  then  men  owned  they  were  the  same. 

Seven  days  within  my  chamber  lay 
That  corse,  and  my  babes  made  holiday. 
At  last,  I  told  them  what  is  death. 
The  eldest,  with  a  kind  of  shame, 
Came  to  my  knees  with  silent  breath,      440 
And  sate  awe-stricken  at  my  feet; 
And  soon  the  others  left  their  play, 
And  sate  there  too.     It  is  unmeet 
To  shed  on  the  brief  flower  of  youth 
The  withering  knowledge  of  the  grave. 
From  me  remorse  then  wrung  that  truth. 
I  could  not  bear  the  joy  which  gave 
Too  just  a  response  to  mine  own. 
In  vain.     I  dared  not  feign  a  groan; 
And  in  their  artless  looks  I  saw,  450 

Between  the  mists  of  fear  and  awe. 
That  my  own  thought  was  theirs;  and  they 
Expressed  it  not  in  words,  but  said. 
Each  in  its  heart,  how  every  day 
Will  pass  in  happy  work  and  play, 
Now  he  is  dead  and  gone  away  ! 

After  the  funeral  all  our  kin 
Assembled,  and  the  will  was  read. 
My  friend,  I  tell  thee,  even  the  dead 
Have  strength,  their  putrid  shrouds  within. 
To  blast  and  torture.     Those  who  live    461 
Still  fear  the  living,  but  a  corse 
Is  merciless,  and  Power  doth  give 
To  such  pale  tyrants  half  the  spoil 
He  rends  from  those  who  groan  and  toil. 
Because  they  blush  not  with  remorse 
Among  their  crawling  worms.     Behold, 
I  have  no  child  !  my  tale  grows  old 
With  grief,  and  staggers;  let  it  reach 
The  limits  of  my  feeble  speech,  470 

And  languidly  at  length  recline 
On  the  brink  of  its  own  grave  and  mine. 

Thou  knowest  what  a  thing  is  Poverty 
Among  the  fallen  on  evil  days. 
'T  is  Crime,  and  Fear,  and  Infamy, 
And  houseless  Want  in  frozen  ways 
Wandering  ungarmented,  and  Pain, 
And,  worse  than  all,  that  inward  stain. 
Foul  Self-contempt,  which  drowns  in  sneers 
Youth's  starlight    smile,   and    makes    its 
tears  480 

First  like  hot  gall,  then  dry  forever  ! 
And  well  thou  knowest  a  motl>er  never 


Could  doom  her  children  to  this  ill, 

And  well  he  knew  the  same.     The  will 

Imported  that,  if  e'er  again 

I  sought  my  children  to  behold. 

Or  in  my  birthplace  did  remain 

Beyond  three  days,  whose  hours  were  told, 

They  should  inherit  nought;  and  he. 

To  whom  next  came  their  patrimony,      49c 

A  sallow  lawyer,  cruel  and  cold. 

Aye  watched  me,  as  the  will  was  read. 

With  eyes  askance,  which  sought  to  see 

The  secrets  of  my  agony; 

And  with  close  lips  and  anxious  brow 

Stood  canvassing  still  to  and  fro 

The  chance  of  my  resolve,  and  all 

The  dead  man's  caution  just  did  call; 

For  in  that  killing  lie  't  was  said  — 

*  She  is  adulterous,  and  doth  hold  500 

In  secret  that  the  Christian  creed 

Is  false,  and  therefore  is  much  need 

That  I  should  have  a  care  to  save 

My  children  from  eternal  fire.' 

Friend,  he  was  sheltered  by  the  grave. 

And  therefore  dared  to  be  a  liar  ! 

In  truth,  the  Indian  on  the  pyre 

Of  her  dead  husband,  half  consumed, 

As  well  might  there  be  false  as  I 

To  those  abhorred  embraces  doomed,       510 

Far  worse  than  fire's  brief  agony. 

As  to  the  Christian  creed,  if  true 

Or  false,  I  never  qjiestioned  it; 

I  took  it  as  the  vulgar  do; 

Nor  my  vexed  scul  had  leisure  yet 

To  doubt  the  things  men  say,  or  deem 

That  they  are  other  than  they  seem. 

All  present  who  those  crimes  did  hear. 

In  feigned  or  actual  scorn  and  fear. 

Men,  women,  children,  slunk  away,  520 

Whispering  with  self-contented  pride 

Which  half  suspects  its  own  base  lie. 

I  spoke  to  none,  nor  did  abide, 

But  silently  I  went  my  way. 

Nor  noticed  I  where  joyously 

Sate  my  two  younger  babes  at  play 

In  the  courtyard  through  which  I  passed; 

But  went  with  footsteps  firm  and  fast 

Till   I   came    to   the   brink  of  the   ocean 

green. 
And  there,  a  woman  with  gray  hairs,      530 
Who  had  my  mother's  servant  been. 
Kneeling,  with  many  tears  and  prayers. 
Made  me  accept  a  purse  of  gold, 
Half  of  the  earnings  she  had  kept 
To  refuge  her  when  weak  and  old. 


ROSALIND  AND   HELEN 


»43 


With  woe,  which  never  sleeps  or  slept, 
I  wander  now.     'T  is  a  vain  thought  — 
But  on  yon  Alp,  whose  snowy  head 
'Mid  the  azure  air  is  islanded, 
(We  see  it  —  o'er  the  flood  of  cloud,        540 
Which  sunrise  from  its  eastern  caves 
Drives,  wrinkling  into  golden  waves, 
Hung  with  its  precipices  proud  — 
From  that  gray  stone  where  first  we  met) 
There  —  now    who    knows   the   dead   feel 

nought  ?  — 
Should  be  my  grave ;  for  he  who  yet 
Is  my  soul's  soul  once  said:  '  'T  were  sweet 
'Mid  stars  and  lightnings  to  abide, 
And  winds,  and  lulling  snows  that  beat 
With  their  soft  flakes  the  mountain  wide, 
Where  weary  meteor  lamps  repose,  551 

And  languid  storms  their  pinions  close, 
And  all  things  strong  and  bright  and  pure, 
And  ever  during,  aye  endure. 
Who  knows,  if  one  were  buried  there, 
But  these  things  might  our  spirits  make, 
Amid  the  all-surrounding  air. 
Their  own  eternity  partake  ?  ' 
Then  't  was  a  wild  and  playful  saying 
At  which  I  laughed  or  seemed  to  laugh.  560 
They  were  his  words  —  now  heed  my  pray- 
ing. 
And  let  them  be  my  epitaph. 
Thy  memory  for  a  term  may  be 
My  monument.     Wilt  remember  me  ? 
I  know  thou  wilt;  and  canst  forgive, 
Whilst  in  this  erring  world  to  live 
My  soul  disdained  not,  that  I  thought 
Its  lying  forms  were  worthy  aught, 
And  much  less  thee. 


Oh,  speak  not  so  ! 
But  come  to  me  and  pour  thy  woe  570 

Into  this  heart,  full  though  it  be, 
Aye  overflowing  with  its  own. 
I  thought  that  grief  had  severed  me 
From  all  beside  who  weep  and  groan. 
Its  likeness  upon  earth  to  be  — 
Its  express  image;  but  thou  art 
More  wretched.     Sweet,  we  will  not  part 
Henceforth,  if  death  be  not  division; 
If  so,  the  dead  feel  no  contrition. 
But  wilt  thou  hear,  since  last  we  parted,  580 
All  that  has  left  me  broken-hearted  ? 


Yes,  speak.     The  faintest  stars  are  scarcely 
shorn 


Of  their  thin  beams  by  that  delusive  morn 
Which  sinks  again  in  darkness,   like  the 

light 
Of  early  love,  soon  lost  in  total  night. 


Alas  !     Italian  winds  are  mild, 

But  my  bosom  is  cold —  wintry  cold; 

When   the  warm   air   weaves,  among  the 

fresh  leaves, 
Soft  music,  my  poor  brain  is  wild. 
And  I  am  weak  like  a  nursling  child,       590 
Though  my  soul   with  grief  is   gray  and 

old. 

BOSALTND 

Weep  not  at  thine  own  words,  though  they 

must  make 
Me  weep.     What  is  thy  tale  ? 


I  fear  't  will  shake 
Thy  gentle  heart  with  tears.     Thou  well 
Rememberest  when  we  met  no  more; 
And,  though  I  dwelt  with  Lionel, 
That  friendless  caution  pierced  me  sore 
With  grief;  a  wound  my  spirit  bore 
Indignantly  —  but  when  he  died. 
With  him  lay  dead  both  hope  and  pride. 

Alas  !  all  hope  is  buried  now.  60* 

But  then  men  dreamed  the  aged  earth 
Was  laboring  in  that  mighty  birth 
Which  many  a  poet  and  a  sage 
Has  aye  foreseen  —  the  happy  age 
When  truth  and  love  shall  dwell  below 
Among  the  works  and  ways  of  men; 
Which  on  this  world  not  power  but  will 
Even  now  is  wanting  to  fulfil. 

Among  mankind  what  thence  befell         610 
Of  strife,  liow  vain,  is  known  t^o  well; 
When  Liberty's  dear  psan  fell 
'Mid  murderous  howls.     To  Lionel, 
Though  of  great  wealth  and  lineage  high. 
Yet  through  those   dungeon   walls    there 

came 
Thy  thrilling  light,  O  Liberty  ! 
And  as  the  meteor's  midnight  flame 
Startles  the  dreamer,  sun-like  truth 
Flashed  on  his  visionary  youth. 
And  filled  him,  not  with  love,  but  faith,  6ao 
And  hope,  and  courage  mute  in  death; 
For  love  and  life  in  him  were  twins. 
Born  at  one  birth.     In  every  other 


144 


ROSALIND   AND   HELEN 


First  life,  then  love,  its  course  begins. 

Though  the}'  be  children  of  one  mother; 

And  so  through  this  dark  world  they  fleet 

Divided,  till  in  death  they  meet; 

But  he  loved  all  things  ever.     Then 

He  passed  amid  the  strife  of  men. 

And  stood  at  the  throne  of  arm^d  power 

Pleading  for  a  world  of  woe.  631 

Secure  as  one  on  a  rock-built  tower 

O'er  the  wrecks  which  the  surge  trails  to 

and  fro, 
'Alid  the  passions  wild  of  humankind 
He  stood,  like  a  spirit  calming  them; 
For,  it  was  said,  his  words  could  bind 
Like  music  the  lulled  crowd,  and  stem 
That  torrent  of  unquiet  dream 
Which  mortals  truth  and  reason  deem, 
But  is  revenge  and  fear  and  pride.  640 

Joyous  he  was;  and  hope  and  peace 
On  all  who  heard  him  did  abide. 
Raining  like  dew  from  his  sweet  talk, 
As  where  the  evening  star  may  walk 
Along  the  brink  of  the  gloomy  seas, 
Liquid  mists  of  splendor  quiver. 
His  very  gestures  touched  to  tears 
The  unpersuaded  tyrant,  never 
So  moved  before;  his  presence  stung 
The  torturers  with  their  victim's  pain,     650 
And  none  knew  how;   and   through   their 

ears 
The  subtle  witchcraft  of  his  tongue 
Unlocked  the  hearts  of  those  who  keep 
Gold,  the  world's  bond  of  slavery. 
Men  wondered,  and  some  sneered  to  see 
One  sow  what  he  could  never  reap; 
For  he  is  rich,  they  said,  and  young. 
And  might  drink  from  the  deptlis  of  luxury. 
If  he  seeks  fame,  fame  never  crowned 
The  champion  of  a  trampled  creed;  660 

If  he  seeks  power,  power  is  enthroned 
'Mid  ancient  rights  and  wrongs,  to  feed 
Which  hungry  wolves  with  praise  and  spoil 
Tiiose  who  would  sit  near  power  must  toil; 
And  such,  there  sitting,  all  may  see. 
What  seeks  he  ?     All  that  others  seek 
He  casts  away,  like  a  vile  weed 
Which  the  sea  casts  unreturningly. 
That  poor  and  hungry  men  should  break 
The  laws  which  wreak  them  toil  and  scorn 
We  understand;  but  Lionel,  671 

We  know,  is  rich  and  nobly  born. 
So  wondered  they;  yet  all  men  loved 
Young  Lionel,  though  few  approved; 
All  but  the  priests,  whose  hatred  fell 
Like  the  unseen  blight  of  a  smiling  day, 


The  withering  honey-dew  which  clings 
Under  the  bright  green  buds  of  May 
Whilst  they  unfold  their  emerald  vving^; 
For  he  made  verses  wild  and  queer  680 

On  the  strange  creeds  priests  hold  so  dear 
Because  they  bring  them  land  and  gold. 
Of  devils  and  saints  and  all  such  gear 
He  made  tales  which  whoso  heard  or  read 
Would  laugh  till  he  were  almost  dead. 
So  this  grew  a  proverb:  *  Don't  get  old 
Till  Lionel's  Banquet  in  Hell  you  hear, 
And  then  yon  will   laugh  yourself  young 

again.' 
So  the  priests  hated  him,  and  he 
Repaid  their  hate  with  cheerful  glee.       690 

Ah,  smiles  and  joyance  quickly  died, 
For  public  hope  grew  pale  and  dim 
In  an  altered  time  and  tide. 
And  in  its  wasting  withered  him, 
As  a  summer  flower  that  blows  too  soon 
Droops  in  the  smile  of  the  waning  moon, 
When  it  scatters  through  an  April  night 
The  frozen  dews  of  wrinkling  blight. 
None  now  hoped  more.     Gray  Power  was 

seated 
Safely  on  her  ancestral  throne;  700 

And  Faith,  the  Python,  undefeated 
Even  to  its  blood-stained  steps  dragged  on 
Her  foul  and  wounded  train;  and  men 
Were  trampled  and  deceived  again, 
And  words  and  shows  again  could  bind 
The  wailing  tribes  of  humankind 
In  scorn  and  famine.     Fire  and  blood 
Raged  round  the  raging  multitude, 
To  fields  remote  by  tyrants  sent 
To  be  the  scorned  instrument  710 

With  which  they  drag  from  mines  of  gore 
The  chains  their  slaves  yet  ever  wore; 
And  in  the  streets  men  met  each  other, 
And  by  old  altars  ajid  in  halls, 
And  smiled  again  at  festivals. 
But  each  man  found  in  his  heart's  brother 
Cold  cheer;  for  all,  though  half  deceived, 
The  outworn  creeds  again  believed, 
And  the  same  round  anew  began 
Which  the  weary  world  yet  ever  ran.       720 

Many  then  wept,  not  tears,  but  gall. 

Within  their  hearts,  like  drops  which  fall 

Wasting  the  fountain-stone  away. 

Ajid  in  that  dark  and  evil  day 

Did  all  desires  and  thoughts  that  claim 

Men's  care  —  ambition,  friendship,  fame, 

Love,  hope,  though  hope  was  now  despair  — 


ROSALIND  AND   HELEN 


MS 


Indue  the  colors  of  this  change, 
As  from  the  all-surrounding  air  729 

Tlie  earth  takes  hues  obscure  and  strange, 
^Vheu  storm  and  earthquake  linger  there. 

And  so,  my  friend,  it  then  befell 

To  many,  —  most  to  Lionel, 

Whose  hope  was  like  the  life  of  youth 

Within  him,  and  when  dead  became 

A  spirit  of  unresting  flame, 

Which  goaded  him  in  his  distress 

Over  the  world's  vast  wilderness. 

Three  yeai's  he  left  his  native  land, 

And  on  the  fourth,  when  he  returned,      740 

None  knew  him;  he  was  stricken  deep 

With  some  disease  of  mind,  and  turned 

Into  aught  unlike  Lionel. 

On  him —  on  whom,  did  he  pause  in  sleep, 

Serenest  smiles  were  wont  to  keep, 

And,  did  lie  wake,  a  winged  band 

Of  bright  Persuasions,  which  had  fed 

On  his  sweet  lips  and  liquid  eyes. 

Kept  their  swift  pinions  half  outspread 

To  do  on  men  his  least  command  —         750 

On  him,  whom  once  't  was  paradise 

Even  to  behold,  now  misery  lay. 

In  his  own  heart  't  was  merciless  — 

To  all  things  else  none  may  express 

Its  innocence  and  tenderness, 

'T  was  said  that  he  had  refuge  sought 

In  love  from  his  unquiet  thought 

In  distant  lands,  and  been  deceived 

By   some    strange   show;    for   there    were 

found, 
Blotted  with  tears  —  as  those  relieved     760 
By  their  own  words  are  wont  to  do  — 
Tliese  mournful  verses  on  the  ground, 
By  all  wlio  read  them  blotted  too. 

'  How  am  I  changed  !  my  hopes  were  once 
like  fire; 
I  loved,  and  I  believed  that  life  was  love. 
How  am  I  lost !   on  wings  of  swift  desire 
Among  Heaven's  winds  my  spirit  once 
did  move. 
I  slept,  and  silver  dreams  did  aye  inspire 

My  liquid  sleep;  I  woke,  and  did  approve 
All  Nature  to  my  heart,  and  thought    to 
make  770 

A  paradise  of  earth  for  one  sweet  sake, 

'  I  love,  but  T  believe  in  love  no  more. 
I  feel  desire,  but  hope  not.     Oh,  from 
sleep 


Most  vainly  must  my  weary  brain  implore 
Its  long   lost  flattery  now  !   I  wake  to 
weep. 

And  sit  through  the  long  day  gnawing  the 
core 
Of   my  bitter  heart,  and,  like  a  miser, 
keep  — 

Since  none   in  what   I   feel   take  pain  or 
pleasure  — 

To  my  own  soul   its  self-consuming  trea- 
sure.' 

He  dweltbeside  me  near  the  sea;  780 

And  oft  in  evening  did  we  meet. 

When   the   waves,    beneath   the   starlight, 

flee 
O'er  the  yellow  sands  with  silver  feet, 
And  talked.     Our  talk  was  sad  and  sweet, 
Till  slowly  from  his  mien  there  passed 
The  desolation  which  it  spoke; 
And  smiles  —  as  when  the  lightning's  blast 
Has  parched  some  heaven-delighting  oak, 
Tlie  next   spring  shows  leaves   pale   and 

rare. 
But  like  flowers  delicate  and  fair,  790 

On  its  rent  boughs  —  again  arrayed 
His  countenance  in  tender  light; 
His  words  grew  subtle  fire,  which  made 
The  air  his  hearers  breathed  delight; 
His  motions,  like  the  winds,  were  free. 
Which  bend  the  bright  grass  gracefully. 
Then  fade  away  in  circlets  faint; 
And  winged  Hope  —  on  which  upborne 
His  soul  seemed  hovering  in  his  eyes, 
Like  some  bright  sjjirit  newly  born  800 

Floating  amid  the  sunny  skies  — 
Sprang  forth  from  his  rent  heart  anew. 
Yet  o'er  his  talk,  and  looks,  and  mien. 
Tempering  their  loveliness  too  keen. 
Past  woe  its  shadow  backward  threw; 
Till,  like  an  exhalation  spread 
From  flowers  half  drunk  with  evening  dew. 
They  did  become  infectious  —  sweet 
And  subtle  mists  of  sense  and  thought. 
Which  wrapped  us  soon,  when  we  might 

meet,  810 

Almost  from  our  own  looks  and  aught 
The  wild  world  holds.     And  so  his  mind 
Was   healed,  while  mine   grew  sick  with 

fear; 
For  ever  now  bis  health  declined. 
Like  some  frail  bark  which  cannot  bear 
The  impulse  of  an  altered  wind. 
Though    prosperous;   and  my  heart   grew 

full. 


146 


ROSALIND   AND   HELEN 


'Mid  its  new  joy,  of  a  new  care; 

For  his  cheek  became,  not  pale,  but  fair, 

As  rose-o'ershadowed  lilies  are;  820 

And  soon  his  deep  and  sunny  hair, 

In  this  alone  less  beautiful, 

Like  grass  in  tombs  grew  wild  and  rare. 

The  blood  in  his  translucent  veins 

Beat,  not  like  animal  life,  but  love 

Seemed  now  its  sullen  springs  to  move. 

When  life  had  failed,  and  all  its  pains; 

And  sudden  sleep  would  seize  him  oft 

Like  death,  so  calm,  —  but  that  a  tear, 

His  pointed  eye-lashes  between,  830 

Would  gather  in  the  liglit  serene 

Of  smiles  whose  lustre  bright  and  soft 

Beneath  lay  undulating  there. 

His  breath  was  like  inconstant  flame 

As  eagerly  it  went  and  came ; 

And  I  hung  o'er  him  in  his  sleep, 

Till,  like  an  image  in  the  lake 

Which  rains  disturb,  ray  tears  would  break 

The  shadow  of  that  slumber  deep. 

Then  he  would  bid  me  not  to  weep,  840 

And  say,  with  flattery  false  yet  sweet. 

That  death  and  he  could  never  meet. 

If  I  would  never  part  with  him. 

And  so  we  loved,  and  did  unite 

All  that  in  us  was  yet  divided; 

For  when  he  said,  that  manj'  a  rite. 

By  men  to  bind  but  once  provided. 

Could  not  be  shared  by  him  and  me. 

Or  they  would  kill  him  in  their  glee, 

I  shuddered,  and  then  laughing  said  — 

*  We  will  have  rites  our  faith  to  bind,      851 

But  our  church  shall  be  the  starry  night. 

Our  altar  the  grassy  earth  outspread, 

And  our  priest  the  muttering  wind.' 

'T  was  sunset  as  I  spoke.     One  star 

Had  scarce  burst  fortli,  when  from  afar 

The  ministers  of  misrule  sent 

Seized  upon  Lionel,  and  bore 

His  chained  limbs  to  a  dreary  tower, 

In  the  midst  of  a  city  vast  and  wide.       860 

For  he,   they   said,   from   his    mind    had 

bent 
Against  their  gods  keen  blasphemy. 
For  which,  though   his  soul  must  roasted 

be 
In  hell's  red  lakes  immortally, 
Yet  even  on  earth  must  he  abide 
The  vengeance  of  their  slaves:  a  trial, 
I  think,  men  call  it.     What  avail 
Are   prayers   and  tears,  which  cliase  de- 
nial 


From  the  fierce  savage  nursed  in  hate  ? 
What   the    knit   soul   that    pleading    and 

pale  870 

Makes    wan   the   quivering   cheek    whi(^ 

late 
It  painted  with  its  own  delight  ? 
We  were  divided.     As  I  could, 
I  stilled  the  tingling  of  my  blood. 
And  followed  him  iu  their  despite, 
As  a  widow  follows,  pale  and  wild, 
The  murderers  and  corse  of  her  only  child; 
And  when  we  came  to  the  prison  door, 
And  I  prayed  to  share  his  dungeon  floor 
With    prayers    which    rarely    have    been 

spurned,  880 

And  when  men  drove  me  forth,  and  I 
Stared  with  blank  frenzy  on  the  sky,  — 
A  farewell  look  of  love  he  turned. 
Half  calming  me;  then  gazed  awhile. 
As  if  through  that  black  and  massy  pile. 
And  through  the  crowd  around  him  there, 
And  through  the  dense  and  murky  air, 
And  the  thronged  streets,  he  did  espy 
What  poets  know  and  prophesy ; 
And    said,    with  voice    that    made    them 

shiver  890 

And  clung  like  music  in  my  brain, 
And  which  the  mute  walls  spoke  again 
Prolonging  it  with  deepened  strain  — 
*  Fear  not  the  tyrants  shall  rule  forever, 
Or  the  priests  of  the  bloody  faith; 
They  stand  on  the  brink  of  that  mighty 

river, 
Whose  waves  they  have  tainted  ^vith  death; 
It  is  fed   from  the  depths  of  a  thousand 

dells. 
Around   them   it   foams,  and    rages,   and 

swells, 
And  their  swords  and  their  sceptres  I  float- 
ing see,  900 
Like  wrecks,  in  the  surge  of  eternity.* 

I  dwelt  beside  the  prison  gate; 

And  the  strange  crowd  that  out  and  in 

Passed,  some,  no   doubt,  with   miue   own 

fate. 
Might  have  fretted  me  with  its  ceaseless 

din, 
But  the  fever  of  care  was  louder  within. 
Soon  but  too  late,  in  penitence 
Or  fear,  his  foes  released  him  thence. 
I  saw  his  thin  and  languid  form. 
As  leaning  on  the  jailor's  arm,  910 

Whose  hardened  eyes  grew  moist  the  while 
To  meet  his  mute  and  faded  smile 


ROSALIND  AND   HELEN 


147 


And  hear  his  words  of  kind  farewell, 
He  tottered  forth  from  his  damp  cell. 
Many  had  never  wept  before, 
From  whom  fast  tears  then  gushed  aud 

fell; 
Many  will  relent  no  more. 
Who  sobbed  like  infants  then;  ay,  all 
Who  thronged  the  prison's  stony  hall. 
The  rulers  or  the  slaves  of  law,  920 

Felt  with  a  new  surprise  and  awe 
That  they  were  human,  till  strong  shame 
Made  them  again  become  the  same. 
The  prison  bloodhounds,  huge  and  grim. 
From  human  looks  the  infection  cauglit, 
And  fondly  crouched  and  fawned  on  liim; 
And  men  have  heard  the  prisoners  say. 
Who  in  their  rotting  dungeons  lay. 
That     from    that    hour,    throughout    one 

day, 
The  fierce  despair  and  hate  which  kept  930 
Their  trampled  bosoms  almost  slept. 
Where,  like  twin  vultures,  they  hung  feed- 
ing 
On  each   heart's   wound,   wide    torn    and 

bleeding,  — 
Because  their  jailors'  rule,  they  thought. 
Grew  merciful,  like  a  parent's  sway. 

I  know  not  how,  but  we  were  free; 

And  Lionel  sate  alone  with  me. 

As  the  carriage  drove  through  the  streets 

apace ; 
And  we  looked  upon  each  other's  face; 
And  the  blood  in  our  fingers  intertwined  940 
Ran  like  the  thoughts  of  a  single  mind. 
As  the  swift  emotions  went  and  came 
Tlirough  the  veins  of  each  united  frame. 
So  through  the  long,  long  streets  we  passed 
Of  the  million-peopled  City  vast; 
Which  is  that  desert,  where  each  one 
Seeks  his  mate  yet  is  alone. 
Beloved  and  sought  and  mourned  of  none; 
Until  the  clear  blue  sky  was  seen, 
And     the     grassy    meadows    bright    and 

greeu.  950 

And  then  I  sunk  in  his  embrace 
Enclosing  there  a  mighty  space 
Of  love;  and  so  we  travelled  on 
By  woods,  and  fields  of  yellow  flowers, 
And  towns,  and  villages,  and  towers, 
Daj'  after  day  of  happy  hours. 
It  was  the  azure  time  of  June, 
W^hen  the  skies  are  deep  in  the  stainless 

noon, 
And  the  warm  and  fitful  breezes  shake 


The  fresh  green  leaves  of  the  hedge-row 
briar ;  960 

And  there  were  odors  then  to  make 
The  very  breath  we  did  respire 
A  liquid  element,  whereon 
Our  spirits,  like  delighted  things 
That  walk  the  air  on  subtle  wiugs, 
Floated  and  mingled  far  away 
'Mid  the  warm  winds  of  the  sunny  day. 
And  when  the  evening  star  came  forth 
Above  the  curve  of  the  new  bent  moon, 
And    light    and    sound    ebbed    from    the 
earth,  970 

Like  the  tide  of  the  full  and  the  weary 

sea 
To  the  depths  of  its  own  tranquillity, 
Our  natures  to  its  own  repose 
Did  the  earth's  breathless  sleep  attune; 
Like  flowers,  which  on  each  otlier  close 
Their  languid  leaves  when  daylight 's  gone, 
We  la}',  till  new  emotions  came. 
Which  seemed  to  make  each  mortal  frame 
One  soul  of  interwoven  flame, 
A  life  in  life,  a  second  birth  980 

In  worlds  diviner  far  than  earth;  — 
W^hich,  like  two  strains  of  harmony 
That  mingle  in  the  silent  sky. 
Then  slowly  disunite,  passed  by 
And  left  the  tenderness  of  tears, 
A  soft  oblivion  of  all  fears, 
A  sweet  sleep:  —  so  we  travelled  on 
Till  we  came  to  the  home  of  Lionel, 
Among  the  mountains  wild  and  lone, 
Beside  the  hoary  western  sea,  990 

Which  near  the  verge  of  the  echoing  shore 
The  massy  forest  shadowed  o'er. 

The  ancient  steward  with  hair  all  hoar, 
As  we  alighted,  wept  to  see 
His  master  changed  so  fearfully; 
And  the  old  man's  sobs  did  waken  me 
From  my  dream  of  unremaining  gladness; 
The  truth  flashed  o'er  me  like  quick  mad- 
ness 
When  I  looked,  and  saw  that  there  was 

death 
On  Lionel.     Yet  day  by  day  looa 

He  lived,  till  fear  grew  hope  and  faith, 
And  in  my  soul  I  dared  to  say, 
Nothing  so  bright  can  pass  away; 
Death  is  dark,  and  foul,  and  dull. 
But  he  is  —  oh,  how  beautiful  ! 
Yet  day  by  day  he  grew  more  weak. 
And    his    sweet    voice,    when    he    might 
speak, 


148 


ROSALIND  AND   HELEN 


Which  ue'er  was  loud,  became  more  low; 
Aud  the  light  which  flashed  through  bis 

waxen  cheek 
Grew  faiut,  as  the   rose-like   hues  which 

flow  loio 

From  sunset  o'er  the  Alpine  snow; 
Aud  death  seemed  not  like  death  in  him, 
For  the  spirit  of  life  o'er  every  limb 
Liugered,  a  mist  of  sense  aud  thought. 
When    the     summer    wind     faiut     odors 

brought 
From  mountain  flowers,  even  as  it  passed, 
His  cheek  would  change,  as  the  uoouday 

sea 
Which  the  dying  breeze  sweeps  fitfully. 
If  but  a  cloud  the  sky  o'ercast,  1019 

You  might  see  his  color  come  and  go, 
And  the  softest  strain  of  music  made 
Sweet  smiles,  yet  sad,  arise  and  fade 
Amid  the  dew  of  his  tender  eyes; 
And  the  breath,  with  intermitting  flow, 
Made  his  pale  lips  quiver  and  part. 
You  might  hear  the  beatings  of  his  heart. 
Quick    but    not    strong ;    and    with    my 

tresses 
When  oft  he  playfully  would  bind 
In  the  bowers  of  mossy  lonelinesses 
His  neck,  and  win  me  so  to  mingle  1030 

In  the  sweet  depth  of  woven  caresses. 
And  our  faint  limbs  were  intertwined,  — 
Alas  !  the  unquiet  life  did  tingle 
From    mine    own    heart     through    every 

vein, 
Like  a  captive  in  dreams  of  liberty. 
Who  beats  tlie  walls  of  his  stony  cell. 
But  his,  it  seemed  already  free, 
Like  the  shadow  of  fire  surrounding  me  1 
On  my  faint  eyes  and  limbs  did  dwell 
That  spirit  as  it  passed,  till  soon  —         1040 
As  a  frail  cloud  wandering  o'er  the  moon. 
Beneath  its  light  invisible, 
Is    seen   when    it    folds    its    gray   wings 

again 
To  alight  on  midnight's  dusky  plain  — 
I  lived  and  saw,  and  the  gathering  soul 
P.assed  from  beneath  that  strong  control, 
And  I  fell  on  a  life  which  was  sick  with 

fear 
Of  all  the  woe  that  now  I  bear. 

Amid  a  bloomless  myrtle  wood, 

On  a  green  and  sea-girt  promontory       1050 

Not    far    from    where    we    dwelt,    there 

stood. 
In  record  of  a  sweet  sad  story, 


An  altar  and  a  temple  bright 

Circled  by  steps,  and  o'er  the  gate 

Was  sculptured,  '  To  Fidelity; ' 

And  in  the  shrine  an  image  sate 

All  veiled;  but  there  was  seen  the  light 

Of  smiles  which  faintly  could  express 

A  mingled  pain  and  tenderness 

Throngli  that  ethereal  drapery.  1060 

The  left  hand  held  the  head,  the  right  — 

Beyond  the  veil,  beneath  the  skin, 

You     might    see     the     nerves    quivering 

within  — 
Was  forcing  the  point  of  a  barbed  dart 
Into  its  side-convulsing  heart. 
An  unskilled  hand,  yet  one  informed 
With  genius,  had  the  marble  warmed 
With  that  pathetic  life.     This  tale 
It  told :  A  dog  had  from  the  sea. 
When  the  tide  was  raging  fearfully,       1070 
Dragged  Lionel's  mother,  weak  and  pale. 
Then  died  beside  her  on  the  sand. 
And  she  that  temple  tlience  had  planned; 
But  it  was  Lionel's  own  hand 
Had  wrought  the  image.     Each  new  moou 
That  lady  did,  in  this  lone  fane. 
The  rites  of  a  religion  sweet 
Whose  god  was  in  lier  heart  and  brain. 
The  seasons'  loveliest  flowers  were  strewn 
On  the  marble  floor  beneath  her  feet,     loSo 
And    she    brought    crowns   of    sea  -  buds 

wliite 
Whose  odor  is  so  sweet  and  faint, 
And  weeds,  like  branching  chrysolite. 
Woven  in  devices  fine  aud  quaint; 
And  tears  from  her  brown  eyes  did  stain 
The  altar;  need  but  look  upon 
That  dying  statue,  fair  aud  wan. 
If  tears  should  cease,  to  weep  again; 
Aud  rare  Arabian  odors  came, 
Through     the     myrtle     copses,    steaming 

thence  1090 

From  the  hissing  frankincense. 
Whose  smoke,  wool-white  as  ocean  foam. 
Hung  in  dense  flocks  beneath  the  dome  — 
That  ivory  dome,  whose  azure  niglit 
With  golden  stars,  like  heaven,  was  bright 
O'er  the  split  cedar's  pointed  flame; 
And  the  lady's  harp  would  kindle  there 
The  melody  of  an  old  air. 
Softer  than  sleep;  the  villagers 
Mixed  their  religion  up  with  hers,  hoc 

And,  as  they  listened  round,  shed  tears. 

One  eve  he  led  me  to  this  fane. 
Daylight  on  its  last  purple  cloud 


ROSALIND  AND   HELEN 


149 


Was  lingering  gray,  and  soon  her  strain 

The  nightingale  began;  now  loud, 

Climbing  in  circles  the  windless  sky, 

Now  dying  music;  suddenly 

'Tis  scattered  in  a  thousand  notes; 

And  now  to  the  hushed  ear  it  floats 

Like  field-smells  known  in  infancy,         mo 

Then,  failing,  soothes  the  air  again. 

We  sate  within  that  temple  lone. 

Pavilioned  round  with  Parian  stone; 

His  mother's  harp  stood  near,  and  oft 

I  had  awakened  music  soft 

Amid  its  wires;  the  nightingale 

Was  pausing  in  her  heaven-taught  tale. 

'  Now  drain  the  cup,'  said  Lionel, 

'  Which    the    pqet-bird    has    crowned    so 

■well 
With  the  wine  of   her  bright  and   liquid 

song  !  1 120 

Heard'st  thou  not  sweet  words  among 
That  heaven-resounding  minstrelsy  ? 
Heard'st  thou  not  that  those  who  die 
Awake  in  a  world  of  ecstasy  ? 
That  love,  when  limbs  are  interwoven. 
And  sleep,  when  the  night  of  life  is  cloven. 
And  thought,  to  the   world's  dim   bound- 
aries clinging, 
And  music,  when  one  beloved  is  singing. 
Is  death  ?     Let  us  drain  right  joyously 
The  cup   which   the   sweet  bird   fills   for 

me.'  1 130 

He  paused,  and  to  my  lips  he  bent 
His  own;  like  spirit  his  words  went 
Through  all  my  limbs  with  the  speed  of 

fire; 
And    his    keen    eyes,    glittering    through 

mine, 
Filled  me  with  the  flame  divine 
Which  in  their  orbs  was  burning  far. 
Like  the  light  of  an  unmeasured  star 
In  the  sky  of  midnight  dark  and  deep; 
Yes,  't  was  his  soul  that  did  inspire         1139 
Sounds  which  my  skill  could  ne'er  awaken; 
And  first,  I  felt  my  fingers  sweep 
The  harp,  and  a  long  quivering  cry 
Burst  from  my  lips  in  symphony; 
The  dusk  and  solid  air  was  shaken, 
As  swift  and  swifter  the  notes  came 
From  my  touch,  that  wandered  like  quick 

flame, 
And  from  my  bosom,  laboring 
With  some  unutterable  thing. 
The  awful  sound  of  my  own  voice  made 
My  faint  lips  tremble;  in  some  mood       1150 
Of  wordless  thought  Lionel  stood 


So  pale,  that  even  beside  his  cheek 
The  snowy  column  from  its  shade 
Caught  whiteness;  yet  his  countenance, 
Raised  upward,  burned  with  radiance 
Of  spirit-piercing  joy  whose  light, 
Like  the  moon  struggling  through  the  night 
Of  whirlwind-rifted  clouds,  did  break 
With  beams  that  might  not  be  confined. 
I  paused,  but  soon  his  gestures  kindled 
New  power,  as  by  the  moving  wind        1161 
The  waves  are  lifted;  and  my  song 
To  low  soft  notes  now  changed  and  dwin- 
dled, 
And,  from  the  twinkling  wires  among, 
My  languid  fingers  drew  and  flung 
Circles  of  life-dissolving  sound. 
Yet  faint;  in  aery  rings  they  bound 
My  Lionel,  who,  as  every  strain 
Grew  fainter  but  more  sweet,  his  mien 
Sunk  with  the  sound  relaxedly;  1170 

And  slowly  now  he  turned  to  me, 
As  slowly  faded  from  his  face 
That  awful  joy ;  with  look  serene 
He  was  soon  drawn  to  my  embrace, 
And  my  wild  song  then  died  away 
In  murmurs;  words  I  dare  not  say 
We  mixed,  and  on  his  lips  mine  fed 
Till  they  methought  felt  still  and  cold. 
'  What  is  it  with  thee,  love  ?  '     I  said; 
No  word,  no  look,  no  motion  !  yes,  1180 

There  was  a  change,  but  spare  to  guess, 
Nor  let  that  moment's  hope  be  told. 
I  looked,  —  and  knew  that  he  was  dead; 
And  fell,  as  the  eagle  on  the  plain 
Falls  when  life  deserts  her  brain. 
And  the  mortal  lightning  is  veiled  again. 

Oh,  that  I  were  now  dead  !  but  such  — 
Did  thej'  not,  love,  demand  too  much. 
Those  dying  murmurs  ?  —  he  forbade. 
Oh,  that  T  once  again  were  mad  !  1190 

And  yet,  dear  Rosalind,  not  so. 
For  I  would  live  to  share  thy  woe. 
Sweet  boy  !  did  I  forget  thee  too  ? 
Alas,  we  know  not  what  we  do 
When  we  speak  words. 

No  memory  more 
Is  in  my  mind  of  that  sea-shore. 
Madness  came  on  me,  and  a  troop 
Of  misty  shapes  did  seem  to  sit 
Beside  me,  on  a  vessel's  poop,  1199 

And  the  clear  north  wind  was  driving  it. 
Then   I   heard   strange  tongues,   and  saw 
strange  flowers, 


ISO 


ROSALIND  AND   HELEN 


And  the  stars  methought  grew  unlike  ours, 

And  the  azure  sky  and  the  stormless  sea 

Made  me  believe  that  I  had  died 

And  waked  in  a  world  which  was  to  me 

Drear  hell,  though  heaven  to  all  beside. 

Then  a  dead  sleep  fell  on  mj'  mind. 

Whilst  animal  life  many  long  years 

Had  rescued  from  a  chasm  of  tears; 

And,  when  1  woke,  I  wept  to  find  1210 

That  the  same  lady,  bright  and  wise, 

With  silver  locks  and  quick  brown  eyes, 

The  mother  of  my  Lionel, 

Had  tended  me  in  my  distress. 

And  died  some  months  before.     Nor  less 

Wonder,  but  far  more  peace  and  joy, 

Brought  in  that  hour  my  lovely  boy. 

For  through  that  trance  my  soul  had  well 

The  impress  of  thy  being  kept; 

And  if  I  waked  or  if  I  slept,  1220 

No  doubt,  though  memory  faithless  be, 

Thy  image  ever  dwelt  on  me; 

And  thus,  O  Lionel,  like  thee 

Is  our  sweet  child.     'Tis  sure  most  strange 

I  knew  not  of  so  great  a  change 

As  that  which  gave  him  birth,  who  now 

Is  all  the  solace  of  my  woe. 

That  Lionel  great  wealth  had  left 
By  will  to  me,  and  that  of  all 
The  ready  lies  of  law  bereft  1230 

My  child  and  me,  —  might  well  befall. 
But  let  me  think  not  of  the  scorn 
Wliich  from  the  meanest  I  have  borne, 
When,  for  my  child's  belovM  sake, 
I  mixed  with  slaves,  to  vindicate 
The  very  laws  themselves  do  make; 
Let  me  not  say  scorn  is  my  fate. 
Lest  I  be  proud,  suffering  the  same 
With  those  who  live  in  deathless  fame. 

She    ceased.  —  *  Lo,   where    red    morning 

through  the  woods  1240 

Is  burning  o'er  the  dew  ! '  said  Rosalind. 
And   with    these    words    they   rose,    and 

towards  the  flood 
Of  the  blue  lake,  beneath  the  leaves,  now 

wind 
With  equal  steps  and  fingers  intertwined. 
Thence   to   a  lonely  dwelling,  where  the 

shore 
Is  shadowed  with  steep  rocks,  and  cypresses 
Cleave   with  their   dark   green   cones   the 

silent  skies 
And  with  their  shadows  the  clear  depths 

below, 


And  where  a  little  terrace  from  its  bowers 
Of     blooming    myrtle    and    faint     lemon 

flowers  125c 

Scatters  its  sense-dissolving  fragrance  o'er 
The  liquid  marble  of  the  windless  lake; 
And  where   the  aged  forest's   limbs   look 

hoar 
Under  the   leaves  which  their  green  gar- 
ments make, 
They  come.     'T  is  Helen's  home,  and  clean 

and  white, 
Like  one  which  tyrants  spare  on  our  own 

land 
In  some  such  solitude;  its  casements  bright 
Shone   througli    their   vine-leaves    in    the 

morning  sun. 
And  even  within  't  was  scarce  like  Italy. 
And  when   she  saw  how  all   things   there 

were  planned  1260 

As  in  an  English  home,  dim  memory 
Disturbed  poor  Rosalind ;  she  stood  as  one 
Whose    mind   is    where   his   body   cannot 

be, 
Till   Helen  led  her  where   her  child  yet 

slept. 
And  said, '  Observe,  that  brow  was  Lionel's, 
Those  lips  were  his,  and  so  he  ever  kept 
One  arm  in  sleep,  pillowing  his  head  with 

it. 
You  cannot   see    his  eyes  —  they  are   two 

wells 
Of  liquid  love.     Let  us  not  wake  him  yet.' 
But    Rosalind   could   bear   no   more,   and 

wept  1270 

A  shower  of  burning  tears  which  fell  upon 
His  face,  and  so  his  opening  lashes  shone 
With  tears  unlike  his  own,  as  he  did  leap 
In  sudden  wonder  from  his  innocent  sleep. 

So  Rosalind  and  Helen  lived  together 
Thenceforth  —  changed    in    all    else,    yet 

friends  again, 
Suoh  as  they  were,  when  o'er  the  mountain 

heather 
They  wandered  in  their  youth  through  sun 

and  rain. 
And  after  many  years,  for  human  things 
Cliange  even  like  the  ocean  and  the  wind, 
Her  daughter  was  restored  to  Rosalind,  128 1 
And  in  their  circle  thence  some  visitings 
Of  joy  'mid  their  new  calm  would  inter- 
vene. 
A  lovely  child  she  was,  of  looks  serene. 
And  motions  which  o'er  things  indifferent 
shed 


JULIAN   AND   MADDALO 


IS' 


The   grace   and  gentleness    from  whence 

they  came. 
And  Helen's  boy  grew  with  her,  and  they 

fed 
From  the  same  flowers  of  thought,  until 

each  mind 
Like   springs  which   mingle   in   one   flood 

became;  1289 

And  in  their  union  soon  their  parents  saw 
The  shadow  of  the  peace  denied  to  them. 
And  Rosalind  —  for  when  the  living  stem 
Is   cankered   in   its   heart,  the   tree  must 

fall  —  ^ 
Died  ere  her  time ;  and  with  deep  grief  and 

awe 
The  pale  survivors  followed  her  remains 
Beyond  the  region  of  dissolving  rains. 
Up   the   cold   mountain  she  was  wont  to 

call 
Her  tomb ;  and  on  Chiavenna's  precipice 
They  raised  a  pyramid  of  lasting  ice, 
Whose   polished   sides,   ere   day   had  yet 

begun,  1300 

Caught  the  first  glow  of  the  unrisen  sun. 
The  last,  when  it  had  sunk;  and  through 

the  night 


The  charioteers  of  Arctos  wheeled  round 
Its  glittering  point,  as  seen  from  Helen's 

home, 
Whose   sad   inhabitants  each  year  would 

come. 
With  willing  steps  climbing  that   ragged 

height. 
And  hang  long  locks  of  hair,  and  garlands 

bound 
With    amaranth    flowers,    which,    in    the 

clime's  despite, 
Filled   tlie    frore   air   with  unaccustomed 

light; 
Such   flowers   as    in   the    wintry   memory 

bloom  13  ic 

Of  one   friend   left  adorned   that   frozen 

tomb. 

Helen,  whose  spirit  was  of  softer  mould, 
Whose  sufferings  too  were  less,  death  slow- 

lier  led 
Into  the  peace  of  his  dominion  cold. 
She  died  among  her  kindred,  being  old. 
And  know,  that  if  love  die  not  in  the  dead 
As  in  the  living,  none  of  mortal  kind 
Are  blessed  as  now  Helen  and  Rosalind. 


JULIAN    AND   MADDALO 
A   CONVERSATION 


The  meadows  with  fresh  streams,  the  bees  with  thyme, 
The  goats  with  the  green  leaves  of  budding  Spring, 
Are  saturated  not  —  nor  Love  with  tears. 

Virgil's  Gallus. 


Julian  and  Maddalo  is  the  fruit  of  Shelley's 
first  visit  to  Venice  in  1818,  where  he  found 
Byron,  and  the  poem  is  a  reflection  of  their 
companionship,  Julian  standing'  for  Shelley, 
Maddalo  for  Byron,  and  the  child  being 
Byron's  daughter,  AUegra.  It  was  written  in 
the  fall,  at  Este,  and  received  its  last  revision 
in  Maj',  1819,  but  was  not  published,  notwith- 
standing some  efforts  of  Shelley  to  bring  it 
out,  until  after  his  death,  when  it  was  included 
in  the  Posthumous  Poems,  1824.  Shelley  had 
it  in  mind  to  write  three  other  similar  poems, 
laying  the  scenes  at  Rome,  Florence  and 
Naples,  but  he  did  not  carry  out  the  plan. 
He  once  refers  to  the  tale,  or  '  conversation  ' 
as  among  '  his  saddest  verses  ; '  but  his  impor- 
tant comment  on  it  is  contained  in  a  letter  to 
Hunt,  August  15,  1819 : 

'  I  send  you  a  little  poem  to  give  to  Oilier 
for  publication,  but  without  my  name.  Peacock 
will  coiTect  the  proofs.     I  wrote  it  with  the 


idea  of  offering  it  to  the  Examiner,  but  I  find 
it  is  too  long.  It  was  composed  last  year  at 
Este  ;  two  of  the  characters  you  will  recog- 
nize ;  and  the  third  is  also  in  some  degree  a 
painting  from  nature,  but,  with  respect  to  time 
and  place,  ideal.  You  will  find  the  little  piece, 
I  think,  in  some  degree  consistent  with  your 
own  ideas  of  the  manner  in  which  poetry  ought 
to  be  written.  I  have  employed  a  certain 
familiar  style  of  language  to  express  the  actual 
way  in  which  p>eople  talk  with  each  other, 
whom  education  and  a  certain  refinement  of 
sentiment  have  placed  above  the  use  of  vulgar 
idioms.  I  use  the  word  vulgar  in  its  most  ex- 
tensive sense.  The  vulgarity  of  rank  and 
fashion  is  as  gross  in  its  way  as  that  of  pov- 
erty, and  its  cant  terms  equally  expressive  of 
base  conceptions,  and,  therefore,  equally  unfit 
for  poetry.  Not  that  the  familiar  style  is  to 
be  admitted  in  the  treatment  of  a  subject 
wholly  ideal,  or  in   that   part  of  any  subject 


152 


JULIAN   AND   MADDALO 


which  relates  to  common  life,  where  the  pas- 
sion, exceeding'  a  certain  limit,  touches  the 
boundaries  of  that  wliich  is  ideal.  Strong 
passion  expresses  itself  in  metaphor,  borrowed 
from  objects  alike  remote  or  near,  and  casts 
over  all  the  shadow  of  its  own  greatness.  But 
what  am  I  about  ?  If  my  grandmother  sucks 
eggs,  was  it  I  who  taught  her  ? 

'  If  you  would  really  correct  the  proof,  I  need 
not  trouble  Peacock,  who,  I  suppose,  has 
enough.  Can  you  take  it  as  a  compliment 
that  I  prefer  to  trouble  you  ? 

'  I  do  not  particularly  wish  this  poem  to  be 
known  as  mine ;  but,  at  all  events,  I  would  not 
put  my  name  to  it.  I  leave  you  to  judge 
whether  it  is  best  to  throw  it  into  the  fire,  or 
to  publish  it.  So  much  for  self — self,  that 
burr  that  will  stick  to  one.' 


PREFACE 

Count  Maddalo  is  a  Venetian  nobleman  of 
ancient  family  and  of  great  fortune,  who, 
without  mixing  much  in  the  society  of  his 
countrymen,  resides  chiefly  at  his  magnificent 
palace  in  that  city.  He  is  a  person  of  the  most 
consummate  genius,  and  capable,  if  he  would 
dii'ect  his  energies  to  such  an  end,  of  becoming 
the  redeemer  of  his  degraded  country.  But  it 
ib  his  weakness  to  be  proud.  He  derives,  from 
a  comparison  of  his  own  extraordinary  mind 
with  the  dwarfish  intellects  that  surround  him, 
an  intense  apprehension  of  the  nothingness  of 
human  life.  His  passions  and  his  powers  are 
incomparably  greater  than  those  of  other  men  ; 
and,  instead  of  the  latter  having  been  employed 
in  curbing  the  former,  they  have  mutually  lent 
each  other  strength.  His  ambition  preys  upon 
itself,  for  want  of  objects  which  it  can  con- 

I  RODE  one  evening  with  Count  Maddalo 
Upon  the  bank  of  land  which  breaks  the  flow 
Of  Adria  towards  Venice.    A  bare  strand 
Of    hillocks,    heaped    from    ever-shifting 

sand, 
Matted  with  tliistles  and  amphibious  weeds, 
Such  as  from  earth's  embrace  the  salt  ooze 

breeds, 
Is  this;  an  uninhabited  sea-side, 
Which  the  lone  fisher,  when  bis  nets  are 

dried, 
Abandons;  and  no  other  object  breaks 
The  waste  but  one  dwarf  tree  and  some  few 

stakes  lo 

Broken  and  unrepaired,  and  the  tide  makes 
A  narrow  space  of  level  sand  thereon, 
Where  't  was  our  wont  to  ride  while  day 

went  down. 


sider  worthy  of  exertion.  I  say  that  Mad- 
dalo is  proud,  because  I  can  find  no  other  word 
to  express  the  concentred  and  impatient  feel- 
ings which  consume  him  ;  but  it  is  on  his  own 
hopes  and  affections  only  that  he  seems  to 
trample,  for  in  social  life  no  human  being  can 
be  more  gentle,  patient  and  unassuming  than 
Maddalo.  He  is  cheerful,  frank  and  witty. 
His  more  serious  conversation  is  a  sort  of  in- 
toxication ;  men  are  held  by  it  as  by  a  spell. 
He  has  travelled  much  ;  and  there  is  an  inex- 
pressible charm  in  his  relation  of  his  adventures 
in  dififerent  countries. 

Julian  is  an  Englishman  of  good  family, 
passionately  attached  to  those  pliilosophical 
notions  which  assert  the  power  of  man  over 
his  own  mind,  and  the  immense  improvements 
of  which,  by  the  extinction  of  certain  moral 
superstitions,  human  society  may  be  yet  sus- 
ceptible. Without  concealing  the  evil  in  the 
world  he  is  forever  speculating  how  good  may 
be  made  superior.  He  is  a  complete  infidel 
and  a  scoffer  at  all  things  reputed  holy  ;  and 
Maddalo  takes  a  wicked  pleasure  in  drawing 
oiit  his  taunts  against  religion.  What  Mad- 
dalo thinks  on  these  matters  is  not  exactly 
known.  Julian,  in  spite  of  his  heterodox  opin- 
ions, is  conjectured  by  his  friends  to  possess 
some  good  qualities.  How  far  this  is  possible 
the  pious  reader  will  determine.  Julian  is 
rather  serious. 

Of  the  Maniac  I  can  give  no  information. 
He  seems,  by  his  own  account,  to  have  been 
disappointed  in  love.  He  was  evidently  a  very 
cultivated  and  amiable  person  when  in  his  right 
senses.  His  story,  told  at  lengtli,  might  be  like 
many  other  stories  of  the  same  kind.  The  un- 
connected exclamations  of  his  agony  will  per- 
haps be  found  a  sufficient  comment  for  the  text 
of  every  heart. 

This  ride  was  my  delight.    I  love  all  waste 
And  solitary  places;  where  we  taste 
The  pleasure  of  believing  what  we  see 
Is  boundless,  as  we  wish  our  souls  to  be; 
And  such  was  this  wide  ocean,  and  this  shore 
More  barren  than  its  billows;  and  yet  more 
Thau   all,    with   a   remembered    friend    I 

love  20 

To  ride  as  then  I  rode;  —  for  the  winds 

drove 
The  living  spray  along  the  sunny  air 
Into  our  faces;  the  blue  heavens  were  bare, 
Stripped  to  their  depths  by  the  awakening 

north ; 
And   from  the  waves  sound   like   delight 

broke  fortli 
Harmonizing  with  solitude,  and  sent 
Into  our  hearts  aerial  merriment. 


JULIAN  AND   MADDALO 


153 


So,  as  we  rode,  we  talked;  and  the  swift 

thought, 
Winging  itself  with  laughter,  lingered  not. 
But  flew  from  brain  to  brain,  —  such  glee 

was  ours,  30 

Charged  with  light  memories  of  remem- 
bered hours, 
None  slow  enough  for  sadness;  till  we  came 
Homeward,  which  always  makes  the  spirit 

tame. 
This  daj'  had  been  cheerful  but  cold,  and 

now 
The  sun  was  sinking,  and  the  wind  also. 
Our  talk  grew  r^omewhat  serious,  as  may  be 
Talk  interrupted  with  such  raillery 
As  mocks  itself,  because  it  cannot  scorn 
The  thoughts  it  would  extinguish.     'T  was 

forlorn. 
Yet  pleasing;  such  as  once,  so  poets  tell,  40 
The  devils  held  within  the  dales  of  Hell, 
Concerning  God,  freewill  and  destniy; 
Of  all  that  earth  has  been,  or  yet  may  be. 
All  that  vain  men  imagine  01  believe. 
Or  hope  can  paint,  or  suffering  may  achieve, 
We  descanted;  and  J  (for  ever  still 
Is  it  not  wise  to  make  the  best  of  ill  ?) 
Argued  against  despondency,  but  pride 
Made  my  companion  take  the  darker  side. 
The  sense   that  he  yfos  greater  than  his 

kind  50 

Had  struck,  methinks,  his  eagle  spirit  blind 
By  gazing  on  its  own  exceeding  light. 
Meanwhile  the  sun  paused  ere  it  should 

alight, 
Over  the  horizon  of  the  mountains.     Oh, 
How  beautiful  is  sunset,  when  the  glow 
Of  Heaven  descends  upon  a  land  like  thee. 
Thou  Paradise  of  exiles,  Italy  ! 
Thy  mountains,  seas  and  vineyards  and  the 

towers 
Of  cities  they  encircle  !  —  It  was  ours 
To  stand  on  thee,  beholding  it;  and  then,  60 
Just  where  we  had  dismounted,  the  Count's 

men 
Were  waiting  for  us  with  the  gondola. 
As  those  who  pause  on  some  delightful  way 
Though  bent   on  pleasant   pilgrimage,  we 

stood 
Looking  upon  the  evening,  and  the  flood, 
Which  lay  between  the  city  and  the  shore. 
Paved  with  the   image  of  the   sky.     The 

hoar 
And  aery  Alps  toward^he  north  appeared, 
Through   mist,  an   heaven-sustaining  bul- 
wark reared 


Between  the  east  and  west;  and  half  the 

sky  _  70 

Was  roofed  with  clouds  of  rich  emblazonry, 
Dark  purple  at  the  zenith,  which  still  grew 
Down  the  steep  west  into  a  wondrous  hue 
Brighter  than  burning  gold,  even  to  the  rent 
Where    the    swift   sun  yet   paused   in  his 

descent  * 

Among  the  many-folded  hills.  They  were 
Those  famous  Euganean  hills,  which  bear. 
As  seen  from  Lido  through  the  harbor  piles, 
The  likeness  of  a  clump  of  peakfed  isles;  79 
And  then,  as  if  the  earth  and  sea  had  been 
Dissolved  into  one  lake  of  fire,  were  seen 
Those  mountains  towering  as  from  waves 

of  flame 
Around  the  vaporous  sun,  from  which  there 

came 
The  inmost  purple  spirit  of  light,  and  made 
Their   very   peaks    transparent.     '  Ere    it 

fade,' 
Said  my  companion,  '  I  will  show  yon  soon 
A  better  station.'     So,  o'er  the  lagune 
We  glided;  and  from  that  funereal  bark 
I  leaned,  and  saw  the  city,  and  could  mark 
How  from   their  many  isles,  in  evening's 

gleam,  90 

Its  temples  and  its  palaces  did  seem 
Like     fabrics    of    enchantment    piled    to 

Heaven. 
I  was  about  to  speak,  when  —     '  We  are 

even 
Now  at  the  point  I  meant,'  said  Maddalo, 
And  bade  the  gondolieri  cease  to  row. 
'  Look,  Julian,  on  the  west,  and  listen  well 
If  you  hear  not  a  deep  and  heavy  bell.' 
I  looked,  and  saw  between  us  and  the  sun 
A  building  on  an  island,  —  such  a  one 
As  age  to  age  might  add,  for  uses  vile,   100 
A  windowless,  deformed  and  dreary  pile; 
And  on  the  top  an  open  tower,  where  hung 
A  bell,  which  in  the  radiance  swayed  and 

swung; 
We   could  just   hear  its  hoarse  and  iron 

tongue; 
The  broad  sun  sunk  behind  it,  and  it  tolled 
In  strong  and    black  relief.     'What   we 

behold 
Shall    be    the   madhouse   and    its   belfry 

tower,' 
Said  Maddalo;  'and  ever  at  this  hour 
Those  who  may  cross  the  water  hear  that 

bell. 
Which  calls  the  maniacs  each  one  from  his 

cell  no 


*54 


JULIAN   AND   MADDALO 


To  vespers.'  —  'As  much  skill  as  need  to 

pray 
lu  thanks  or  hope  for  -  their  dark  lot  have 

they 
To  their  stern  Maker,'  I  replied.     *  O  ho  ! 
You  talk  as  in  years  past,'  said  Maddalo. 

*  'T  is  strange  men  change  not.     You  were 

ever  still 
Among  Christ's  flock  a  perilous  infidel, 
A  wolf  for  the  meek  lambs  —  if  you  can't 

swim, 
Beware  of  Providence.'     I  looked  on  him. 
But  the  gay  smile  had  faded  in  his  eye,  — 

•  And  such,'  he  cried,  'is  our  mortality;  120 
And  this  must  be  the  emblem  and  the  sign 
Of  what  should  be  eternal  and  divine  ! 
And,  like  that  black  and  dreary  bell,  the 

soul, 
Hung  in  a  heaven-illumined   tower,  must 

toll 
Our  thoughts  and  our  desires  to  meet  below 
Kound  the  rent  heart  and  pray  —  as  mad- 
men do 
For  what  ?  they  know  not,  till  the  night  of 

death, 
As  sunset  that  strange  vision,  severeth     128 
Out  memory  from  itself,  and  us  from  all 
We  sought,  and  yet  were  baffled.'    I  recall 
The  sense  of  what  he  said,  although  I  mar 
The  force  of  his  expressions.     The  broad 

star 
Of  day  meanwhile  had  sunk  behind  the  hill. 
And  the  black  bell  became  iuvisible. 
And  the  red   tower  looked  gray,  and  all 

between. 
The  churches,  ships  and  palaces  were  seen 
Huddled  in  gloom ;  into  the  purple  sea 
Tlie  orange  hues  of  heaven  sunk  silently. 
We  hardly  spoke,  and  soon  the  gondola 
Conveyed  me  to  my  lodgings  by  the  way. 
The  following  morn  was  rainy,  cold,  and 

dim.  141 

Ere  Maddalo  arose,  I  called  on  him. 
And  whilst  I  waited,  with  his  child  I  played. 
A  lovelier  toy  sweet  Nature  never  made; 
A  serious,  subtle,  wild,  yet  gentle  being. 
Graceful  without  design,  and  unforeseeing, 
With  eyes  —  oh,  speak  not  of  her  eyes  !  — 

which  seem 
Twin  mirrors  of  Italian  heaven,  yet  gleam 
With  such  deep  meaning  as  we  never  see 
But  in  the  human  countenance.     With  me 
She  was  a  special  favorite ;  I  had  nursed 
Her  fine  and  feeble  limbs  when  she  came 

first  153 


To  this  bleak  world;  and  she  yet  seemed 

to  know 
On  second  sight  her  ancient  playfellow, 
Less  changed  than  she  was  by  six  months  or 

so; 
For,  after  her  first  shyness  was  worn  out. 
We  sate  there,  rolling  billiard  balls  about, 
When     the     Count    entered.     Salutations 

past  — 
'  The  words  you  spoke  last  night  might  well 

have  cast 
A  darkness  on  my  spirit.     If  man  be       160 
The  passive  thing  you  say,  I  should  not  see 
Much  harm  in  the  religions  and  old  saws, 
(Though   I   may  never  own   such   leaden 

laws) 
Which   break   a   teachless   nature   to   the 

Mine  is  another  faith.'    Thus  much  I  spoke. 
And  noting  he  replied  not,  added:  '  See 
This  lovely  child,  blithe,  innocent  and  free; 
She  spends  a  happy  time  with  little  care. 
While  we  to  such  sick  thoughts  subjected 

are  169 

As  came  on  you  last  night.     It  is  our  will 
Tliat  thus  enchains  us  to  permitted  ill. 
We  might  be  otherwise;  we  might  be  all 
We  dream  of  happy,  high,  majestioal. 
Where   is   the  love,  .beauty  and  truth  we 

seek. 
But  in  our  mind  ?  and  if  we  were  not  weak, 
Should  we  be  less  in  deed  than  in  desire  ?  ' 
'  Ay,  if  we  were  not  weak  —  and  we  aspire 
How  vainly  to  be  strong  ! '  said  Maddalo; 
'  You  talk  Utopia.'  '  It  remains  to  know,' 
I  then  rejoined,  'and  those  who  try  may 

find  180 

How  strong  the  chains  are  which  our  spirit 

bind ; 
Brittle  perchance  as  straw.   We  are  assured 
Much   may  be   conquered,  much   may  be 

endured 
Of  what   degrades   and   crushes  us.     We 

know 
That  we  have  power  over  ourselves  to  do 
And  suffer —  what,  we  know  not  till  we  try; 
But  something  nobler  than  to  live  and  die. 
So  taught  those  kings  of  old  philoso|)liy, 
Who   reigned   before    religion  made   men 

blind ; 
And  those  who  suffer  with  their  suffering 

kind  190 

Yet   feel   this   faitn   religion.'     '  My  dear 

friend,' 
Said  Maddalo,  '  my  judgment  will  not  bend 


JULIAN   AND   MADDALO 


155 


To  your  opinion,  though  I  think  you  might 
Make  such  a  system  refutation-tight 
As  far  as  words  go.     I  knew  one  like  you, 
Who  to  this  city  came  some  months  ago. 
With  whom  I  argued  in  this  sort,  and  he 
[3  now  gone  mad,  —  and  so  he  answered 

me,  — 
Poor  fellow  !  but  if  you  would  like  to  go, 
We  '11  visit  him,  and   his   wild  talk  will 

show  200 

How  vain  are  such  aspiring  theories.' 
•  I  hope  to  prove  the  induction  otherwise. 
And  that  a  want  of  that  true  theory  still, 
Which  seeks  "  a  soul  of  goodness  "  in  things 

ill, 
Or  in  himself  or  others,  has  thus  bowed 
His    being.     There   are    some   by   nature 

proud. 
Who  patient  in  all  else  demand  but  this  — 
To  love  and  be  beloved  with  gentleness; 
And,  being  scorned,  what  wonder  if  they  die 
Some  living  death  ?  this  is  not  destiny    210 
But  man's  own  wilful  ill.' 

As  thus  I  spoke. 
Servants  announced  the  gondola,  and  we 
Through   the   fast-falling   rain  and   high- 
wrought  sea 
Sailed  to  the  island  where  the  madhouse 

stands. 
We   disembarked.     The  clap  of  tortured 

hands, 
Fierce  yells  and  bowlings  and  lamentings 

keen. 
And  laughter  where  complaint  had  merrier 

been. 
Moans,  shrieks,  and  curses,  and  blasphem- 
ing prayers,  218 
Accosted  us.     We  climbed  the  oozy  stairs 
Into  an  old  courtyard.     I  heard  on  high. 
Then,  fragments  of  most  touching  melody. 
But  looking  up  saw  not  the  singer  there. 
Through  the  black  bars  in  the  tempestuous 

air 
I  saw,  like  weeds   on  a  wrecked   palace 

growing. 
Long  tangled  locks  flung  wildly  forth,  and 

flowing. 
Of  those  who  on  a  sudden  were  beguiled 
Into  strange  silence,  and  looked  forth  and 

smiled 
Hearing  sweet  sounds.    Then  I:  'Methinks 

there  were 
A  cure   of   these  with  patience  and    kind 
care,  nn 


If  music  can  thus  move.     But  what  is  he. 
Whom  we  seek  here  ?  '    *  Of  his  sad  history 
I  know  but  this,'  said  Maddalo:  '  he  came 
To  Venice  a  dejected  man,  and  fame 
Said  he  was  wealthy,  or  he  had  been  so. 
Some  thought  the  loss  of  fortune  wrought 

him  woe; 
But  he  was  ever  talking  in  such  sort 
As  you  do  —  far  more  sadly ;   he  seemed 

hurt. 
Even  as  a  man  with  his  peculiar  wrong. 
To  hear  but  of  the  oppression  of  the  strong. 
Or  those  absurd  deceits  (I  think  with  you 
In  some  respects,  you  know)  which  carry 

through  241 

The  excellent  impostors  of  this  earth 
When   they   outface    detection.     He    had 

worth. 
Poor  fellow  !  but  a  humorist  in  his  way.' 
'  Alas,  what  drove  him  mad  ?  '     *  I  cannot 

say; 
A  lady  came  with  him  from  France,  and 

when 
She  left   him  and  returned,  he  wandered 

then 
About  yon  lonely  isles  of  desert  sand 
Till  he  grew  wild.    He  had  no  cash  or  land 
Remaining;   the  police   had   brought   him 

here ;  250 

Some  fancy  took  him  and  he  would  not  bear 
Removal;  so  I  fitted  up  for  him 
Those  rooms  beside  the  sea,  to  please  his 

whim, 
And  sent  him  busts  and  books  and  urns  for 

flowers, 
Which   had   adorned   his    life   in  happier 

hours. 
And  instruments  of  music.    You  may  guess 
A  stranger  could  do  little  more  or  less 
For  one  so  gentle  and  mif ortunate ; 
And    those    are   his   sweet    strains    which 

charm  the  weight 
From  madmen's  chains,  and  make  this  Hell 

appear  260 

A  heaven  of  sacred  silence,  hushed  to  hear.' 
'Nay,  this  was  kind  of  you;   he   had   no 

claim. 
As  the  world  says.'    '  None  —  but  the  very 

same 
Which  I  on  all  mankind,  were  I  as  he 
Fallen  to  such  deep  reverse.     His  melody 
Is  interrupted;  now  we  hear  the  din 
Of  madmen,  shriek  on  shriek,  again  begia 
Let  us  now  visit  him ;  after  this  strain 
He  ever  communes  with  himself  again, 


«S6 


JULIAN   AND   MADDALO 


And  sees  nor  hears  not  any.'  Having  said 
These  words,  we  called  the  keeper,  and  he 

led  271 

To  an  apartment  opening  on  the  sea. 
There  the  poor  wretch  was  sitting  mourn- 

fully 
Near  a  piano,  his  pale  fingers  twined 
One  with  the  other,  and  the  ooze  and  wind 
Rushed  through  an  open  casement,  and  did 

sway 
His  hair,  and  starred  it  with  the  brackish 

spray; 
His  head  was  leaning  on  a  music-book, 
And  he  was  muttering,  and  his  lean  limbs 

shook;  279 

His  lips  were  pressed  against  a  folded  leaf, 
In  hue  too  beautiful  for  health,  and  grief 
Smiled  in  their  motions  as  they  lay  apart. 
As  one  who  wrought  from  bis  own  fervid 

heart 
The  eloquence  of  passion,  soon  he  raised 
His  sad  meek  face,  and  eyes  lustrous  and 

glazed, 
And  spoke  —  sometimes  as  one  who  wrote, 

and  thought 
His  words  might   move  some   heart  that 

heeded  not. 
If  sent  to  distant  lands;  and  then  as  one 
Reproaching  deeds  never  to  be  undone 
With  wondering  self-compassion;  then  his 

speech  290 

Was  lost  in  grief,  and  then  his  words  came 

each 
Unmodulated,  cold,  expressionless. 
But  that  from  one  jarred  accent  you  might 

guess 
It  was  despair  made  them  so  uniform ; 
And  all  the  while  the  loud  and  gusty  storm 
Hissed  through  the  window,  and  we  stood 

behind 
Stealing  his  accents  from  the  envious  wind 
Unseen.     I  yet  remember  what  he  said 
Distinctly ;  such  impression  his  words  made. 

'  Month  after  month,*  he   cried,  •  to  bear 
this  load,  300 

And,  as  a  jade  urged  by  the  whip  and  goad, 
To  drag  life  on  —  which  like  a  heavy  chain 
Lengthens  behind   with   many  a  link   of 

pain  !  — 
And  not  to  speak  my  grief  —  oh,  not  to  dare 
To  give  a  human  voice  to  my  despair, 
But  live,  and  move,  and,  wretched  thing ! 

smile  on 
As  if  I  never  went  aside  to  groan; 


And  wear  this  mask  of  fiUsehood  even  to 
those 

Who  are  most  dear  —  not  for  my  own  re- 
pose — 

Alas,  no  scorn  or  pain  or  hate  could  be    310 

So  heavy  as  that  falsehood  is  to  me  ! 

But  that  I  cannot  bear  more  altered  faces 

Than  needs  must  be,  more  changed  and 
cold  embraces. 

More  misery,  disappointment  and  mistrust 

To  own  me  for  their  father.  Would  the 
dust 

Were  covered  in  upon  my  body  now  ! 

That  the  life  ceased  to  toil  within  my  brow  ! 

And  then  these  thoughts  would  at  the  least 
be  fled; 

Let  us  not  fear  such  pain  can  vex  the  dead. 

*  What  Power  delights  to  torture  us  ?  I 
know  320 

That  to  myself  I  do  not  wholly  owe 
What  now  I  suffer,  though  in  part  I  may. 
Alas  !  none  strewed  sweet  flowers  upon  the 

way 
Where,  wandering  heedlessly,  I  met  pale 

Pain, 
My    shadow,   which    will    leave    me    not 

again. 
If  I  have  erred,  there  was  no  joy  in  error, 
But  pain  and  insult  and  unrest  and  terror; 
I  have  not,  as  some  do,  bought  penitence 
With   pleasure,  and  a  dark  yet  sweet  of- 
fence ; 
For  then  —  if  love   and    tenderness    and 
truth  330 

Had  overlived  hope's  momentary  youth. 
My  creed  should  have  redeemed  me  from 

repenting; 
But  loathed  scorn  and  outrage  unrelenting 
Met  love  excited  by  far  other  seeming 
Until  the   end  was   gained;  as  one  from 

dreaming 
Of  sweetest  peace,  I  woke,  and  found  my 

state 
Such  as  it  is  — 

*  O  Thou  my  spirit's  mate  I 
Who,  for  thou  art  compassionate  and  wise, 
Wouldst  pity  me  from  thy  most  gentle  eyes 
If   this   sad    writing    thou   shouldst    ever 

see  —  3-<o 

My  secret  groans  must  be  unheard  by  thte; 
Thou  wouldst  weep  tears  bitter  as  blood  to 

know 
Thy  lost  friend's  incommunicable  woe. 


JULIAN   AND   MADDALO 


'57 


'  Ye  few  by  whom   my   nature   has   been 

weighed 
In   friendship,  let  me   not  that  name  de- 
grade 
By  placing  on  yonr  hearts  the  secret  load 
Which  crushes  mine  to  dust.     There  is  one 

road 
To  peace,  and  that  is  truth,  which  follow 

ye  ! 
Love  sometimes  leads  astray  to  misery. 
Yet  think  not,  though  subdued  —  and  I  may 

well  3  so 

Say  that   I   am   subdued  —  that  the  full 

hell 
Within    me   would  infect    the    untainted 

breast 
Of  sacred  Nature  with  its  own  unrest; 
As  some  perverted  beings  think  to  find 
In  scorn  or  hate  a  medicine  for  the  mind 
Which  scorn  or  hate  have  wounded  —  oh, 

how  vain  ! 
The  dagger  heals  not,  but  may  rend  again  ! 
Believe  that  I  am  ever  still  the  same 
In  creed  as  in  resolve ;  and  what  may  tame 
My  heart   must  leave  the   understanding 

free,  360 

Or  all  would  sink  in  this  keen  agony; 
Nor  dream  that  I  will  join  the  vulgar  cry; 
Or  with  my  silence  sanction  tyranny; 
Or  seek  a  moment's  shelter  from  my  pain 
In  any  madness  which  the  world  calls  gain, 
Ambition  or  revenge  or  thoughts  as  stern 
As  those  which  make   me  what  I  am;  or 

turn 
To  avarice  or  misanthropy  or  lust. 
Heap  on  me  soon,  O  grave,  thy  welcome 

dust ! 
Till   then   the   dungeon    may   demand   its 

prey,  ^  J70 

Aud   Poverty  and  Shame  may   meet  and 

say,  _ 
Halting  beside  me  on  the  public  way, 
"  That  love-devoted  youth  is  ours;  let 's  sit 
Beside  him;  he  may  live  some  six  months 

yet." 

Or  the  red  scaffold,  as  our  country  bends, 
May  ask  some  willing  victim ;  or  ye,  friends, 
May  fall  under  some  sorrow,   which  this 

heart 
Or  hand  may  share  or  vanquish  or  avert; 
I  am  prepared  —  in  truth,  with  no  proud 

To  do  or  suffer  anght,  as  when  a  boy       380 
I  did  devote  to  justice  and  to  love 
My  nature,  worthless  now  I  — 


*  I  must  remove 
A   veil    from   my   pent  mind.     'Tis  torn 
aside  ! 

0  pallid  as  Death's  dedicated  bride, 
Thou    mockery   which   art   sitting   by  my 

side. 
Am  I  not  wan  like  thee  ?  at  the  grave's 
call 

1  haste,  invited  to  thy  wedding-ball, 

To  greet  the  ghastly  paramour  for  whom 
Thou   hast  deserted   me  —  and    made    the 

tomb 
Thy  bridal  bed  —  but  I  beside  your  feet  390 
Will  lie  and  watch  ye  from  my  winding- 
sheet  — 
Thus  —  wide-awake     though      dead  —  yet 

stay,  ob,  stay  ! 
Go  not  so  soon  —  I  know  not  what  I  say  — 
Hear  but  my  reasons  —  I  am  mad,  I  fear. 
My   fancy   is   o'erwrougbt  —  thou  art  not 

here; 
Pale  art  thou,   't  is  most  true  —  but  thou 

art  gone. 
Thy  work  is  finished  —  I  am  left  alone. 

'  Nay,  was   it   I  who  wooed  thee   to  this 

breast, 
Which  like  a  serpent  thou  envenomest 
As  in  repayment  of  the  warmth  it  lent  ?  400 
Didst  thou  not  seek  me  for  thine  own  con- 
tent ? 
Did  not  thy  love  awaken  mine  ?     I  thought 
That  thou  wert  she  who  said  "  You  kiss  me 

not 
Ever;  I  fear  yon  do  not  love  me  now  "  — 
In  truth  I  loved  even  to  my  overthrow 
Her  who  would  fain  forget   these   words; 

but  they 
Cling  to  her  mind,  and  cannot  pass  away. 

'  You  say  that  I  am  proud  —  that  when  I 

speak 
My  lip  is  tortured  with  the  wrongs  which 

break 
The  spirit  it  expresses.  —  Never  one        410 
Humbled  himself  before,  as  I  have  done  ! 
Even  the  instinctive   worm   on  which    we 

tread 
Turns,  though  it  wound   not  —  then  with 

prostrate  head 
Sinks  in  the  dust  and  writhes  like  me  — 

and  dies  ? 
No:  wears  a  li%ing  death  of  agonies  ! 
As  the  slow  shadows  of  the  pointed  grass 
Mark  the  eternal  periods,  his  pangs  pass. 


tS8 


JULIAN  AND   MADDALO 


Slow,  ever-moving,  making  moments  be 
As  mine  seem,  —  each  an  immortality  ! 

'That  yon  had  never  seen  me  —  never 
beard  420 

My  voice,  and  more  than  all  had  ne'er  en- 
dured 

The  deep  pollution  of  my  loathed  em- 
brace — 

That  your  eyes  ne'er  had  lied  love  in  my 
face  — 

That,  like  some  maniac  monk,  I  had  torn  out 

The  nerves  of  manhood  by  their  bleeding 
root 

With  mine  own  quivering  fingerp,  so  that 
ne'er 

Our  hearts  had  for  a  moment  mingled  there 

To  disunite  in  horror  —  these  were  not 

With  thee  like  some  suppressed  and  hideous 
thought 

Which  flits  athwart  our  musings  but  can 
find  430 

No  rest  within  a  pure  and  gentle  mind; 

Thou  sealedst  them  with  many  a  bare 
broad  word. 

And  sear'dst  my  memory  o'er  them,  —  for 
I  heard 

And  can  forget  not;  —  they  were  ministered 

One  after  one,  those  curses.     Mix  them  up 

Like  self-destroying  poisons  in  one  cup, 

And  they  will  make  one  blessing,  which 
thou  ne'er 

Didst  imprecate  for  on  me,  —  death. 

*  It  were 
A  cruel  punishment  for  one  most  cruel. 
If  such   can   love,  to   make  that  love  the 

fuel  440 

Of  the  mind's  hell  —  hate,  scorn,  remorse, 

despair; 
But  me,  whose  heart  a  stranger's  tear  might 

wear 
As  water-drops  the  sandy  fountain-stone. 
Who  loved  and  pitied  all  things,  and  could 

moan 
For  woes  which  others  hear  not,  and  could 

see 
The  absent  with  the  glance  of  fantasy, 
And  with  the  poor  and  trampled  sit  and 

weep, 
Following  the  captive  to  his  dungeon  deep; 
Me  —  who  am   as  a  nerve  o'er  which  do 

creep       .  449 

The  else  unfelt  oppressions  of  this  earth. 
And  was  to  thee  the  flame  upon  thy  hearth, 


When  all  beside  was  cold :  —  that  thou  on  me 
Shouldst  rain  these   plagues  of  blistering 

agony  ! 
Such  curses  are  from  lips  once  eloquent 
With  love's  too  partial  praise  !     Let  none 

relent 
Who  intend  deeds  too  dreadful  for  a  name 
Henceforth,  if  an  example  for  the  same 
They  seek:  —  for  thou  on  me  look'dst  so, 

and  so  — 
And   didst  speak  thus  —  and  thus.     I  live 

to  show  459 

How  much  men  bear  and  die  not ! 

'  Thou  wilt  tell 
With  the  grimace  of  hate  how  horrible 
It  was  to  meet  my  love  when  thine  grew 

less; 
Thou  wilt  admire  how  I  could  e'er  address 
Such  features  to  love's  work.     This  taunt, 

though  true, 
(For  indeed  Nature  nor  in  form  nor  hue 
Bestowed  on  me  her  choicest  workmansiiip) 
Shall  not  be  thy  defence ;  for  since  thy  lip 
Met   mine   first,  years  long   past,  —  since 

thine  eye  kindled 
With  soft  fire  under  mine,  —  I  have  not 

dwindled, 
Nor  changed  in  mind  or  body,  or  in  aught 
But  as  love  changes  what  it  loveth  not    471 
After  long  years  and  many  trials. 

'  How  vain 
Are   words !      I   thought   never  to  speak 

again. 
Not  even  in  secret,  not  to  mine  own  heart; 
But   from  my   lips  the  unwilling  accents 

start, 
And  from  my  pen  the  words  flow  as  I  write. 
Dazzling  my  eyes  with  scalding  tears  ;  my 

sight 
Is  dim  to  see  that  charactered  in  vain 
On  this  unfeeling  leaf,  which   burns  the 

brain 
And  eats  into  it,  blotting  all  things  fair  480 
And  wise  and  good  which  time  had  written 

there. 

Those  who  inflict  must  suffer,  for  they  see 
The   work   of  their  own   hearts,  and  this 

must  be 
Our    chastisement     or   recompense.  —  O 

child  ! 
I  would  that  thine  were  like  to  be  more 

mild 


JULIAN  AND   MADDALO 


159 


For  both  our  wretched  sakes,  —  for  thine 

the  most 
Who  feelest  already  all  that  thou  hast  lost 
Without  the  power  to  wish  it  thine  again; 
And  as  slow  years  pass,  a  funereal  train, 
Each  with  the  ghost  of  some  lost  hope  or 

friend  490 

Following  it  like  its  shadow,  wilt  thou  bend 
No  thought  on  my  dead  memory  ? 

•  Alas,  love  ! 
Fear  me  not  —  against  thee  I  would   not 

move 
A  finger  in  despite.     Do  I  not  live 
That  thou  mayst  have  less  bitter  cause  to 

grieve  ? 
I  give  thee  tears  for  scorn,  and  love  for 

hate; 
And  that  thy  lot  may  be  less  desolate 
Than  his  on  whom  thou  tramplest,  I  refrain 
From  that  sweet  sleep  which  medicines  all 

pain.  499 

Then,  when  thou  speakest  of  me,  never  say 
"  He  could  forgive  not."     Here  I  cast  away 
All  human  passions,  all  revenge,  all  pride; 
I  think,  speak,  act  no  ill;  I  do  but  hide 
Under   these    words,  like    embers,    every 

spark 
Of  that  which  has  consumed  me.     Quick 

and  dark 
The  grave  is  yawning  —  as  its  roof  shall 

cover 
My  limbs  with  dust  and  worms  under  and 

over, 
So  let  Oblivion  hide  this  grief  —  the  aif 
Closes  upon  my  accents  as  despair  509 

Upon  my  heart  —  let  death  upon  despair  ! ' 

He    ceased,    and      overcome    leant    back 

awhile ; 
Then  rising,  with  a  melancholy  smile, 
Went  to  a  sofa,  and  lay  down,  and  slept 
A.  heavy  sleep,  and  in  his  dreams  he  wept. 
And  muttered  some  familiar  name,  and  we 
Wept  without  shame  in  his  society. 
I  think  I  never  was  impressed  so  much ; 
The  man  who  were  not  must  have  lacked  a 

touch  518 

Of  human  nature.  —  Then  we  lingered  not, 
Although  our  argument  was  quite  forgot; 
But,  calling  the  attendants,  went  to  dine 
At  Maddalo's;  yet  neither  cheer  nor  wine 
Could  give  us  spirits,  for  we  talked  of  him 
Aud  nothing  else,  till  daylight  made  stars 

dim; 


And  we  agreed  his  was  some  dreadful  ill 
Wrought  on  him  boldly,  yet  unspeakable, 
By  a  dear  friend;  some  deadly  change  in 

love 
Of  one  vowed  deeply,  which  he  dreamed 

not  of; 
For  whose  sake  he,  it  seemed,  had  fixed  a 

blot 
Of  falsehood  on  his  mind  which  flourished 

not  530 

But  in  the  light  of  all-beholding  truth; 
And   having  stamped   this   canker  on   his 

youth 
She  had  abandoned  him  —  and  how  much 

more 
Might  be  his  woe,  we  guessed  not;  he  had 

store 
Of  friends  and  fortune  once,  as  we  could 

guess 
From  his  nice  habits  and  his  gentleness; 
These   were   now    lost  —  it   were   a   grief 

indeed 
If  he  had  changed  one  unsustaining  reed 
For  all  that  such  a  man  might  else  adorn. 
The  colors  of  his  mind  seemed  yet  unworn; 
For   the  wild   language  of   his   grief  was 

high  —  541 

Such  as  in  measure  were  called  poetry. 
And  I  remember  one  remark  wliich  then 
Maddalo  made.    He  said  — '  Most  wretched 

men 
Are  cradled  into  poetry  by  wrong; 
They  learn  in  suffering  what  they  teach  in 

song.* 

If  I  had  been  an  unconnected  man, 

I,  from  this  moment,  should  have  formed 

some  plan 
Never  to  leave  sweet  Venice,  —  for  to  me 
It  was  delight  to  ride  by  the  lone  sea;     550 
And  then  the   town   is  silent  —  one  may 

write 
Or  read  in  gondolas  by  day  or  night. 
Having  the  little  brazen  lamp  alight. 
Unseen,  uninterrupted;  books  are  there, 
Pictures,  and  casts  from  all  those  statues 

fair 
Which  were  twin-born  with  poetry,  and  all 
We  seek  in  towns,  with  little  to  recall 
Regrets  for  the  green  country.     I  might  sit 
In  Maddalo's  great  palace,  and  his  wit 
And   subtle   talk  would  cheer   the  winter 
night  560 

And  make  me  know  myself,  and  the  fire- 
light 


i6o 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


Would  flash  upon  our  faces,  till  the  day- 
Might  dawn  and  make  me  wonder  at  my 

stay. 
But   I   had   friends  in  London  too.     The 

chief 
Attraction  here  was  that  I  sought  relief 
From   the   deep   tenderness    that    maniac 

wrought 
Within  me  —  't  was  perhaps  an  idle  thought, 
But  I  imagined  that  if  day  by  day  568 

I  watched  him,  and  but  seldom  went  away, 
And  studied  all  the  beatings  of  his  heart 
With  zeal,  as  men  study  some  stubborn  art 
For  their  own  good,  and  could  by  patience 

find 
An  entrance  to  the  caverns  of  his  mind, 
I  might  reclaim  him  from  this  dark  estate. 
In  friendships  I  had  been  most  fortunate, 
Yet  never  saw  I  one  whom  I  would  call 
More  willingly  my  friend ;  and  this  was  all 
A.ccomplished  not;  such  dreams  of  baseless 

good 
Oft  come  and  go  in  crowds  and  solitude 
And  leave  no  trace,  —  but  what  I  now  de- 
signed 580 
Made,  for   long  years,  impression  on   my 

mind. 
The    following    morning,    urged    by    my 

affairs, 
I  left  bright  Venice. 

After  many  years. 
And  many  changes,  I  returned ;  the  name 
Of  Venice,  and  its  aspect,  was  the  same; 
But  Maddalo  was  travelling  far  away 
Among  the  mountains  of  Armenia. 
His  dog  was  dead.     His  child  had  now  be- 
come 588 
A  woman;  such  as  it  has  been  my  doom 
To  meet  with  few,  a  wonder  of  this  earth, 
WJiere  there  is  little  of  transcendent  worth. 


Like  one  of  Shakespeare's  women.    Kindly 

she, 
And  with  a  manner  beyond  courtesy, 
Received  her  father's  friend;  and,  when  I 

asked 
Of  the  lorn  maniac,  she  her  memory  tasked, 
And  toid,  as  she  had  heard,  the  mournful 

tale: 
'  That  the  poor  sufferer's  health  began  to 

fail 
Two  years  ffrom  my  departure,  but   that 

then 
The  lady,  who  had  left  him,  came  again. 
Her  mien  had  been  imperious,  but  she  now 
Looked     meek  —  perhaps     remorse     had 

brought  her  low.  601 

Her  coming  made   him  better,  and  they 

stayed 
Together  at  my  father's  —  for  I  played 
As  I  remember  with  the  lady's  shawl; 
I  might  be  six  years  old  —  but  after  all 
She  left  him.'    *  Why,  her  heart  must  have 

been  tough. 
How  did   it  end  ? '     '  And   was   not  this 

enough  ? 
They  met  —  they  parted.'    '  Child,  is  there 

no  more  ? ' 
*  Something  within  that  interval  which  bore 
The  stamp  of  why  they  parted,  how  they 

met;  6io 

Yet  if  thine  aged  eyes  disdain  to  wet 
Those   wrinkled   cheeks   with   youth's   re- 
membered tears. 
Ask  me  no  more,  but  let  the  silent  years 
Be  tflosed  and  cered  over  their  memory, 
As  yon  mute  marble  where  their  corpses 

lie.' 
I  urged  and  questioned  still;  she  told  me 

how 
All  happened  —  but  the  cold  world  shall 

not  know. 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

A   LYRICAL   DRAMA 

IN   FOUR  ACTS 


AUDISNB   Hi€C,    AMPHIARiB,   SUB  TEKRAM   ABDITB  ? 


Prometheus  Unbound  best  combines  the  va- 
rious elements  of  Shelley's  genius  in  their  most 
complete  expression,  and  unites  harmoniously 
his  lyrically  creative  power  of  imagination  and 


bis  'passion  for  reforming  the  world.'  It  ii» 
the  fruit  of  an  outburst  of  poetic  energy  un- 
der the  double  stimulus  of  his  enthusiastic 
Greek  studies,  begtm  under  Peacock's  influ- 


INTRODUCTORY   NOTE 


i6i 


ence,  and  of  his  delight  in  the  beauty  of  Italy, 
whither  he  had  removed  for  health  and  rest. 
It  marks  his  full  mastery  of  his  powers.  It  is, 
not  less  than  Queen  Mab  and  The  Revolt  of 
Islam,  a  poem  of  the  moral  perfection  of  man  ; 
and,  not  less  than  Alastor  and  Epipsychidion,  a 
poem  of  spiritual  ideality.  He  was  himself  in 
love  with  it :  'a  poem  of  a  higher  character 
than  anything  I  have  yet  attempted  and  jjer- 
haps  less  an  imitation  of  anytliing  that  has 
g'one  before  it,'  he  writes  to  Oilier  ;  and  again, 
*  a  poem  in  my  best  style,  whatever  that  may 
amount  to,  .  .  .  the  most  perfect  of  my  pro- 
ductions,' and  '  the  best  thing  I  ever  wrote ; ' 
and  finally  he  says,  '  Prometheus  Unbound,  -I 
must  tell  you,  is  my  favorite  poem  ;  I  charge 
you,  therefore,  especially  to  pet  him  and  feed 
him  with  fine  ink  and  good  paper.  ...  I  think, 
if  I  can  judge  by  its  merits,  the  Prometheus 
cannot  sell  beyond  twenty  copies.'  Nor  did  he 
lose  his  affection  for  it.  Trelawny  records 
him  as  saying,  '  If  that  is  not  durable  poetry, 
tried  by  the  severest  test,  I  do  not  know  what 
is.  It  is  a  lofty  subject,  not  inadequately 
treated,  and  should  not  perish  with  me.'  .  .  . 
'  My  friends  say  my  Prometheus  is  too  wild, 
ideal,  and  perplexed  with  imagery.  It  may  be 
so.  It  has  no  resemblance  to  the  Greek  drama. 
It  is  original ;  and  cost  me  severe  mental  labor. 
Authors,  like  mothers,  prefer  the  children  who 
have  given  them  most  trouble.' 

The  drama  was  begun  in  the  summer-house 
of  his  garden  at  Este  about  September,  1818, 
and  the  first  Act  had  been  finished  as  early  as 
October  8;  it  was  apparently  laid  aside,  and 
again  taken  up  at  Rome  in  the  spring  of  1819, 
■where,  under  the  circumstances  described  in 
the  preface,  the  second  and  third  Acts  were 
added,  and  the  work,  in  its  first  form,  was  thus 
completed  by  April  6.  The  fourth  Act  was 
an  afterthought,  and  was  composed  at  Florence 
toward  the  end  of  the  year.  The  whole  was 
published,  with  other  poems,  in  the  summer  of 
1820. 

The  following  extracts  from  Mrs.  Shelley's 
long  and  admirable  note  show  the  progress  of 
the  poem  during  its  composition,  the  atmo- 
sphere of  its  creation,  and  its  general  scheme : 

'  The  first  aspect  of  Italy  enchanted  Shelley ; 
it  seemed  a  garden  of  delight  placed  beneath 
a  clearer  and  brighter  heaven  than  any  he  had 
lived  under  before.  He  wrote  long  descriptive 
letters  during  the  first  year  of  his  residence  in 
Italy,  which,  as  compositions,  are  the  most 
beautiful  in  the  world,  and  show  how  truly  he 
appreciated  and  studied  the  wonders  of  nature 
and  art  in  rhat  divine  land. 

'  The  poetical  spirit  within  him  speedily  re- 
vived with  all  the  power  and  with  more  than 
all  the  beauty  of  his  first  attempts.  He  medi- 
tated three  subjects  as  the  groundwork  for 


lyrical  Dramas.  One  was  the  story  of  Tasso : 
of  this  a  slight  fragment  of  a  song  of  Tasso 
remains.  The  other  was  one  founded  on  the 
book  of  Job,  which  he  never  abandoned  iu 
idea,  but  of  which  no  trace  remains  among  his 
papers.  The  third  was  the  Prometheus  Un- 
bound. The  Greek  tragedians  were  now  his 
most  familiar  companions  in  his  wanderings, 
and  the  sublime  majesty  of  .^schylus  filled 
him  with  wonder  and  delight.  The  father  of 
Greek  tragedy  does  not  possess  the  pathos  of 
Sophocles,  nor  the  variety  and  tenderness  of 
Euripides  ;  the  interest  on  which  he  founds  his 
dramas  is  often  elevated  above  human  vicis- 
situdes into  the  mighty  passions  and  throes  of 
gods  and  demigods  —  such  fascinated  the  ab- 
stract imagination  of  Shelley. 

'  We  spent  a  month  at  Milan,  visiting  the 
Lake  of  Como  during  that  interval.  Thence  we 
passed  in  succession  to  Pisa,  Leghorn,  the  Baths 
of  Lucca,  Venice,  Kste,  Rome,  Naples,  and 
back  again  to  Rome,  whither  we  returned  early 
in  March,  1819.  During  all  this  timie  Shelley 
meditated  the  subject  of  his  drama,  and  wrote 
portions  of  it.  Other  poems  were  composed 
during  this  interval,  and  while  at  the  Bagui  di 
Lucca  he  translated  Plato's  Symposium.  But 
though  he  diversified  his  studies,  his  thoughts 
centred  in  the  Prometheus.  At  last,  when  at 
Rome,  during  a  bright  and  beautiful  spring, 
he  gave  up  his  whole  time  to  the  composition. 
The  spot  selected  for  his  study  was,  as  he  men- 
tions in  his  preface,  the  mountainous  ruins  of 
the  Baths  of  Caracalla.  These  are  little  known 
to  the  ordinary  visitor  at  Rome.  He  describes 
them  iu  a  letter,  with  that  poetry,  and  delicacy, 
and  truth  of  description,  which  rendered  his 
narrated  impressions  of  scenery  of  unequalled 
beauty  and  interest. 

'  At  first  he  completed  the  drama  in  three 
acts.  It  was  not  till  several  months  after, 
when  at  Florence,  that  he  conceived  that  a 
fourth  act,  a  sort  of  hymn  of  rejoicing  in  the 
fulfilment  of  the  prophecies  with  regard  to 
Prometheus,  ought  to  be  added  to  complete  the 
composition. 

'  The  prominent  feature  of  Shelley's  theory  of 
the  destiny  of  the  human  species  was,  that  evil 
is  not  inherent  in  the  system  of  the  creation, 
but  an  accident  that  might  be  expelled.  This 
also  forms  a  portion  of  Christianity ;  God  made 
earth  and  man  perfect,  till  he,  by  his  fall, 

'  "  Brought  death  into  the  world  and  all  our  woe." 

Shelley  believed  that  mankind  had  only  to  will 
that  there  should  be  no  evil,  and  there  would 
be  none.  It  is  not  my  part  in  these  notes  to 
notice  the  arguments  that  have  been  urged 
against  this  opinion,  but  to  mention  the  fact 
that  he  entertained  it,  and  was  indeed  attached 
to  it  with  fervent  enthusiasm.   That  man  could 


l62 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


be  30  perfectionized  as  to  be  able  to  expel  evil 
from  his  own  nature,  and  from  the  greater 
part  of  the  creation,  was  the  cardinal  point  of 
his  system.  And  the  subject  he  loved  best  to 
dwell  on,  was  the  image  of  One  warring  with 
the  Evil  Principle,  oppressed  not  only  by  it, 
but  by  all,  even  the  good,  who  were  deluded 
into  considering  evil  a  necessary  portion  of  hu- 
manity ;  a  victim  full  of  fortitude  and  hope, 
and  the  spirit  of  triumph  emanating  from  a 
reliance  in  the  ultimate  omnipotence  of  good. 
Such  he  had  depicted  in  his  last  poem,  when 
he  made  Laoii  the  enemy  and  the  victim  of 
tyrants.  He  now  took  a  more  idealized  image 
of  the  same  subject.  He  followed  certain 
classical  authorities  in  figuring  Saturn  as  the 
good  principle.  Jupiter  the  usurping  evil  one, 
and  Prometheus  as  the  regenerator,  who,  un- 
able to  bring  mankind  back  to  primitive  inno- 
cence, used  knowledge  as  a  weapon  to  defeat 
evil,  by  leading  mankind  beyond  the  state 
■wherein  they  are  sinless  through  ignorance,  to 
that  in  which  tliey  are  virtuous  through  wis- 
dom. Jupiter  punished  the  temerity  of  the 
Titan  by  chaining  hira  to  a  rock  of  Caucasus, 
and  causing  a  vulture  to  devour  his  still-re- 
newed heart.  There  was  a  prophecy  afloat  in 
heaven  portending  the  fall  of  Jove,  the  secret 
of  averting  which  was  known  only  to  Prome- 
theus ;  and  the  god  offered  freedom  from  tor- 
ture on  condition  of  its  being  communicated 
to  him.  According  to  the  mythological  story, 
this  referred  to  the  offspring  of  Thetis,  who 
was  destined  to  be  greater  than  his  father. 
Prometheus  at  last  bought  pardon  for  his 
crime  of  enriching  mankind  with  his  gifts,  by 
revealing  the  prophecy.  Hercules  killed  the 
vulture  and  set  him  free,  and  Thetis  was  mar- 
ried to  Peleus  the  father  of  Achilles. 

'  Shelley  adapted  the  catastrophe  of  this 
Story  to  his  peculiar  views.  The  son,  greater 
than  his  father,  born  of  the  nuptials  of  Jupiter 
and  Thetis,  was  to  dethrone  Evil  and  bring 
back  a  happier  reign  than  that  of  Saturn. 
Prometheus  defies  the  power  of  his  enemy, 
and  endures  centuries  of  torture,  till  the  hour 
arrives  when  Jove,  blind  to  the  real  event,  but 
darkly  guessing  that  some  great  good  to  him- 
self will  flow,  espouses  Thetis.  At  the  moment, 
the  Primal  Power  of  the  world  drives  liim  from 
his  nsurped  throne,  and  Strength,  in  the  per- 
son of  Hercules,  liber-ates  Humanity,  typified 
in  Prometheus,  from  the  tortures  generated  by 
evil  done  or  suffered.  Asia,  one  of  the  Ocean- 
ides,  is  the  wife  of  Prometheus  —  she  was, 
according  to  other  mythological  interpreta- 
tions, the  same  as  Venus  and  Nature.  When 
the  Benefactor  of  Mankind  is  liberated,  Nature 
resimies  the  beauty  of  her  prime,  and  is  united 
to  her  husband,  the  emblem  of  the  human 
race,  in    perfect    and   happy  union.     In    the 


fourth  Act,  the  poet  gives  further  scope  to  his 
imagination,  and  idealizes  the  forms  of  crea- 
tion, such  as  we  know  them,  instead  of  such 
as  they  appeared  to  the  Greeks.  Maternal 
Earth,  the  mighty  Parent,  is  superseded  by  the 
Spirit  of  the  Earth  —  the  guide  of  our  planet 
through  the  reahns  of  sky  —  while  his  fair  and 
weaker  companion  and  attendant,  the  Spirit  of 
the  Moon,  receives  bliss  from  the  annihilation 
of  Evil  in  the  superior  sphere. 

'  Shelley  develops,  more  particularly  in  the 
lyrics  of  this  drama,  his  abstruse  and  imagina- 
tive theories  with  regard  to  the  Creation.  It 
requires  a  mind  as  subtle  and  penetrating  as 
his  own  to  understand  the  mystic  meanings 
scattered  throughout  the  poem.  They  elude 
the  ordinary  reader  by  their  abstraction  and 
delicacy  of  distinction,  but  they  are  far  from 
vague.  It  was  his  design  to  write  prose  meta- 
physical essays  on  the  nature  of  Man,  which 
would  have  served  to  explain  much  of  what  is 
obscure  in  his  poetry  ;  a  few  scattered  frag- 
ments of  observations  and  remarks  alone  re- 
main. He  considered  these  philosophical  views 
of  mind  and  nature  to  be  instinct  with  the 
intensest  spirit  of  poetry. 

'  More  popular  poets  clothe  the  ideal  with 
familiar  and  sensible  imagery.  Shelley  loved 
to  idealize  the  real  —  to  gift  the  mechanism  of 
the  material  universe  with  a  soul  and  a  voice, 
and  to  bestow  such  also  on  the  most  delicate 
and  abstract  emotions  and  thoughts  of  the 
mind.  .  .  . 

'  Through  the  whole  Poem  there  reigns  a 
sort  of  calm  and  holy  spirit  of  love  ;  it  soothes 
the  tortured,  and  is  hope  to  the  expectant,  till 
the  prophecy  is  fulfilled,  and  Love,  imtainted 
by  any  evil,  becomes  the  law  of  the  world.  .  .  , 

'  The  charm  of  the  Roman  climate  helped  to 
clothe  his  thoughts  in  greater  beauty  than  they 
had  ever  worn  before  ;  and  as  he  wandered 
among  the  ruins,  made  one  with  nature  in 
their  decay,  or  gazed  on  the  Praxitelean  shapes 
that  throng  the  Vatican,  the  Capitol,  and  the 
palaces  of  Rome,  his  soul  imbibed  forms  of 
loveliness  which  became  a  portion  of  itself. 
There  are  many  passages  in  the  Prometheus 
which  show  the  intense  delight  he  received 
from  such  studies,  and  give  back  the  impression 
with  a  beauty  of  poetical  description  peculiarly 
his  own.' 

PREFACE 

The  Greek  tragic  writers,  in  selecting  as 
their  subject  any  portion  of  their  national  liis- 
tory  or  mythology,  employed  in  their  treatment 
of  it  a  certain  arbitrary  discretion.  They  by 
no  means  conceived  themselves  bound  to  ad- 
here to  the  common  interpretation  or  to  imitate 
in  story  as  in  title  their  rivals  and  predecessors, 


AUTHOR'S   PREFACE 


163 


Such  a  system  would  liave  amounted  to  a 
resignation  of  those  claims  to  preference  over 
their  competitors  which  incited  the  composition. 
The  Agaraemnoniaa  story  was  exhibited  on 
the  Athenian  theatre  with  as  many  variations 
as  dramas. 

I  have  presumed  to  employ  a  similar  license. 
The  Prometheus  Unbound  of  ^schylus  sup- 
posed the  reconciliation  of  Jupiter  with  his 
victim  as  the  price  of  the  disclosure  of  the 
danger  threatened  to  his  empire  by  the  con- 
summation of  his  marriage  with  Thetis. 
Thetis,  according  to  this  view  of  the  subject, 
was  given  in  marriage  to  Peleus,  and  Prome- 
theus, by  the  permission  of  Jupiter,  delivered 
from  his  captivity  by  Hercules.  Had  I  framed 
my  story  on  this  model,  I  should  have  done  no 
more  than  have  attempted  to  restore  the  lost 
drama  of  -^schylus ;  an  ambition  which,  if 
my  preference  to  this  mode  of  treating  the 
subject  had  incited  me  to  cherish,  the  recollec- 
tion of  the  high  comparison  such  an  attempt 
would  challenge  might  well  abate.  But,  in 
truth,  I  was  averse  from  a  catastrophe  so  feeble 
as  that  of  reconciling  the  Champion  with  the 
Oppressor  of  mankind.  The  moral  interest  of 
the  fable,  which  is  so  powerfully  sustained  by 
the  sufferings  and  endurance  of  Prometheus, 
would  be  annihilated  if  we  could  conceive  of 
him  as  unsaying  his  high  language  and  quailing 
before  his  successful  and  perfidious  adversary. 
The  only  imaginary  being,  resembling  in  any 
degree  Prometheus,  is  Satan  ;  and  Prometheus 
is,  in  my  judgment,  a  more  poetical  character 
than  Satan,  because,  in  addition  to  courage, 
and  majesty,  and  firm  and  patient  opposition 
to  omnipotent  force,  he  is  susceptible  of  being 
described  as  exempt  from  the  taints  of  ambi- 
tion, envy,  revenge,  and  a  desire  for  personal 
aggrandizement,  which,  in  the  hero  of  Paradise 
Lost,  interfere  with  the  interest.  The  charac- 
ter of  Satan  engenders  in  the  mind  a  pernicious 
casuistry  which  leads  us  to  weigh  his  faults 
with  his  wrongs,  and  to  excuse  the  former  be- 
cause the  latter  exceed  all  measure.  In  the 
minds  of  those  who  consider  that  magnificent 
fiction  with  a  religious  feeling  it  engenders 
something  worse.  But  Prometheus  is,  as  it 
were,  the  type  of  the  highest  perfection  of 
moral  and  intellectual  nature  impelled  by  the 
purest  and  the  truest  motives  to  the  best  and 
noblest  ends. 

This  Poem  was  chiefly  written  upon  the 
mountainous  ruins  of  the  Baths  of  Caracalla, 
among  the  flowery  glades  and  thickets  of  odor- 
iferous blossoming  trees,  which  are  extended 
in  ever  winding  labyrinths  upon  its  immense 
platforms  and  dizzy  arches  suspended  in  the 
air.  The  bright  blue  sky  of  Rome,  and  the 
effoct  of  the  vigorous  awakening  spring  in  that 
dikinest  climate,  and  the  new  life  with  which 


it  drenches  the  spirits  even  to  intoxication,  were 
the  inspiration  of  this  drama. 

The  imagery  which  I  have  employed  will  be 
found,  in  many  instances,  to  have  been  drawn 
from  the  operations  of  the  human  mind,  or 
from  those  external  actions  by  which  they  are 
expressed.  This  is  unusual  in  modern  poetry, 
altjiough  Dante  and  Shakespeare  are  full  of 
instances  of  the  same  kind ;  Dante  indeed 
more  than  any  other  poet,  and  with  greater 
success.  But  the  Greek  poets,  as  writers  to 
whom  no  resource  of  awakening  the  sympathy 
of  their  contemporaries  was  unknown,  were  in 
the  habitual  use  of  this  power  ;  and  it  is  the 
study  of  their  works  (since  a  higher  merit 
would  probably  be  denied  me)  to  which  I  am 
willing  that  my  readers  should  impute  this 
singularity. 

One  word  is  due  in  candor  to  the  degree  in 
which  the  study  of  contemporary  writing-s  may 
have  tinged  my  composition,  for  such  has  been  a 
topic  of  censure  with  regard  to  poems  far  more 
popular,  and  indeed  more  deservedly  popular, 
than  mine.  It  is  impossible  that  any  one,  who 
inhabits  the  same  age  with  such  writers  as 
those  who  stand  in  the  foremost  ranks  of  our 
own,  can  conscientiously  assure  himself  that 
his  language  and  tone  of  thought  may  not 
have  been  modified  by  the  study  of  the  pro- 
ductions of  those  extraordinary  intellects.  It 
is  true  that,  not  the  spirit  of  their  genius,  but 
the  forms  in  which  it  has  manifested  itself, 
are  due  less  to  the  peculiarities  of  their  own 
minds  than  to  the  peculiarity  of  the  moral  and 
intellectual  condition  of  the  minds  among  which 
they  have  been  produced.  Thus  a  number  of 
writers  possess  the  form,  whilst  they  want  the 
spirit  of  those  whom,  it  is  alleged,  they  imitate  ; 
because  the  former  is  the  endowment  of  the 
age  in  which  they  live,  and  the  latter  must  be 
the  uncommunicated  lightning  of  their  own 
mind. 

The  peculiar  style  of  intense  and  comprehen- 
sive imagery  which  distinguishes  the  modern 
literature  of  England  has  not  been,  as  a  general 
power,  the  product  of  the  imitation  of  any  par- 
ticular writer.  Tlie  mass  of  capabilities  re- 
mains at  every  period  materially  the  same  ; 
the  circumstances  which  awaken  it  to  action 
perpetually  change.  If  England  were  divided 
into  forty  republics,  each  equal  in  population 
and  extent  to  Athens,  there  is  no  reason  to 
suppose  but  that,  under  institutions  not  more 
perfect  than  those  of  Athens,  each  would  pro- 
duce philosophers  and  poets  equal  to  those  who 
(if  we  except  Shakespeare)  have  never  been 
surpassed.  We  owe  the  great  writers  of  the 
golden  age  of  our  literature  to  that  fervid 
awakening  of  the  public  mind  which  shook  to 
dust  the  oldest  and  most  oppressive  form  of 
the  Christian  religion.    We  owe  Milton  to  the 


z64 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


progress  and  development  of  the  same  spirit : 
the  sacred  Milton  was,  let  it  ever  be  remem- 
bered, a  republican  and  a  bold  inquirer  into 
morals  and  religion.  The  great  writers  of  our 
own  age  are,  we  have  reason  to  suppose,  the 
companions  and  forerunners  of  some  unima- 
gined  change  in  our  social  condition  or  the  opin- 
ions which  cement  it.  The  cloud  of  mind  is 
discharging  its  collected  lightning,  and  the 
equilibrium  between  institutions  and  opinions 
is  now  restoring  or  is  about  to  be  restored. 

As  to  imitation,  poetry  is  a  mimetic  art.  It 
creates,  but  it  creates  by  combination  and  re- 
presentation. Poetical  abstractions  are  beauti- 
ful and  new,  not  because  the  portions  of  which 
they  are  composed  had  no  previous  existence 
in  tlie  mind  of  man  or  in  Nature,  but  because 
the  whole  produced  by  their  combination  has 
some  intelligible  and  beautiful  analogy  with 
those  sources  of  emotion  and  thought  and  with 
the  contemporary  condition  of  them.  One 
great  poet  is  a  masterpiece  of  Nature  which 
another  not  only  ought  to  study  but  must 
study.  He  might  as  wisely  and  as  easily  de- 
termine that  his  mind  should  no  longer  be  the 
mirror  of  all  that  is  lovely  in  the  visible  uni- 
verse as  exclude  from  his  contemplation  the 
beautiful  which  exists  in  the  writings  of  a 
great  contemporary.  The  pretence  of  doing  it 
would  be  a  presumption  in  any  but  the  greatest; 
the  effect,  even  in  him,  would  be  strained,  un- 
natural and  ineffectual.  A  poet  is  the  com- 
bined product  of  such  internal  powers  as  mod- 
ify the  nature  of  others,  and  of  such  external 
influences  as  excite  and  sustain  these  powers  ; 
he  is  not  one,  but  both.  Every  man's  mind  is. 
in  this  respect,  modified  by  all  the  objects  of 
Nature  and  art ;  by  every  word  and  every  sug- 
gestion which  he  ever  admitted  to  act  upon  his 
consciousness  ;  it  is  the  mirror  upon  which  all 
forms  are  reflected  and  in  which  they  compose 
one  form.  Poets,  not  otherwise  than  philoso- 
phers, painters,  sculptors  and  musicians,  are, 
in  one  sense,  the  creators,  and,  in  another,  the 
creations,  of  their  age.  From  this  subjection 
the  loftiest  do  not  escape.  There  is  a  similar- 
ity between  Homer  and  Hesiod,  between  JEs- 
chylus  and  Euripides,  between  Virgil  and  Hor- 
ace, between  Dante  and  Petrarch,  between 
Shakespeare  and  Fletcher,  between  Dryden 


and  Pope ;  each  has  a  generic  resemblance 
under  which  their  specific  distinctions  are  ar- 
ranged. If  this  similarity  be  the  result  of  imi- 
tation, I  am  willing  to  confess  that  I  have 
imitated. 

Let  this  opportunity  be  conceded  to  me  of 
acknowledging  that  I  have  what  a  Scotch 
philosopher  characteristically  terms  a  '  passion 
for  reforming  the  world  :  '  what  passion  incited 
him  to  write  and  publish  his  book  he  omits  to 
explain.  For  my  part  I  had  rather  be  damned 
with  Plato  and  Lord  Bacon  than  go  to  Heaven 
with  Paley  and  Malthus.  But  it  is  a  mistake 
to  suppose  that  I  dedicate  my  poetical  compo- 
sitions solely  to  the  direct  enforcement  of  re- 
form, or  that  I  consider  them  in  any  degree  as 
containing  a  reasoned  system  on  the  theory  of 
human  life.  Didactic  poetry  is  my  abhorrence  ; 
nothing  can  be  equally  well  expressed  in  prose 
that  is  not  tedious  and  supererogatory  in  verse. 
My  purpose  has  hitherto  been  simply  to  famil- 
iarize the  highly  refined  imagination  of  the 
more  select  classes  of  poetical  readers  with 
beautiful  idealisms  of  moral  excellence  ;  aware 
that,  until  the  mind  can  love,  and  admire,  and 
trust,  and  hope,  and  endure,  reasoned  princi^ 
pies  of  moral  conduct  are  seeds  cast  upon  the 
highway  of  life  which  the  unconscious  pas- 
senger tramples  into  dust,  although  they  would 
bear  the  harvest  of  his  happiness.  Should  I 
live  to  accomplish  what  I  purpose,  that  is, 
produce  a  systematical  history  of  what  appear 
to  me  to  be  the  genuine  elements  of  human 
society,  let  not  the  advocates  of  injustice  and 
superstition  flatter  themselves  that  I  should 
take  ^schylus  rather  than  Plato  as  my  model. 

The  having  spoken  of  myself  with  unaffected 
freedom  will  need  little  apology  with  the  can- 
did ;  and  let  the  uncandid  consider  that  they 
injure  me  less  than  their  own  hearts  and  minds 
by  misrepresentation.  Whatever  talents  a 
person  may  possess  to  amuse  and  instruct 
others,  be  they  ever  so  inconsiderable,  he  is 
yet  bound  to  exert  them :  if  his  attempt  be 
ineffectual,  let  the  punishment  of  an  unaccom- 
plished purpose  have  been  sufKcient ;  let  none 
trouble  themsjelves  to  heap  the  dust  of  oblivion 
upon  his  efforts  ;  the  pile  they  raise  will  betray 
Lis  g^rave  which  might  otherwise  have  been 
miknown. 


ACT  I 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND 


^^S 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 


Pbombthkus. 
Demosobson. 

JUPITEE. 

Thb  Eabth. 
Ocean. 

Apollo. 
Mercctbt. 

HBBCUI.B8. 


Oceanides. 


Asia 
Panthka 

lONB  J 

The  Phantasm  op  Jupiteb. 
The  Spirit  of  the  Eabth. 
The  Spirit  op  thb  Moon. 
Spirits  op  the  Hours. 
Spirits.    Echobs.    Fauns. 
Furies. 


ACT   I 


Scene,  a  Havine  of  Icy  Rocks  in  the  Indian 
Caucasus.  Prometheus  is  discovered  hound 
10  the  Precipice.  Panthea  and  Ione  are 
seated  at  his  feet.  Time,  Night.  During  the 
Scene  morning  slowly  breaks. 

PROMETHEUS 

Monarch  of  Gods  and  Daemons,  and  all 
Spirits 

But  One,  who  throng  those  bright  and  roll- 
ing worlds 

Which  Thou  and  I  alone  of  living  things 

Behold  with  sleepless  eyes!  regard  this 
Earth 

Made  multitudinous  with  thy  slaves,  whom 
thou 

Requitest  for  knee-worship,  prayer,  and 
praise, 

And  toil,  and  hecatombs  of  broken  hearts, 

With  fear  and  self-contempt  and  barren 
hope; 

Whilst  me,  who  am  thy  foe,  eyeless  in  hate. 

Hast  tliou  made  reign  and  triumph,  to  thy 
scorn,  lo 

O'er  mine  own  misery  and  thy  vain  re- 
venge. 

Three  thousand  years  of  sleep-unsheltered 
hours. 

And  moments  aye  divided  by  keen  pangs 

Till  they  seemed  years,  torture  and  soli- 
tude. 

Scorn  and  despair  —  these  are  mine  em- 
pire: 

More  glorious  far  than  that  which  thou 
surveyest 

From  thine  unenvied  throne,  O  Mighty 
God! 

Almighty,  had  I  deigned  to  share  the  shame 

Of  thine  ill  tyranny,  and  hung  not  here 

Nailed  to  this  wall  of  eagle-baffling  moun- 
tain, 20 


Black,  wintry,  dead,  unmeasured;  w^ithout 

herb. 
Insect,  or  beast,  or  shape  or  sound  of  life. 
Ah  me!  alas,  pain,  paiu  ever,  forever  ! 

No  change,   no  pause,  no  hope  !     Yet   1 

endure. 
I  ask  the  Earth,  have  not  the  mountains 

felt  ? 
I  ask  you  Heaven,  the  all-beholding  Sun, 
Has  it  not  seen  ?     The  Sea,  iu  storm  or 

calm. 
Heaven's    ever-changing    shadow,   spread 

below. 
Have  its  deaf  waves  not  heard  my  agony  ? 
Ah  me!  alas,  pain,  paiu  ever,  forever  !      30 

The  crawling  glaciers  pierce  me  with  the 

spears 
Of  their  moon-freezing  crystals;  the  bright 

chains 
Eat  with  their  burning  cold  into  my  bones. 
Heaven's  wingfed  hound,  polluting  from  thy 

lips 
His  beak  in  poison  not  his  own,  tears  up 
My  heart;  and  shapeless  sights  come  wan- 
dering by. 
The  ghastlj'  people  of  the  realm  of  dream. 
Mocking  me;   and   the   Earthquake-fiends 

are  charged 
To  wrench  the  rivets  from  my  quivering 

wounds 
When  the  rocks  split  and  close  again  be- 
hind; 40 
While    from   their    loud   abysses   howling 

throng 
The  genii  of  the  storm,  urging  the  rage 
Of  whirlwind,  and  afflict  me  with   keen 

hail. 
And  yet  to  me  welcome  is  day  and  night, 
Whether  one  breaks  the  lioar-frost  of  the 

morn. 
Or  starry,  dim,  and  slow,  the  other  climbs 
The   leaden-colored  east;    for    then    they 

lead 
The  wingless,  crawling  hours,  one  among 

whom  — 
As  some  dark   Priest  hales   the  reluctant 

victim  — 
Shall   drag   thee,  cruel  King,  to  kiss   the 

blood  50 

From   these  pale  feet,  which   then  might 

trample  thee 
If  they  disdained    not   such  a  prostrate 

slave. 


i66 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


ACT  1 


Disdain  !    All,  no  !    I  pity  thee.    What  ruin 
Will   hunt  thee  undefended   through  the 

wide  Heaven! 
How  will  thy  soul,  cloven  to  its  depth  with 

terror. 
Gape  like  a  hell  within  !     I  speak  in  grief, 
Not  exultation,  for  I  hate  no  more, 
As  then  ere  misery  made  me  wise.     The 

curse 
Once  breathed  on  thee  I  would  recall.    Ye 

Mountains, 
Whose  many-voicfed  Echoes,  through  the 

mist  60 

Of  cataracts,  flung  the   thunder  of  that 

spell  ! 
Ye   icy  Springs,  stagnant   with  wrinkling 

frost. 
Which  vibrated  to  hear  me,  and  then  crept 
Shuddering  through  India  !    Thou  serenest 

Air 
Through    which    the  •  Sun   walks   burning 

without  beams  ! 
And  ye  swift  Whirlwinds,  who  on  poisM 

wings 
Hung  mute  and  moveless  o'er  yon  hushed 

abyss. 
As  thunder,  louder  than  your  own,  made 

rock 
The  orb^d  world  I     If  then  my  words  had 

power. 
Though  I  am  changed  so  that  aught  evil 

wish  70 

Is  dead  witliin;  although  no  memory  be 
Of  what  is  bate,  let  them  not  lose  it  now  ! 
W^hat  was  that  curse  ?  for  ye  all  heard  me 

speak. 

FIRST  VOICE  :  from  the  Mountains 
Thrice  three  hundred  thousand  years 

O'er  the  earthquake's  couch  we  stood; 
Oft,  as  men  convulsed  with  fears. 

We  trembled  in  our  multitude. 

SECOND  VOICE  :  from  the  Springs 
Thunderbolts  had  parched  our  water, 

We  had  been  stained  with  bitter  blood, 
And     had     run    mute,    'mid    shrieks    of 
slaughter  80 

Through  a  city  and  a  solitude. 

THIRD  VOICE  :  from  the  Air 
I  had  clothed,  since  Earth  uprose. 

Its  wastes  in  colors  not  their  own, 
And  oft  had  my  serene  repose 

Been  cloven  by  many  a  rending  groan. 


FocRTH  VOICE :  frotn  the  Whirlwinds 
We  had  soared  beneath  these  mountains 

Uurestin^I  ages;  nor  had  thunder, 
Nor  yon  volcano's  flaming  fountains, 
Nor  any  power  above  or  under 
Ever  made  us  mute  with  wonder.  gc 

FIKST   VOICE 

But  never  bowed  our  snowy  crest 
As  at  the  voice  of  thine  unrest. 

SECOND   VOICE 

Never  such  a  sound  before 
To  the  Indian  waves  we  bore. 
A  pilot  asleep  on  the  howling  sea 
Leaped  up  from  the  deck  in  agony, 
And  heard,  and  cried,  *  Ab,  woe  is  me  ! ' 
And  died  as  mad  as  the  wild  waves  be. 

THIRD   VOICE 

By  such  dread  words  from  Earth  to  Heaven 
My  still  realm  was  never  riven;  100 

When  its  wound  was  closed,  there  stood 
Darkness  o'er  the  day  like  blood. 

FOURTH   VOICE 

And  we  shrank  back :  for  dreams  of  ruin 
To  frozen  caves  our  flight  pursuing 
Made  us  keep  silence  —  thus  —  and  thus  — 
Though  silence  is  a  hell  to  us. 

THE    EARTH 

The  tongueless  caverns  of  the  craggy  hills 
Cried,  'Misery  I '  then;  the  hollow  Heaven 

replied, 
*  Misery  ! '     And  the  Ocean's  purple  waves, 
Climbing  the  land,  howled  to  the  lashing 

winds,  no 

And  the  pale  nations  heard  it,  '  Misery  ! ' 

PROMETHEUS 

I  hear  a  sound  of  voices;  not  the  voice 
Which  I  gave  forth.     Mother,  thy  sons  and 

thou 
Scorn  him,  without  whose  all-enduring  will 
Beneath  the  fierce  omnipotence  of  Jove, 
Both  they  and  thou  had  vanished,  like  thin 

mist 
Unrolled  on  the  morning  wind.     Know  ye 

not  me. 
The  Titan  ?     He  who  made  his  agony 
The  barrier  to  your  else  all-conquering  foe  ? 
O   rock-embosomed   lawns   and    snow-fed 

streams,  120 

Now  seen  athwart  frore  vapors,  deep  below, 


ACT  I 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


i6) 


Through    whose    o'ershadowiug  woods    I 

wandered  once 
With  Asia,  drinking  life  from  her  loved 

eyes; 
Why  scorns  the  spirit,  which  informs  ye, 

now 
To  com  mime   with   me?    me   alone   who 

checked. 
As  one  who  checks  a  fiend-drawn  charioteer, 
The  falsehood  and  the  force  of  him  who 

reigns 
Supreme,  and  with  the  groans  of  pining 

slaves 
Fills  your  dim  glens  and  liquid  wildernesses: 
Why  answer  ye  not,  still  ?     Brethren  ! 

THE   EARTH 

They  dare  not.  130 

PROMETHEUS 

Who  dares  ?  for  I  would  hear  that  curse 

again. 
Ha,  what  an  awful  whisper  rises  up  ! 
'T  is  scarce  like  sound;  it  tingles  through 

the  frame 
As  lightning  tingles,  hovering  ere  it  strike. 
Speak,  Spirit !  from  thine  inorganic  voice 
I  only  know  that  thou  art  moving  near 
And  love.     How  cursed  I  him  ? 

THE   EARTH 

How  canst  thou  hear 
Who  knowest  not  the  language  of  the  dead  ? 

PROMETHEUS 

Thou  art  a  living  spirit;  speak  as  they. 

THE   EARTH 

I  dare  not  speak  like  life,  lest  Heaven's 

fell  King  '  140 

Should  hear,  and  link  me  to  some  wheel  of 

pain 
More  torturing  than  the  one  whereon  I  roll. 
Subtle  thou  art  and  good;  and  though  the 

Gods 
Hear  not  this  voice,  yet  thou  art  more  than 

God, 
Being  wise  and  kind:    earnestly  hearken 

now. 

PROMETHEUS 

Obscurely  through  my  brain,  like  shadows 

dim, 
Sweep   awful  thoughts,  rapid  and  thick. 

I  feel 


Faint,  like  one  mingled  in  entwining  love; 
Yet 't  is  not  pleasure. 

THE   EARTH 

No,  thou  canst  not  hear; 
Thou  art  immortal,  and  this  tongue    is 
known  150 

Only  to  those  who  die. 

PROMETHEUS 

And  what  art  thou, 
O  melancholy  Voice  ? 

THE   EARTH 

I  am  the  Earth, 
Thy  mother;  she  within  whose  stony  veins, 
To  the  last  fibre  of  the  loftiest  tree 
Whose  thin  leaves  trembled  in  the  frozen 

air, 
Joy  ran,  as  blood  within  a  living  frame. 
When  thou  didst  from  her  bosom,  like  a 

cloud 
Of  glory,  arise,  a  spirit  of  keen  joy  ! 
And  at  thy  voice  her  pining  sous  uplifted 
Their  prostrate  brows  from  the  polluting 

dust,  160 

And  our  almighty  Tyrant  with  fierce  dread 
Grew  pale,  until  his  thunder  chained  thee 

here. 
Then  —  see  those  million  worlds  which  bum 

and  roll 
Around  us  —  their  inhabitants  beheld 
My  spherM   light  wane  in  wide  Heaven; 

the  sea 
Was  lifted  by  strange  tempest,  and  new  fire 
From     earthquake-rifted      mountains     of 

bright  snow 
Shook  its  portentous  hair  beneath  Heaven's 

frown ; 
Lightning  and  Inundation  vexed  the  plains; 
Blue   thistles   bloomed  in   cities;   foodless 

toads  17c 

Within      voluptuous      chambers     panting 

crawled. 
When  Plague  had  fallen  on  man  and  beast 

and  worm. 
And  Famine;  and  black  blight  on  herb  and 

tree; 
And  in  the  corn,  and  vines,  and  meadow- 
grass. 
Teemed  ineradicable  poisonous  weeds 
Draining  their  growth,  for  my  wan  breas« 

was  dry 
With  grief,  and  the  thin  air,  my  breath* 

was  stained 


i68 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND 


ACT  I 


With  the  contagion  of  a  mother's  hate 
Breathed  on   her  child's  destroyer;  ay,  I 

heard 
Thy  curse,  the  which,  if  thou  rememberest 

not,  i8o 

Yet  my  innumerable  seas  and  streams. 
Mountains,  and  caves,  and  winds,  and  yon 

wide  air, 
And  the  inarticulate  people  of  the  dead, 
Preserve,  a  treasured  spell.     We  meditate 
In  secret    joy  and   hope    those   dreadful 

words. 
But  dare  not  speak  them. 

PROMETHEUS 

Venerable  mother ! 
All  else  who  live  and  suffer  take  from  thee 
Some   comfort;    flowers,   and    fruits,   and 

happy  sounds, 
And  love,  though  fleeting;  these  may  not 

be  mine. 
But  mine   own  words,  I   pray,  deny  me 

not.  190 

THE   EARTH 

They  shall  be  told.    Ere  Babylon  was  dust, 
The  Magus  Zoroaster,  my  dead  child, 
Met  his  own  image  walking  in   the  gar- 
den. 
That  apparition,  sole  of  men,  he  saw. 
For  know  there  are  two  worlds  of  life  and 

death: 
One   that  which  thou  beholdest;  but   tlie 

other 
Is  underneath  the  grave,  where  do  inhabit 
The  shadows  of  all  forms  that  think  and 

live. 
Till  death  unite  them  and  they  part  no 

more ;  199 

Dreams  and  the  light  imaginings  of  men, 
And  all  that  faith  creates  or  love  desires. 
Terrible,  strange,  sublime   and   beauteous 

shapes. 
There  thou  art,  and  dost  hang,  a  writhing 

shade, 
'Mid  whirlwind-peopled  mountains;  all  the 

gods 
Are  there,  and  all  the  powers  of  nameless 

worlds, 
Vast,  sceptred  phantoms;  heroes,  men,  and 

beasts ; 
And  Demogorgon,  a  tremendous  gloom; 
And  he,  the  supreme  Tyrant,  on  his  throne 
Of  burning  gold.     Son,  one  of  these  shall 

utter 


The  curse  which  all  remember.    Call  at 
will  210 

Thine  own  ghost,  or  the  ghost  of  Jupiter, 
Hades  or  Typhon,  or  what  mightier  Gods 
From  all-prolific  Evil,  since  thy  ruin, 
Have  sprung,  and  trampled  on  my  prostrate 

sons. 
Ask,  and  they  must  reply:  so  the  revenge 
Of  the  Supreme  may  sweep  through  vacant 

shades, 
As  rainy  wind  through  the  abandoned  gate 
Of  a  fallen  palace. 

PROMETHEUS 

Mother,  let  not  aught 
Of  that  which  may  be  evil  pass  again 
My  lips,  or  those  of  aught  resembling  me. 
Phantasm  of  Jupiter,  arise,  appear  !         221 


My  wings  are  folded  o'er  mine  ears; 

My  wings  are  crossfel  o'er  mine  eyes; 
Yet  through  their  silver  shade  appears, 

And  through  their  lulling  plumes  arise, 
A  Shape,  a  throng  of  sounds. 

May  it  be  no  ill  to  thee 
O  thou  of  many  wounds  ! 
Near  whom,  for  our  sweet  sister's  sake, 
Ever  thus  we  watch  and  wake.  130 


The  sound  is  of  whirlwind  underground. 
Earthquake,  and  fire,  and  mountains 
cloven ; 
The  shape  is  awful,  like  the  sound, 

Clothed  in  dark  purple,  star-inwoven. 
A  sceptre  of  pale  gold. 

To   stay   steps  proud,  o'er  the  slow 
cloud, 
His  veined  hand  doth  hold. 
Cruel  he  looks,  but  calm  and  strong, 
Like  one  who  does,  not  suffers  wrong. 

PHANTASM   OF   JUPITER 

Why  have  the  secret  powers  of  this  strange 

world  240 

Driven  me,  a  frail  and   empty  phantom, 

hither 
On  direst  storms  ?     "What   unaccustomed 

sounds 
Are  hovering  on  my  lips,  unlike  the  voice 
With  which  our  pallid   race  hold  ghastly 

talk 
In  darkness  ?     And,  proud   sufferer,  who 

art  thou  ? 


ACT   I 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND 


169 


PBOMETHEUS 

Tremendous  Image  !  as  thou  art  mast  be 
He  whom  thou  shadowest  forth.     I  am  his 

foe, 
The  Titan.    Speak  the  words  which  I  would 

hear, 
Although  no  thought  inform  thine  empty 


THE    EARTH 

Listen  !  And  though  your  echoes  must  be 
mute,  250 

Gray  mountains,  and  old  woods,  and 
haunted  springs, 

Prophetic  caves,  and  isle  -  surrounding 
streams. 

Rejoice  to  hear  what  yet  ye  cannot  speak. 

PHANTASM 

A  spirit  seizes  me  and  speaks  within; 
It  tears  me  as  fire  tears  a  thunder-cloud. 

PANTHEA 

See   how  he   lifts   his  mighty  looks  !   the 

Heaven 
Darkens  above. 

lONB 

He  speaks  !     Oh,  shelter  me  ! 

PBOMETHEUS 

I  see  the  curse  on  gestures  proud  and  cold, 
And  looks  of  firm  defiance,  and  calm  hate. 
And   such   despair   as    mocks  itself   with 

smiles,  260 

Written  as  on  a  scroll:  yet  speak  !    Oh, 

speak ! 

PHANTASM 

Fiend,  I   defy  thee  !  with  a  calm,  fixed 
mind, 
All  that  thou  canst  inflict  I  bid  thee 
do; 

Foul  tyrant  both  of  Gods  and  human- 
kind, 
One  only  being  shalt  thou  not   sub- 
due. 

Rain  then  thy  plagues  upon  me  here, 
Ghastly  disease,  and  frenzying  fear  ; 
And  let  alternate  frost  and  fire 
Eat  into  me,  and  be  thine  ire 

Liglitning,  and  cutting  hail,  and  legioned 
forms  270 

Of  furies,  driving  by  upon  the  wounding 
storms. 


Ay,  do  thy  worst  !    Thou  art  omnipotent. 
O'er  all  things  but  thyself  I  gave  thee 
power. 
And   my  own  will.     Be  thy   swift  mis- 
chiefs sent 
To  blast   mankind,  from  yon  ethereal 
tower. 

Let  thy  malignant  spirit  move 
In  darkness  over  those  I  love; 
On  me  and  mine  I  imprecate 
The  utmost  torture  of  thy  hate; 
And  thus  devote  to  sleepless  agony,     280 
This   undeclining    head   while   thou  must 
reign  on  high. 

But  thou,  who  art  the  God  and  Lord:  O 
thou 
Who  fiUest  with  thy  soul  this  world  of 
woe. 

To  whom  all  things  of  Earth  and  Heaven 
do  bow 
In  fear  and  worship  —  all-prevailing 
foe! 

I  curse  thee  !  let  a  sufferer's  curse 
Clasp  thee, his  torturer,  like  remorse; 
Till  thine  Infinity  shall  be 
A  robe  of  envenomed  agony;         289 

And  thine  Omnipotence  a  crown  of  pain. 
To  cling  like  burning  gold  round  thy  dis- 
solving brain! 

Heap  on  thy  soul,  by  virtue  of  this  Curse, 
111   deeds;  then  be  thou  damned,  be- 
holding good; 
Both  infinite  as  is  the  universe, 

And  thou,  and  thy  self-torturing  soli- 
tude. 

An  awful  image  of  calm  power 
Though  now  thou  sittest,  let  the  hour 
Come,  when  thou  must  appear  to  be 
That  which  thou  art  internally; 
And    after   many  a  false  and  fruitless 
crime,  300 

Scorn    track     thy    lagging    fall    through 
boundless  space  and  time  ! 

PROMETHEUS 

Were  these  my  words,  O  Parent  ? 

THE  EARTH 

They  were  thine. 

PROMETHEUS 

It  doth  repent  me;  words  are  quick  and 
vain; 


IJO 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND 


ACT  1 


Grief  for  awhile  is  blind,  and  so  was  mine. 
I  wish  no  living  thing  to  suffer  pain. 

THE  EAKTH 

Misery,  oh,  misery  to  nie, 

That   Jove    at    length  should  vanquish 

thee! 

Wail,  howl  aloud.  Land  and  Sea,  308 

The  Earth's  rent  heart  shall  answer  ye  ! 

Howl,  Spii'its  of  the  living  and  the  dead, 

four  refuge,  your  defence,  lies  fallen  and 

vanquished ! 

FIKST  ECHO 

Lies  fallen  and  vanquished  ! 

SECOND  ECHO 

Fallen  and  vanquished  ! 


Fear  not:  *t  is  but  some  passing  spasm, 

The  Titan  is  unvanquished  still. 
But  see,  where  through  the  azure  chasm 

Of  yon  forked  and  snowy  hill, 
Trampling  the  slant  winds  on  high 

With  golden-sandalled  feet,  that  glow 
Under  plumes  of  purple  dye,     320 
Like  rose-ensanguined  ivory, 
A  Shape  comes  now. 
Stretching  on  high  from  his  right  hand 
A  serpent-cinctured  wand. 

PANTHEA 

Tis  Jove's  world- wandering  herald,  Mer- 
cury. 


And  who  are  those  with  hydra  tresses 
And  iron  wings,  that  climb  the  wind, 

Whom  the  frowning  God  represses,  — 
Like  vapors  steaming  up  behind, 

Clanging  loud,  an  endless  crowd  ?  330 

PANTHEA 

These     are    Jove's     tempest-walking 
hounds, 
Whom  he  gluts  with  groans  and  blood, 
When  charioted  on  sulphurous  cloud 

He  bursts  Heaven's  bounds. 


Are  they  now  led  from  the  thin  dead 
On  new  pangs  to  be  fed  ? 


PANTHEA 

The  Titan  looks  as  ever,  firm,  not  proud. 

FIBST  FUBY 

Ha  !  I  scent  life  ! 

SECOND  F0KT 

Let  me  but  look  into  his  eyes  1 

THIRD  FURY 

The  hope  of   torturing  him  smells  like  a 

heap 
Of  corpses  to  a  death-bird  after  battle.   34c 

FIRST  FUKT 

Darest  thou  delay,  O  Herald  !  take  cheer, 

Hounds 
Of  Hell:  what  if  the  Son  of  Maia  soon 
Should  make  us  food  and  sport  —  who  can 

please  long 
The  Omnipotent? 

MERCITBY 

Back  to  your  towers  of  iron. 

And  gnash,  beside  the  streams  of  fire  and 
wail, 

Your  food  less  teeth.  Geryon,  arise  !  and 
Gorgon, 

Chimsera,  and  thou  Sphinx,  subtlest  of 
fiends. 

Who  ministered  to  Thebes  Heaven's  poi- 
soned wine,  348 

Unnatural  love,  and  more  unnatural  hate: 

These  shall  perform  your  task. 

FIRST  FCKY 

Oh,  mercy  !  mercy  ! 
We  die  with  our  desire  !  drive  us  not  back  I 

MERCURY 

Crouch  then  in  silence. 

Awful  Sufferer ! 
To  thee  unwilling,  most  unwillingly 
I  come,  by  the  great  Father's  will  driven 

down. 
To  execute  a  doom  of  new  revenge. 
Alas  !  I  pity  thee,  and  hate  myself 
That  I  can  do  no  more ;  aye  from  thy  sight 
Returning,   for  a  season.   Heaven  seems 

Hell, 
So  thy  worn  form  pursues  me  night  and  day, 
Smiling  reproach.     Wise  art  thou,  firm  and 

good,  36c 


ACT  I 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


171 


But  vainly  wouldst  stand   forth  alone   in 

strife 
Against    the    Omnipotent;    as  yon    clear 

lamps, 
Tliat  measure  and  divide  the  weary  years 
From  which  there  is  no  refuge,  long  have 

taught 
And  long  must  teach.     Even  now  thy  Tor- 
turer arms 
With   the   strange   might   of    uuimagined 

pains 
The  powers  who  scheme  slow  agonies   in 

Hell, 
And  my  commission  is  to  lead  them  here, 
Or  what  more  subtle,  foul,  or  savage  fiends 
People  the  abyss,  and  leave  them  to  their 

task.  370 

Be  it  not  so  !  there  is  a  secret  known 
To  thee,  and  to  none  else  of  living  things. 
Which  may  transfer  the  sceptre  of  wide 

Heaven, 
The  fear  of  which  perplexes  the  Supreme. 
Clothe   it  in  words,  and  bid  it  clasp  his 

throne 
In  intercession;  bend  thy  soul  in  prayer. 
And  like  a  suppliant  in  some  gorgeous  fane. 
Let  the   will  kneel   within    thy   haughty 

heart. 
For  benefits  and  meek  submission  tame 
The  fiercest  and  the  mightiest. 

PROMETHEUS 

Evil  minds 
Change  good  to  their  own  nature.     I  gave 

all  381 

He  has;  and  in  return  he  chains  me  here 
Years,  ages,  night  and  day;   whether  the 

Sun 
Split  my  parched  skin,  or  in   the  moony 

night 
The  crystal-wingfed  snow  cling  round  my 

hair; 
Whilst  my  beloved  race  is  trampled  down 
By  his  thought-executing  ministers. 
Such  is  the  tyrant's  recompense.    'T  is  just. 
He  who  is  evil  can  receive  no  good; 
And  for  a  world   bestowed,  or  a  friend 

lost. 
He  can  feel  hate,  fear,  shame;  not  grati- 
tude. 391 
He  but  requites  me  for  his  own  misdeed. 
Kindness  to  such  is  keen  reproach,  which 

breaks 
With  bitter  stings  the  light  sleep  of  He- 

veuge. 


Submission  thou  dost  know  I  cannot  try. 
For  what  submission  but  that  fatal  word, 
The  death-seal  of  mankind's  captivity. 
Like  the  Sicilian's  hair-suspended  sword. 
Which  trembles  o'er  his  crown,  would  he 

accept. 
Or  could  1  yield  ?     Which  yet  I  will  not 

yield.  400 

Let   others    flatter   Crime    where    it    sits 

throned 
In  brief  Omnipotence;  secure  are  thej'; 
For  Justice,  when   triumphant,  will  weep 

down 
Pity,  not  punishment,  on  her  own  wrongs. 
Too  much  avenged  by  those  who  err.     I 

wait. 
Enduring  thus,  the  retributive  hour 
Which    since   we    spake    is   even   nearer 

now. 
But  hark,   the   hell-hounds   clamor:    fear 

delay: 
Behold  !  Heaven  lowers  under  thy  Father's 

frown.  409 

MERC0RT 

Oh,  that  we  might  be  spared;  I  to  inflict, 
And   thou  to  suffer !     Once  more  answer 

me. 
Thou  knowest   not   the   period  of  Jove's 

power  ? 

PROMETHEUS 

I  know  but  this,  that  it  must  come. 

UERCUBT 

Alas! 
Thou  canst  not  count  thy  years  to  come  of 
pain ! 

PROMETHEUS 

They  last  while    Jove   must    reign;    nor 

more,  nor  less 
Do  I  desire  or  fear. 

MERCURY 

Yet  pause,  and  plunge 
Into  Eternity,  where  recorded  time. 
Even  all  that  we  imagine,  age  on  age. 
Seems  but  a  point,  and  the  reluctant  mind 
Flags  wearily  in  its  unending  flight,         420 
Till  it  sink,  dizzy,  blind,  lost,  shelterless; 
Perchance  it   has  not  numbered  the  slow 

years 
Which  thou  must  spend  in  torture,  unre- 

prieved  ? 


172 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


ACT   I 


PKOMETHEUS 

Perchance  no  thought  can  count  theni,  yet 
they  pass. 

MEBCUBY 

If  thou  mightst  dwell  among  the  Gods  the 

while, 
Lapped  in  voluptuous  joy  ? 

FKOJLETHECS 

I  would  not  quit 
This  bleak  ravine,  these  unrepentant  pains. 

MERCURY 

Alas  !  I  wonder  at,  yet  pity  thee. 

PBOMETHEUS 

Pity  the  self-despising  slaves  of  Heaven, 
Not    me,    within    whose   mind   sits   peace 

serene,  430 

As  light  in  the  sun,  throned.     How  vain  is 

talk! 
Call  up  the  fiends. 

lONE 

Oh,  sister,  look  !     White  fire 
Has  cloven   to  the  roots  yon   huge  snow- 
loaded  cedar; 
How   fearfully  God's   thunder  howls   be- 
hind I 

MERCURY 

I  mast  obey  his  words  and  thine.     Alas  ! 
Most  heavily  remorse  hangs  at  my  heart ! 

PANTHEA 

See  where  the  child  of  Heaven,  with  wingfed 

feet, 
Runs   down  the   slanted  sunlight   of    the 

dawn. 


Dear  sister,  close  thy  plumes  over  thine 

eyes 
Lest  thou   behold  and  die;  they  come  — 

they  come  —  440 

Blackening  the  birth  of  day  with  countless 

wings, 
And  hollow  underneath,  like  death. 


FIRST  FUBY 


8EC0m>  FURY 

Immortal  Titan  I 


Prometheus  I 


THIRD  FUKY 

Champion  of  Heaven's  slaves  I 

PROMETHEUS 

He  whom  some  dreadful  voice  invokes  is 
here, 

Prometheus,  the  chained  Titan.  Horrible 
forms, 

What  and  who  are  ye  ?  Never  yet  there 
came 

Phantasms  so  foul  through  monster-teeming 
Hell 

From  the  all-miscreative  brain  of  Jove. 

Whilst  I  behold  such  execrable  shapes, 

Methinks  I  grow  like  what  1  contemplate, 

And  laugh  and  stare  in  loathsome  sym- 
pathy. 45, 

FIRST  FURY 

We  are  the  ministers  of  pain,  and  fear. 

And  disappointment,  and  mistrust,  and 
hate, 

And  clinging  crime;  and  as  lean  dogs  pur- 
sue 

Through  wood  and  lake  some  struck  and 
sobbing  fawn. 

We  track  all  things  that  weep,  and  bleed, 
and  live. 

When  the  great  King  betrays  them  to  our 
wUl. 

PROMETHEUS 

0  many  fearful  natures  in  one  name, 

1  know   ye;  and   these   lakes  and  echoes 

know 
The   darkness   and   the   clangor    of    your 

wings  !  460 

But   why  more  hideous  than  your  loathed 

selves 
Gather  ye  up  in  legions  from  the  deep  ? 

SECOND  FURY 

We  knew  not  that.  Sisters,  rejoice,  re- 
joice I 

PROMETHEUS 

Can  aught  exult  in  its  deformity  ? 

SECOND  FURY 

The  beauty  of  delight  makes  lovers  glad, 

Gazing  on  one  another:  so  are  we. 

As  from  the  rose  which  the  pale  priestess 

kneels 
To  gather  for  her  festal  crown  of  flowers 
The  aerial  crimson  falls,  flushing  her  cheek, 


ACT   I 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


173 


So  from  our  victim's  destined  agony        470 
The   shade   which  is  our  form  invests  us 

round ; 
Else  we  are  shapeless  as  our  mother  Night. 

PROMETHEUS 

I  laugh  your  power,  and  his  who  sent  you 

here, 
To  lowest  scorn.     Pour  forth   the  cup  of 

pain. 

FIEST  FURY 

Thou  thinkest  we  will  rend  thee  bone  from 

bone 
And   nerve   from  nerve,  working  like  fire 

within  ? 

PROMETHEUS 

Pain  is  my  element,  as  hate  is  thine; 
Ye  rend  me  now;  I  care  not. 

SECOKD  FURY 

Dost  imagine 
We  will  but  laugh  into  thy  lidless  eyes  ? 

PROMETHEUS 

I   weigh  not   what  ye    do,  but  what   ye 

suffer, 
Being  evil.     Cruel   was   the  power  which 

called  481 

You,  or  aught  else  so  wretched,  into  light. 

THIRD  FURY 

Thou  think'st   we  will   live  through  thee, 

one  by  one, 
Like  animal  life,  and  though  we  can  obscure 

not 
The  soul  which  burns  within,  that  we  will 

dwell 
Beside  it,  like  a  vain  loud  multitude. 
Vexing  the  self-content  of  wisest  men; 
That  we  will  he  dread  thought  beneath  thy 

brain, 
And  foul    desire   round   thine    astonished 

heart. 
And  blood  within  thy  labyrinthine  veins  490 
Crawling  like  agony  ? 

PROMETHEUS 

Why,  ye  are  thus  now; 
Yet  am  I  king  over  myself,  and  rule 
The     torturing    and    conflicting     throngs 

within. 
As  Jove  rules  you  when  Hell  grows  muti- 

coas. 


CHORUS  OF  FURIES 

From  the  ends  of  the  earth,  from  the  ends 

of  the  earth. 
Where  the    night  has  its  grave  and  the 
morning  its  birth. 
Come,  come,  come  I 
O  ye   who  shake  hills  with  the  scream  of 

your  mirth 
When  cities  sink  howling  in  ruin;  and  ye 
Who  with  wingless  footsteps  trample  the 
sea,  500 

And  close  upon  Shipwreck  and  Famine's 

track 
Sit  chattering  with   joy   on   the   foodless 
wreck; 

Come,  come,  come  ! 
Leave  the  bed,  low,  cold,  and  red, 
Strewed  beneath  a  nation  dead; 
Leave  the  hatred,  as  in  ashes 

Fire  is  left  for  future  burning; 
It  will  burst  in  bloodier  flashes 

When  ye  stir  it,  soon  returning; 
Leave  the  self-contempt  implanted       510 
In  young  spirits,  sense-enchanted, 

Misery's  yet  unkiudled  fuel; 
Leave  Hell's  secrets  half  unchanted 

To  the  maniac  dreamer;  cruel 
More  than  ye  can  be  with  hate 
Is  he  with  fear. 

Come,  come,  come  ! 
We  are  steaming  up  from  Hell's  wide  gate 
And  we  burden  the  blasts  of  the  atmo- 
sphere. 
But  vainly  we  toil  till  ye  come  here.    520 


Sister,  I  hear  the  thunder  of  new  wings. 

PANTHEA 

These  solid  mountains  quiver  with  the  sound 
Even  as  the  tremulous  air;  their  shadows 

make 
The  space  within  my  plumes  more  black 

than  night. 

FIRST   FURY 

Your  call  was  as  a  vnng^d  car. 
Driven  on  whirlwinds  fast  and  far; 
It  rapt  us  from  red  gulfs  of  war. 

SECOND  FURY 

From  wide  cities,  famine- wasted; 

THIRD   FURY 

Groans  half  heard,  and  blood  untasted; 


'74 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


ACT  I 


FOUBTH   FUEY 

Kingly  conclaves  stern  and  cold,  530 

Where  blood  with  gold  is  bought  and  sold ; 

FIFTH   FUBY 

From  the  furnace,  white  and  hot, 
In  which  — 

A  FUBY 

Speak  not;  whisper  not; 
I  know  all  that  ye  would  tell, 

But  to  speak  might  break  the  spell 
Which  must  bend  the  Invincible, 
The  stern  of  thought; 
He  yet  defies  the  deepest  power  of  Hell. 


Tear  the  veil ! 

ANOTHEB   FUBY 

It  is  torn. 

CHOBUS 

The  pale  stars  of  the  morn 
Shine  on  a  misery,  dire  to  be  borne.  540 
Dost    thou    faint,    mighty    Titan?       We 

laugh  thee  to  scorn. 
Dost  thou  boast  the  clear  knowledge  thou 

waken'dst  for  man  ? 
Then   was   kindled   within  him    a    thirst 

which  outran 
Those  perishing  waters;  a  thirst  of  fierce 

fever, 
Hope,  love,  doubt,  desire,  which  consume 
him  forever. 
One  came  forth  of  gentle  worth. 
Smiling  on  the  sanguine  earth; 
His  words  outlived  him,  like  swift  poison 

Withering  up  truth,  peace,  and  pity. 
Look  !  where  round  the  wide  horizon  550 

Many  a  million-peopled  city 
Vomits  smoke  in  the  bright  air  ! 
Mark  that  outcry  of  despair  ! 
'T  is  his  mild  and  gentle  ghost 

Wailing  for  the  faith  he  kindled. 
Look  again  !  the  flames  almost 

To  a  glow-worm's  lamp  have  dwindled; 
The  survivors  round  the  embers 
Gather  in  dread. 

Joy,  joy,  joy  !  560 

Past  ages  crowd  on  thee,  but  each  one  re- 
members. 
And  the  future  is  dark,  and  the  present  is 
spread 


Like  a  pillow  of  thorns  for  thy  slumberless 
head. 

SEMICHOBUS   I 

Drops  of  bloody  agony  flow 

From  his  white  and  quivering  brow. 

Grant  a  little  respite  now. 

See  !  a  disenchanted  nation 

Springs  like  day  from  desolation; 

To  Truth  its  state  is  dedicate. 

And  Freedom  leads  it  forth,  her  mate; 

A  legioned  band  of  linked  brothers,     571 

Whom  Love  calls  children  — 

SEMICHOBUS  II 

'Tis  another's. 
See  how  kindred  murder  kin  ! 
'T  is  the  vintage-time  for  Death  and  Sin; 
Blood,  like  new  wine,  bubbles  within; 
Till  Despair  smothers 
The  struggling   world,   which   slaves  and 
tyrants  win. 

[AH  the  FuBiES  vanish,  except  one. 


Hark,  sister  !  what  a  low  yet  dreadful  groan 
Quite  unsuppressed  is  tearing  up  the  heart 
Of  the  good  Titan,  as  storms  tear  the  deep. 
And  beasts  hear  the  sea  moan  in  inland 

caves.  581 

Darest  thou  observe  how  the  fiends  torture 

him  ? 

PANTHEA 

Alas  !  I  looked  forth  twice,  but   will  no 
more. 

lONB 

What  didst  thou  see  ? 

PANTHEA 

A  woful  sight:  a  yoath 
With  patient  looks  nailed  to  a  crucifix. 


What  next  ? 


The  heaven  around,  the  earth  below. 
Was  peopled  with  thick  shapes  of  human 

death. 
All  horrible,  and  wrought  by  human  hands; 
And   some  appeared  the   work  of  human 

hearts,  589 


ACT  I 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


1 75 


For  men  were  slowly  killed  by  frowus  and 

smiles; 
And  other  sights  too  foul  to  speak  and  live 
Were  wandering   by.     Let  us  not  tempt 

worse  fear 
By  looking  forth;  those  groans  are  grief 

enough. 


Behold  an  emblem:  those  who  do  endure 
Deep  wrongs  for  man,  and  scorn,  and  chains, 

but  heap 
Thousand-fold  torment  on  themselves  and 

him. 

PKOMETHEUS 

Remit  the  anguish  of  that  lighted  stare; 
Close  those  wan  lips;  let  that  thorn- wounded 

brow 
Stream   not  with  blood;  it  mingles  with 

thy  tears  ! 
Fix,  fix  those  tortured  orbs  in  peace  and 

death,  600 

So  thy  sick  throes  shake  not  that  crucifix. 
So   those   pale  fingers  play  not  with   thy 

gore. 
Oh,  horrible  !  Thy  name  I  will  not  speak  — 
It  hath  become  a  curse.     I  see,  I  see 
The  wise,  the  mild,  the  lofty,  and  the  just, 
Whom  thy  slaves  hate  for  being  like  to 

thee, 
Some  hunted  by  foul  lies  from  their  heart's 

home, 
An  early-chosen,  late-lamented  home. 
As  hooded  ounces  cliug  to  the  driven  hind; 
Some   linked  to   corpses   in  unwholesome 

cells;  610 

Some  —  hear  I   not  the   multitude  laugh 

loud?  — 
Impaled    in    lingering    fire;    and    mighty 

realms 
Float  by  my  feet,  like  sea-uprooted  isles. 
Whose  sons  are  kneaded  down  in  common 

blood 
By   the   red   light   of  their   own  burning 

homes. 


Blood  thou  canst  see,  and  fire;  and  canst 
hear  groans : 

Worse  things  unheard,  unseen,  remain  be- 
hind. 


PBOMETBSUS 


Worse? 


rUKY 

In  each  human  heart  terror  survives 
The  ruin  it  has  gorged:  the  loftiest  fear 
All  that  they  would  disdain  to  think  were 

true.  620 

Hypocrisy  and  custom  make  their  minds 
The  fanes  of  many  a  worship,  now  outworn. 
They  dare   not  devise  good  for  man's  es- 
tate. 
And  yet  they  know  not  that  they  do  not 

dare. 
The  good  want  power,  but  to  weep  barren 

tears. 
The  powerful  goodness  want;  worse  need 

for  them. 
The  wise  want  love;  and  those  who  love 

want  wisdom ; 
And  all  best  things  are  thus  confused  to 

ill. 
Many  are  strong  and  rich,  and  would  be 

just,  629 

But  live  among  their  suffering  fellow-men 
As  if  none  felt;  they  know  not  what  they 
do. 

PKOMETHEUS 

Thy    words   are  like  a  cloud  of  wingM 

snakes; 
And  yet  I  pity  those  they  torture  not. 

FURY 

Thou  pitiest  them  ?    I  speak  no  more  ! 

[  Vanishes. 

PROMETHEUS 

Ah  woe  ! 
Ah  woe  !     Alas  !  pain,  pain  ever,  forever  ! 
I  close  my  tearless  eyes,  but  see  more  clear 
Thy  works  within  my  woe-illumfed  mind. 
Thou    subtle    tyrant  !     Peace    is    in    the 

grave. 
The  grave  hides  all  things  beautiful  and 

good. 
I  am  a  God  and  cannot  find  it  there,         640 
Nor  would  I  seek  it  ;    for,  though   dread 

revenge. 
This  is  defeat,  fierce  king,  not  victory. 
The  sights  with  which  thou  torturest  gird 

my  soul 
With  new  endurance,  till  the  hour  arrives 
When  they  shall   be   no  types  of  things 

which  are. 

PANTHEA 

Alas  !  what  sawest  thou  ? 


176 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


ACT  I 


PKOMETHKUS 

There  are  two  woes  — 

To  speak  and  to  behold;  thou  spare  me 
one. 

Names  are  there,  Nature's  sacred  watch- 
words, they 

Were  borne  aloft  in  bright  emblazonry; 

The  nations  thronged  around,  and  cried 
aloud,  650 

As  with  one  voice.  Truth,  Liberty,  and 
Love  ! 

Suddenly  fierce  confusion  fell  from  heaven 

Among  them;  there  was  strife,  deceit,  and 
fear; 

Tyrants  rushed  in,  and  did  divide  the  spoil. 

This  was  the  shadow  of  the  truth  I  saw. 

THE   EARTH 

I  lelt  thy  torture,  son,  with  such  mixed 

joy 
As   pain   and  virtue   give.     To  cheer  thy 

state 
I  bid  ascend  those  subtle  and  fair  spirits. 
Whose  homes  are  the  dim  caves  of  human 

thought,  659 

And  who  inhabit,  as  birds  wing  the  wind, 
Its  world-surrounding  ether;  they  behold 
Beyond  that  twilight  realm,  as  in  a  glass, 
The  future;  may   they   speak  comfort   to 

thee! 

PANTHEA 

Look,  sister,  where  a  troop  of  spirits  ga- 
ther, 

Like  flocks  of  clouds  in  spring's  deliglitf  ul 
weather, 

Thronging  in  the  blue  air  ! 


And  see  !  more  come, 
Like  fountain-vapors  when  the  winds  are 

dumb, 
That  climb  up  the  ravine  in  scattered  lines. 
And  hark  !  is  it  the  music  of  the  pines  ? 
Is  it  the  lake  ?     Is  it  the  waterfall  ?      670 

PANTHEA 

Tia  something  sadder,  sweeter  far  than 
all. 

CHOBUS  OF  spmrrs 

From  unremembered  ages  we 
Gentle  guides  and  guardians  be 
Of  heaven-oppressed  mortality; 


And  we  breathe,  and  sicken  not, 
The  atmosphere  of  human  thought: 
Be  it  dim,  and  dank,  and  gray. 
Like  a  storm-extinguished  day. 
Travelled  o'er  by  dying  gleams; 

Be  it  bright  as  all  between  68< 

Cloudless  skies  and  windless  streams. 

Silent,  liquid,  and  serene  ; 
As  the  birds  within  the  wind. 

As  the  fish  within  the  wave. 
As  the  thoughts  of  man's  own  mind 

Float  through  all  above  the  grave; 
We  make  there  our  liquid  lair, 
Voyaging  cloudlike  and  unpent 
Through  the  boundless  element: 
Thence  we  bear  the  prophecy  690 

Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee  I 


More  yet  come,  one  by  one;  the  air  around 

them 
Looks  radiant  as  the  air  around  a  star. 

FIRST    SPIRIT 

On  a  battle-trumpet's  blast 
I  fled  hither,  fast,  fast,  fast, 
'Mid  the  darkness  upward  cast. 
From  the  dust  of  creeds  outworn, 
From  the  tyrant's  banner  torn. 
Gathering  round  me,  onward  borne. 
There  was  mingled  many  a  cry  —        700 
Freedom  !  Hope  !  Death  !  Victory  1 
Till  they  faded  through  the  sky; 
And  one  sound  above,  around, 
One  sojuid  beneath,  around,  above, 
Was  moving;  't  was  the  soul  of  love; 
'T  was  the  hope,  the  prophecy, 
Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee. 

SECOND   SPIRIT 

A  rainbow's  arch  stood  on  the  sea, 
Which  rocked  beneath,  immovably; 
And  the  triumphant  storm  did  flee,     710 
Like  a  conqueror,  swift  and  proud, 
Begirt  with  many  a  captive  cloud, 
A  shapeless,  dark  and  rapid  crowd, 
Each  by  lightning  riven  in  half. 
J  heard  the  thunder  hoarsely  laugh. 
Mighty  fleets  were  strewn  like  chaff 
And  spread  beneath  a  hell  of  death 
O'er  the  white  waters.     I  alit 
On  a  great  ship  lightning-split, 
And  speeded  hither  on  the  sigh  jzo 

Of  one  who  gave  an  enemy 
His  plank,  then  plunged  aside  to  die. 


ACT   I 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


177 


THIKD   SPIRIT 

I  sat  beside  a  sage's  bed, 

And  the  lamp  was  burning  red 

Near  the  book  where  he  had  fed. 

When  a  Dream  with  plumes  of  flame 

To  his  pillow  hovering  came, 

And  I  knew  it  was  the  same 

Which  had  kindled  long  ago 

Pity,  eloquence,  and  woe;  730 

And  the  world  awhile  below 

Wore  the  shade  its  lustre  made. 

It  has  borne  me  here  as  fleet 

As  Desire's  lightning  feet; 

I  must  ride  it  back  ere  morrow, 

Or  the  sage  will  wake  in  sorrow. 

FOURTH   SPIRIT 

On  a  poet's  lips  I  slept 
Dreaming  like  a  love-adept 
In  the  sound  his  breathing  kept; 
Nor  seeks  nor  finds  he  mortal  blisses,      740 
But  feeds  on  the  aerial  kisses 
Of    shapes   that    haunt   thought's  wilder- 
nesses. 
He  will  watch  from  dawai  to  gloom 
The  lake-reflected  sun  illume 
The  yellow  bees  in  the  ivy-bloom. 
Nor  heed  nor  see  what  things  they  be; 
But  from  these  create  he  can 
Forms  more  real  than  living  man, 
Nurslings  of  immortality  ! 
One  of  these  awakened  me,  750 

And  I  sped  to  succor  thee. 


Behold'st  thou  not   two  shapes  from  the 

east  and  west 
Come,  as  two  doves  to  one  belovfed  nest. 
Twin  nurslings  of  the  all-sustaining  air, 
On  swift  still  wings   glide  down  the  at- 
mosphere ? 
And,  hark  !    their  sweet  sad  voices  !    't  is 

despair 
Mingled  with  love  and  then  dissolved  in 
sound. 

PANTHEA 

Canst  thou  speak,  sister  ?  all  my  words  are 
drowned. 


Their  beauty  gives  me   voice.     See  how 

they  float 
On  their  sustaining  wings  of  skyey  grain,  760 


Orange  and  azure  deepening  into  gold  ! 
Their  soft  smiles  light  the  air  like  a  star's 
fire. 

OHOBXTS   OF  BPIBTtS 

Hast  thou  beheld  the  form  of  Love  ? 

FIFTH   SPIRIT 

As  over  wide  dominions 
I  sped,  like  some  swift  cloud  that  wings 

the  wide  air's  wildernesses. 
That  planet-crested    Shape  swept  by  on 

lightning-braided  pinions. 
Scattering  the  liquid  joy  of  life  from  his 

ambrosial  tresses. 
His  footsteps  paved  the  world  with  light; 

but  as  I  passed  't  was  fading. 
And  hollow  Ruin  yawned   behind;    great 

sages  bound  in  madness, 
And  headless  patriots,  and  pale  youths  who 

perished,  unupbraidiug. 
Gleamed  in  the  night.     I  wandered  o'er, 

till  thou,  O  King  of  sadness,         770 
Turned  by  thy  smile  the  worst  I  saw  to 

recollected  gladness. 

SIXTH  SPIRIT 

Ah,  sister  !     Desolation  is  a  delicate  thing: 
It  walks  not  on  the  earth,  it  floats  not  on 

the  air, 
But  treads  with  killing  footstep,  and  fans 

with  silent  wing 
The  tender  hopes  which  in  their  hearts  the 

best  and  gentlest  bear; 
Who,  soothed  to  false  repose  by  the  fan- 
ning plumes  above 
And  the  music-stirring  motion  of  its  soft 

and  busy  feet, 
Dream  visions  of  aerial  joy,  and  call  the 

monster,  Love, 
And  wake,  and  find  the  shadow  Pain,  as 

he  whom  now  we  srreet. 


Though  Ruin  now  Love's  shadow  be,    7&1 
Following  him,  destroyingly, 

On  Death's  white  and  wingfed  steed. 
Which  the  fleetest  cannot  flee. 

Trampling  down  both  flower  and  weed, 
Man  and  beast,  and  foul  and  fair. 
Like  a  tempest  through  the  air; 
Thou  shalt  quell  this  horseman  grim, 
Woundless  though  in  heart  or  limb. 


178 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


ACT  II:   sc.   I 


PBOMETHEUS 

Spirits  !  how  know  ye  this  shall  be  ? 


In  the  atmosphere  we  breathe,  790 

As  buds  grow  red,  when  the  snow-storms 
flee. 

From  spring  gathering  up  beneath. 
Whose  mild  winds  shake  the  elder-brake. 
And  the  wandering  lierdsmen  know 
That  the  white-thorn  soon  will  blow: 
Wisdom,  Justice,  Love,  and  Peace, 
When  they  struggle  to  increase, 
Are  to  us  as  soft  winds  be 
To  shepherd  boys,  the  prophecy 
Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee.  800 

IONS 

Where  are  the  Spirits  fled  ? 

PANTHEA 

Only  a  sense 
Remains  of  them,  like  the  omnipotence 
Of  music,  when  the  inspired  voice  and  lute 
Languish,  ere  yet  the  responses  are  mute. 
Which  through  the  deep  and  labyrinthine 

soul. 
Like  echoes   through   long  caverns,  wind 

and  roll. 

PROMETHEUS 

How  fair  these  air-born  shapes  !  and  yet  I 

feel 
Most  vain  all  hope  but  love;  and  thou  art 

far, 
Asia  !  who,  when  my  being  overflowed,  809 
Wert  like  a  golden  chalice  to  bright  wine 
Which  else  had  sunk  into  the  thirsty  dust. 
All  things  are  still.     Alas  !  how  heavily 
This  quiet  morning  weighs  upon  my  heart; 
Though    I    should    dream    I    could   even 

sleep  with  grief, 
If  slumber  were  denied  not.     I  would  fain 
Be  what  it  is  my  destiny  to  be, 
The  saviour  and  the  strength  of  suffering 

man. 
Or  sink  into  the  original  gulf  of  things. 
There  is  no  agonv,  ai>d  no  solace  left; 
Earth  can  console,  Heaven  can  torment  no 

more.  820 


Hast  thon  forgotten  one  who  watches  thee 
The  cold  dark  night,  and  never  sleeps  but 

when 
The  shadow  of  thy  spirit  falls  ou  her  ? 


PROMETHEUS 

I  said  all  hope  was  vain  but  love;  thou 
West. 

PANTHEA 

Deeply  in  truth;  but  the  eastern  star  looks 
white. 

And  Asia  waits  in  that  far  Indian  vale. 

The  scene  of  her  sad  exile;  rugged  once 

And  desolate  and  frozen,  like  this  ravine; 

But  now  invested  with  fair  flowers  and 
herbs. 

And  haunted  by  sweet  airs  and  sounds, 
which  flow  830 

Among  the  woods  and  waters,  from  the 
ether 

Of  her  transforming  presence,  which  would 
fade 

If  it  were  mingled  not  with  thine.  Fare- 
well ! 

ACT    II 

Scene  I.  —  Morning.  A  lovely  Vale  in  the 
Indian  Caucasus.    Asia,  alone. 


Fkom  all  the  blasts  of  heaven  thou  hast 

descended ; 
Yes,  like  a  spirit,  like  a  thought,  which 

makes 
Unwonted  tears  throng  to  the  horny  eyes. 
And  beatings  haunt  the  desolated  heart. 
Which  should   have  learned  repose;   thou 

hast  descended 
Cradled   in  tempests;    thou  dost  wake,  O 

Spnng ! 
O  child  of  many  winds  !     As  suddenly 
Thou  comest  as  the  memory  of  a  dream, 
Which  now  is  sad   because   it   hath  been 

sweet; 
Like  genius,  or  like  joy  which  riseth  up    10 
As   from  the  earth,  clothing  with  golden 

clouds 
The  desert  of  our  life. 
This  is  the  season,  this  the  day,  the  hour; 
At  sunrise  thou  shouldst  come,  sweet  sister 

mine, 
Too  long  desired,  too  long  delaying,  come  ! 
How  like  death-worms    the  wingless  mo- 
ments crawl  ! 
The  point  of  one  white  star  is  quivering 

still 
Deep  in  the  orange  light  of  widening  morn 
Beyond  the  purple  mountains;  through  a 

chasm  ' 


ACT   II:    SC    I 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND 


179 


Of  wind-divided  mist  the  darker  lake       20 
Reflects  it;  now  it  wanes;  it  gleams  again 
As   the  waves   fade,  and  as   the  burning 

threads 
Of  woven  cloud  unravel  in  pale  air; 
'T  is  lost !  and  through  yon  peaks  of  cloud- 
like snow 
Tlie  roseate  sunlight  quivers;  hear  I  not 
The  ^olian  music  of  her  sea-green  plumes 
Winnowing  the  crimson  dawn  ? 

Panthea  enters 

I  feel,  I  see 
Those  eyes  which  burn  through  smiles  that 

fade  in  tears. 
Like  stars  half-queuched  in  mists  of  silver 

dew.  29 

Beloved  and  most  beautiful,  who  wearest 
The  shadow  of  that  soul  by  which  I  live, 
How  late  thou  art !   the  sphered  sun  had 

climbed 
The   sea;   my  heart  was   sick  with   hope, 

before 
The  printless  air  felt  thy  belated  plumes. 

PANTHEA 

Pardon,  great  Sister  !  but  my  wings  were 

faint 
With  the  delight  of  a  remembered  dream, 
As   are   the   noontide  plumes  of   summer 

winds 
Satiate  with  sweet  flowers.     I  was  wont  to 

sleep 
Peacefully,  and  awake  refreshed  and  calm. 
Before  the  sacred  Titan's  fall  and  thy       40 
Unhappy  love  had  made,  through  use  and 

pity. 
Both  love  and  woe  familiar  to  my  heart 
As  they  had  growu  to  thine:    erewhile  I 

slept 
Under  the  glaucous  caverns  of  old  Ocean 
Within  dim  bowers   of  green  and  purple 

moss, 
Our  young  lone's  soft  and  milky  arms 
Locked   then,   as    now,    behind    my   dark, 

moist  hair. 
While  my  shut  eyes  and  cheek  were  pressed 

within 
The   folded   depth   of    her    life-breathing 

bosom :  49 

But   not   as   now,  since   I   am   made   the 

wind 
Which  fails  beneath  the  music  that  I  bear 
Of  thy  most  wordless  converse;  since  dis 

solved 


Into  the  sense  with  which  love  talks,  my 

rest 
Was  troubled  and  yet  sweet;  my  waking 

hours 
Too  full  of  care  and  pain. 


Lift  up  thine  eyes, 
And  let  me  read  thy  dream. 

PANTHEA 

As  I  have  said, 
With  our  sea-sister  at  his  feet  I  slept. 
The  mountain  mists,  condensing  at    our 

voice 
Under  the  moon,  had  spread  their  snowy 

flakes. 
From   the   keen   ice  shielding  our  linkM 

sleep.  60 

Then  two  dreams  came.     One  I  remember 

not. 
But  in  the  other  his  pale  wound- worn  limbs 
Fell  from  Prometheus,  and  the  azure  night 
Grew  radiant  with  the  glory  of  that  form 
Which   lives    unchanged   within,   and   his 

voice  fell 
Like  music  which  makes  giddy  the   dim 

brain. 
Faint  with  intoxication  of  keen  joy: 
'  Sister  of  her  whose  footsteps  pave  tiie 

world 
With   loveliness  —  more    fair   than   aught 

but  her. 
Whose  shadow  thou  art  —  lift  thine  eyes 

on  me.'  70 

I  lifted  them;  the  overpowering  light 
Of   that  immortal  shape  was  shadowed  o'er 
By  love;  which,  from  his  soft  and  flowing 

limbs. 
And  passion-parted  lips,  and   keen,  faint 

eyes. 
Steamed  forth  like   vaporous  fire;  an   at- 
mosphere 
Which  wrapped  me   in   its   all-dissolving 

power, 
As  the  warm  ether  of  the  morning  sun 
Wraps  ere  it  drinks  some  cloud  of  wander- 
ing dew. 
I  saw  not,  heard  not,  moved  not,  only  felt 
His  presence  flow  and  mingle  through  my 

blood  80 

Till  it  became  his  life,  and  his  grew  mine, 
And  I  was  thus  absorbed,  until  it  passed, 
And  like  the  vapors  when  the  sun  sinks 

down, 


i8o 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND 


ACT  II  :  sc.   I 


Gathering  again  in  drops  upon  the  pines, 
And  tremulous  as  they,  in  the  deep  night 
My  being  was  condensed;  and  as  the  rays 
Of  thought  were  slowly  gathered,  I  could 

hear 
His  voice,  whose  accents  lingered  ere  they 

died 
Like  footsteps  of  weak  melody;  thy  name 
Among  the  many  sounds  alone  I  heard     90 
Of  what  might  be  articulate;  though  still 
I  listened  through  the  night  when  sound 

was  none, 
lone  wakened  then,  and  said  to  me: 
'Canst  thou  divine   what  troubles  me  to- 
night ? 
I  always  knew  what  I  desired  before, 
Nor  ever  found  delight  to  wish  in  vain. 
But  now  I  cannot  tell  thee  what  I  seek; 
I  know  not;  something  sweet,  since    it  is 

sweet 
Even  to  desire  ;  it  is  thy  sport,  false  sis- 
ter; 
Thou  hast  discovered  some    enchantment 
old,  100 

Whose  spells  have  stolen  my  spirit  as  1 

slept 
And  mingled  it  with  thine;  for  when  just 

now 
We  kissed,  I  felt  within  thy  parted  lips 
The  sweet  air  that  sustained  me;  and  the 

warmth 
Of   the   life-blood,    for    loss    of   which    I 

faint, 
Quivered  between  our  intertwining  arms.' 
I  answered  not,  for  the  Eastern  star  grew 

pale, 
But  fled  to  thee. 

ASIA 

Thon  speakest,  but  thy  words 
Are  as  the  air;  I  feel  them  not.     Oh,  lift 
Thine  eyes,  that  I  may  read  his  written 
soul !  no 

PANTHEA 

I  lift  them,  though  they  droop  beneath  the 

load 
Of  that  they  would  express;  what  canst 

thou  see 
But  thine  own  fairest  shadow  imaged  there  ? 


Thine  eyes  are  like  the  deep,  blue,  bound- 
less heaven 
Contracted  to  two  circles  underneath 


Their  long,  flue  lashes;  dark,  far,  measure* 
less, 

Orb  within  orb,  and  line  through  line  in- 
woven. 

PANTHEA 

Why  lookest  thou  as  if  a  spirit  passed  ? 


There  is  a  change;   beyond  their  inmost 

depth 
I  see  a  shade,  a  shape:  'tis  He,  arrayed   120 
In  the  soft  light  of  his  own  smiles,  which 

spread 
Like  radiance  from  the  cloud-surrounded 

moon. 
Prometheus,  it  is  thine  !  depart  not  yet ! 
Say  not  those  smiles   that  we  shall  meet 

again 
Within   that   bright   pavilion  which   their 

beams 
Shall  build  on  the  waste  world  ?  The  dream 

is  told. 
What  shape  is  that  between  us  ?     Its  rude 

hair 
Roughens  the  wind  that  lifts  it,  its  regard 
Is  wild  and  quick,  yet  't  is  a  thing  of  air. 
For  through  its  gray  robe  gleams  the  golden 

dew  130 

Whose  stars  the  noon  has  quenched  not. 


DREAM 


Follow  1    Follow ! 


PANTHEA 

It  is  mine  other  dream. 


It  disappears. 

PANTHEA 

It  passes  now  into  mj'  mind.     Methouglit 

As  we  sate  here,  the  flower-infolding  buds 

Burst  on  yon  lightning  -  blasted  almond 
tree; 

When  swift  from  the  white  Scythian  wil- 
derness 

A  wind  swept  forth  wrinkling  the  Earth 
with  frost; 

I  looked,  and  all  the  blossoms  were  blown 
down; 

But  on  each  leaf  was  stamped,  as  the  blue 
bells 

Of  Hyacinth  tell  Apollo's  written  grief,  140 

Oh,  follow,  follow  i 


ACT   II :   SC.    I 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


ASIA 

As  you  speak,  your  words 
Fill,  pause   by  pause,  my  owu  forgotten 

sleep 
With  shapes.     Methought  among  the  lawns 

together 
We  wandered,  underneath  the  young  gray 

dawn, 
And  multitudes  of  dense  white  fleecy  clouds 
Were  wandering  in  thick  flocks  along  the 

mountains, 
Shepherded  by  the  slow,  unwilling  wind; 
And    the    white  dew   oii    the  new-bladed 

grass, 
Just  piercing  the  dark  earth,  hung  silently; 
And  there  was   more  which   I  remember 

not",  150 

But  on  the  shadows  of  the  morning  clouds. 
Athwart   tlie  purple  mountain   slope,  was 

written 
Follow,   oh,  follow  !  as  they  vanished 

by; 
And  on   each   herb,  from  which  Heaven  s 

dew  had  fallen, 
The  like  was  stamped,  as  with  a  withering 

fire; 
A  wind  arose  among  the  pines ;  it  shook 
The  clinging  music  from  their  boughs,  and 

then 
Low,  sweet,  faint  sounds,  like  the  farewell 

of  ghosts, 
"Were  heard:  OH,  follow,  follow,  FOLLOW 

ME  ! 

And  then  I  said,  '  Panthea,  look  on  me.'  :6o 
But  in  the  depth  of  those  beloved  eyes 

Still  I  saw,  FOLLOW,  FOLLOW  ! 
ECHO 

Follow,  follow  ! 

PANTHEA 

The  crags,  this  clear  spring  morning,  mock 

our  voices. 
As  they  were  spirit-tongued. 

ASIA 

It  is  some  being 
Around  the  crags.     What  fine  clear  sounds ! 
Oh,  list! 

ECHOES,  unseen 
Eclioes  we:  listen  f 
We  cannot  stay: 
As  dew-stars  glisten 
Then  fade  away  — 

Child  of  Ocean  1  170 


Hark  !     Spirits    speak.      The    liquid    re- 
sponses 
Of  their  aerial  tongues  yet  sound. 


PANTHEA 


I  hear. 


Oh,  follow,  follow. 

As  our  voice  recedeth 
Through  the  caverns  hollow, 
Where  the  forest  spreadeth; 
{More  distant) 
Oh,  follow,  follow  ! 
Through  the  caverns  hollow. 
As  the  song  floats  thou  pursue. 
Where  the  wild  bee  never  flew,         180 
Through  the  noontide  darkness  deep. 
By  the  odor-breathing  sleep 
Of  faint  night-flowers,  and  the  waves 
At  the  fountain-lighted  caves. 
While  our  music,  wild  and  sweet, 
Mocks  thy  gently  falling  feet, 
Child  of  Ocean  ! 


Shall    we  pursue   the   sound  ?    It   grows 

more  faint 
And  distant. 

PANTHEA 

List  !  the  strain  floats  nearer  now. 

ECHOES 

In  the  world  unknown  igo 

Sleeps  a  voice  unspoken; 

By  thy  step  alone 

Can  its  rest  be  broken; 
Child  of  Ocean  ! 


How  the  notes  sink  npon  the  ebbing  wind  I 


Oh,  follow,  follow  ! 

Through  the  caverns  hollow. 
As  tlie  song  floats  thou  pursue. 
By  the  woodland  noontide  dew; 
By  the  forests,  lakes,  and  fountains,  200 
Through  the  many-folded  mountains; 
To  the  rents,  and  gulfs,  and  chasms. 
Where  the  Earth  reposed  from  spasms, 
On  the  day  when  He  and  thou 
Parted,  to  commingle  now; 
Child  of  Ocean  1 


X82 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND 


ACT   II  :   SC.    II 


Come,  sweet   Pantbea,  link  thy  hand  in 

mine, 
And  follow,  ere  the  voices  fade  away. 

Scene  II.  —  A  Forest  intermingled  with  Rocks 
and  Caverns.  Asia  and  Panthea  pass  into 
it.  Two  young  Fauns  are  sitting  on  a  Mock, 
listening. 

SEMICHORUS   I  OF    SPIRITS 

Tlie  path  through  which  that  lovely  twain 
Have  passed,  by  cedar,  pine,  and  yew, 
And  each  dark  tree  that  ever  grew, 
Is   curtained   out   from   Heaven's   wide 
blue; 

Nor  sun,  nor  moon,  nor  wind,  nor  rain, 
Can  pierce  its  interwoven  bowers. 
Nor  aught,    save  where  some  cloud  of 
dew, 

Drifted  along  the  earth-creeping  breeze 

Between  the  trunks  of  the  hoar  trees,         9 
Hangs  each  a  pearl  in  the  pale  flowers 
Of  the  green  laurel  blown  anew. 

And  bends,  and  then  fades  silently, 

One  frail  and  fair  anemone ; 

Or  when  some  star  of  many  a  one 

That   climbs   and   wanders  through  steep 
night, 

Has  found  the  cleft  through  which  alone 

Beams  fall  from  high  those  depths  upon,  — 

Ere  it  is  borne  away,  away. 

By  the  swift  Heavens  that  cannot  stay, 

It  scatters  drops  of  golden  light,  20 

Like  lines  of  rain  that  ne'er  unite; 

And  the  gloom  divine  is  all  around; 

And  underneath  is  the  mossy  ground. 

SEMICHORUS  n 
There  the  voluptuous  nightingales, 

Are  awake  through  all  the  broad  noon- 
day: 
When  one  with  bliss  or  sadness  fails. 

And  through  the  windless  ivy-boughs, 
Sick  with  sweet  love,  droops  dying  away 
On  its  mate's  music-panting  bosom; 
Another  from  the  swinging  blossom,  30 

Watching  to  catch  the  languid  close 
Of  the  last  strain,  then  lifts  on  high 
The  wings  of  the  weak  melody, 
Till  some  new  strain  of  feeling  bear 

The  song,  and  all  the  woods  are  mute; 
When  there  is  heard  through  the  dim  air 
The  rush  of  wings,  and  rising  there. 
Like  many  a  lake-surrounded  flute, 


Sounds  overflow  the  listener's  brain 

So  sweet,  that  joy  is  almost  pain.  40 

BEMICHORUS  I 

There  those  enchanted  eddies  play 

Of  echoes,  music-tongned,  which  draw, 
By  Demogorgon's  mighty  law. 
With  melting  rapture,  or  sweet  awe, 
All  spirits  on  that  secret  way, 

As  inland  boats  are  driven  to  Ocean 
Down  streams  made  strong  with  mountain- 
thaw; 
And  first  there  comes  a  gentle  sound 
To  those  in  talk  or  slumber  bound, 

And   wakes   the   destined;  soft   emo- 
tion 50 
Attracts,  impels  them;   those  who  saw 
Say  from  the  breathing  earth  behind 
There  steams  a  plume-uplifting  wind 
Which    drives    them  ou   their  path,  while 
they 
Believe  their  own  swift  wings  and  feet 
The  sweet  desires  within  obey; 
And  so  they  float  upon  their  way. 

Until,  still  sweet,  but  loud  and  strong, 
The  storm  of  sound  is  driven  along. 
Sucked  up  and  hurrjing;  as  they  fleet  6c 
Behind,  its  gathering  billows  meet 
And  to  the  fatal  mountain  bear 
Like  clouds  amid  the  yielding  air. 

FIRST  FAUN 

Canst   thou   imagine    where    those  spirits 

live 
Which  make   such   delicate  music  in  the 

woods  ? 
We  haunt  within  the  least  frequented  caves 
And   closest   coverts,  and   we  know  these 

vdlds. 
Yet  never    meet    them,  though   we   hear 

them  oft: 
Where  may  they  hide  themselves  ? 

SECOND   FAUN 

'T  is  hard  to  tell ; 
I  have  heard  those  more  skilled  in  spirits 

say,  _  70 

The  bubbles,  which  the  enchantment  of  the 

sun 
Sucks   from  the   pale  faint   water-flowers 

that  pave 
The  oozy  bottom  of  clear  lakes  and  pools. 
Are  the  pavilions  where    such  dwell  and 

float 
Under  the  green  and  golden  atmosphere 


ACT  II  :   SC.   Ill 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


183 


Which  noontide  kindles  through  the  woven 
leaves ; 

And  when  these  burst,  and  the  thin  fiery 
air, 

The  which  they  breathed  within  those  lu- 
cent domes, 

Ascends  to  flow  like  meteors  through  the 
night, 

They  ride  on  them,  and  rein  their  headlong 
speed,  80 

And  bow  their  burning  crests,  and  glide  in 
fire 

Under  the  waters  of  the  earth  again. 

FIRST    FAUN 

If  such  live  thus,  have  others  other  lives. 
Under  pink  blossoms  or  within  the  bells 
Of  meadow  flowers  or  folded  violets  deep, 
Or  on  their  dying  odors,  when  they  die, 
Or  in  the  sunlight  of  the  sphered  dew  ? 

SECOND   FAUN 

Ay,  many  more  which  we  may  well  divine. 
But    should   we   stay    to   speak,  noontide 

would  come, 
And   thwart   Silenus   find    his    goats   un- 
drawn, 90 
And  grudge  to  sing  those  wise  and  lovely 

songs 
Of  Fate,  and  Chance,  and  God,  and  Chaos 

old, 
And  Love  and  the  chained  Titan's  woful 

doom. 
And  how  he  shall  be  loosed,  and  make  the 

earth 
One  brotherhood;  delightful  strains  which 

cheer 
Our  solitary  twilights,  and  which  charm 
To  silence  the  uneuvying  nightingales. 


Scene   III.  —  A    Pinnacle    of    Rock    among 
Mountains.    Asia  and  Panthea. 

PANTHKA 

Hither   the  sound   has   borne  us — to  the 

realm 
Of  Demogorgon,  and  the  mighty  portal, 
Like  a  volcano's  meteor-breathing  chasm, 
Wlience  the  oracular  vapor  is  hurled  up 
Which  lonely  men  drink  wandering  in  their 

youth, 
And  call  truth,  virtue,  love,  genius,  or  joy, 
That  maddening  wine  of  life,  whose  dregs 

they  drain 


To  deep  intoxication ;  and  uplift, 
Like  Msenads  wlio  cry  loud,  Evoe  !  Evoe! 
The    voice    which     is    contagion    to    the 
world.  10 


Fit  throne   for   such  a  Power  I    Magnifi- 
cent ! 
How  glorious  art  thou,  Earth  !  and  if  thou 

be 
The  shadow  of  some  spirit  lovelier  still. 
Though  evil  stain  its  work,  and  it  should 

be 
Like  its  creation,  weak  yet  beautiful, 
I  could   fall  down   and  worship   that  and 

thee. 
Even  now  my  heart  adoreth.     Wonderful ! 
Look,  sister,  ere  the  vapor  dim  thy  brain: 
Beneath  is  a  wide  plain  of  billowy  mist, 
As  a  lake,  paving  in  the  morning  sky,        20 
With   azure    waves  which  burst  in  silver 

light. 
Some  Indian  vale.     Behold  it,  rolling  on 
Under  the  curdling  winds,  and  islanding 
The    peak    whereon    we    stand,   midway, 

around, 
Encinctured    by   the   dark   and   blooming 

forests, 
Dim  twilight-lawns,  and  stream-illumined 

caves. 
And  wind-enchanted  shapes  of  wandering 

mist; 
And   far   on   high   the   keen  sky-cleaving 

mountains 
From  icy  spires  of  sunlike  radiance  fling  29 
The  dawn,  as  lifted  Ocean's  dazzling  spray, 
From  some  Atlantic  islet  scattered  up, 
Spangles  the  wind  with  lamp-like  water- 
drops. 
The   vale   is   girdled   with   their   walls,  a 

howl 
Of  cataracts  from  their   thaw-cloven   ra- 
vines 
Satiates  the  listening  wind,  continuous,  vast. 
Awful    as    silence.      Hark  !    the   rushing 

snow  ! 
The  sun-awakened  avalanche  I  whose  mass. 
Thrice  sifted  by  the  storm,  had  gathered 

there 
Flake  after  flake,  in  heaven-defying  minds 
As  thought  by  thought  is  piled,  till  some 
great  truth  40 

Is  loosened,  and  the  nations  echo  round. 
Shaken  to  their  roots,  as  do  the  mountains 
now. 


i84 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


ACT   II  :   SC,    IV 


Look  how  the  gusty  sea  of  mist  is  breaking 
In  crimson  foam,  even  at  our  feet  !  it  rises 
As  Ocean  at  the  enchantment  of  the  moon 
Kound  foodless  men  wrecked  on  some  oozy 
isle. 


The  fragments  of  the  cloud  are  scattered 

up; 
The  wind  that  lifts  them  disentwiues  my 

hair; 
Its  billows  now  sweep  o'er  mine  eyes;  my 

brain  49 

Grows  dizzy ;  I  see  shapes  within  the  mist. 

PAKTHKA. 

A    countenance    witii    beckoning    smiles; 

there  burns 
An  azure  tire  witliin  its  golden  locks  ! 
Another  and  another:  hark  !  they  speak  ! 

SONG   OF   SPIKIT3 

To  the  deep,  to  the  deep, 

Down,  down  ! 
Through  tlie  shade  of  sleep, 
Through  the  cloudv  strife 
Of  Death  and  of  Life; 
Through  the  veil  and  the  bar 
Of  things  which  seem  and  are,  60 

Even  to  the  steps  of  the  remotest  throne, 

Down,  down  1 

While  the  sound  whirls  around, 

Down,  down  ! 
As  the  fawn  draws  the  hound. 
As  the  lightning  the  vapor. 
As  a  weak  moth  the  taper; 
Death,  despair;  love,  sorrow; 
Time,  both;  to-day,  to-morrow; 
As  steel  obeys  the  spirit  of  the  stone,    70 

Down,  down ! 

Through  the  gray,  void  abysm, 

Down,  down  ! 
Where  the  air  is  no  prism. 
And  the  moon  and  stars  are  not, 
And  the  cavern-crags  wear  not 
The  radiance  of  Heaven, 
Nor  the  gloom  to  Earth  given. 
Where  there  is  one  pervading,  one  alone, 

Down,  down  !  80 

In  the  depth  of  the  deep 
Down,  down  1 


Like  veiled  lightning  asleep. 
Like  the  spark  nursed  in  embers, 
The  last  look  Love  remembers, 
Like  a  diamond,  which  shines 
On  the  dark  wealth  of  mines, 
A  spell  is  treasured  but  for  thee  alone. 
Down,  down  ! 

We  have  bound  thee,  we  guide  thee;     90 

Down,  down  ! 
With  the  bright  form  beside  thee; 

Resist  not  the  weakness. 
Such  strength  is  in  meekness 
That  the  Eternal,  the  Immortal, 
Must  unloose  through  life's  portal 
The  snake-like  Doom  coiled  underneath 

his  throne 

By  that  alone. 

Scene  IV.  —  The  Cave  of  Demogorgon. 
Asia  and  Panthea. 

PANTHEA 

What  veilfed  form  sits  on  that  ebon  throne  ? 


The  veil  has  fallen. 


I  see  a  niiglity  darkness 
Filling  the  seat  of  power,  and  rays  of  gloom 
Dart  round,  as  liglit  from  the  meridian  sun, 
Ungazed  upon  and  shapeless;  neither  limb. 
Nor  form,  nor  outline;  yet  we  feel  it  is 
A  living  Spirit. 

DEMOGORGON 

Ask  what  thou  wouldst  know. 

ASIA 

What  canst  thou  tell  ? 

DEMOGORGON 

All  things  tliou  dar'st  demand. 

ASIA 

Who  made  the  living  world  ? 

DEMOGORGON 

God. 

ASIA 

Who  made  all 
That  it  contains  ?  thought,  passion,  reason, 
will,  10 

Imagination  ? 


ACT   II  :   SC.    IV 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


185 


DEMOGORGON 

God  :  Almighty  God. 


Who  made   that  sense   which,   when   the 

winds  of  spring 
In  rarest  visitation,  or  the  voice 
Of  one  beloved  heard  in  youth  alone. 
Fills  the  faint  eyes  with  falling  tears  which 

dim 
The  radiant  looks  of  unbewailing  flowers, 
And  leaves  this  peopled  earth  a  solitude 
When  it  returns  no  more  ? 


DEMOGORGON 


Merciful  God. 


And  who  made  terror,  madness,  crime,  re- 
morse, 

Which  from  the  links  of  the  great  chain  of 
things  20 

To  every  thought  within  the  mind  of  man 

Sway  and  drag  heavily,  and  each  one  reels 

Under  the  load  towards  the  pit  of  death  ; 

Abandoned  hope,  and  love  that  turns  to 
hate; 

And  self-contempt,  bitterer  to  drink  than 
blood; 

Pain,  whose  unheeded  and  familiar  speech 

Is  howling,  and  keen  shrieks,  day  after 
day; 

And  Hell,  or  the  sharp  fear  of  Hell  ? 


DEMOGOBGON 


He  reigns. 


Utter  his  name  ;  a  world  pining  in  pain 
Asks  but  his  name;  curses  shall  drag  him 
down.  ,„ 


He  reigns. 


DKMOGORGON 
ASIA 

I  feel,  I  know  it:  who  ? 


DEMOGORGON 


He  reigns. 


Who  reigns  ?     Tliere  was  the  Heaven  and 
Earth  at  first. 


And  Light  and  Love;    then  Saturn,  from 

whose  throne 
Time  fell,  an   envious   shadow;  such  the 

state 
Of  the  earth's  primal  spirits  beneath  his 

sway. 
As  the   calm   joy   of    flowers  and  living 

leaves 
Before  the  wind  or  sun  has  withered  them 
And  semi  vital  worms  ;  but  he  refused 
The  birthright  of  their  being,  knowledge, 

power, 
The  skill  which  wields  the  elements,  the 

thought  40 

Which  pierces  this  dim  universe  like  light. 
Self-empire,  and  the  majesty  of  love; 
For  thirst  of   which   they  fainted.     Then 

Prometheus 
Gave  wisdom,  which  is  strength,  to  Jupiter, 
And  with   this   law   alone,  'Let   man   be 

free,' 
Clothed   him  with  the   dominion  of  wide 

Heaven. 
To  know  nor  faith,  nor  love,  nor  law,  to  be 
Omnipotent  but  friendless,  is  to  reign; 
And  Jove  now  reigned;  for  on  the  race  of 

man 
First  famine,  and  then  toil,  and  then  dis- 
ease, 50 
Strife,  wounds,  and  ghastly  death  unseen 

before, 
Fell;  and  the  unseasonable  seasons  drove, 
With  alternating  shafts  of  frost  and  fire. 
Their  shelterless,  pale  tribes  to  mountain 

caves; 
And  in  their  desert  hearts  fierce  wants  he 

sent. 
And  mad  disquietudes,  and  shadows  idle 
Of  unreal  good,  which  levied  mutual  war, 
So  ruining  the  lair  wherein  thfcy  raged. 
Prometheus  saw,  and  waked  the  legioned 

hopes  59 

Which  sleep  within  folded  Elysian  flowers. 
Nepenthe,      Moly,      Amaranth,      fadeless 

blooms, 
That  they  might  hide  with  thin  and  rain- 
bow wings 
The  shape  of  Death;  and  Love  he  sent  to 

bind 
The  disunited  tendrils  of  that  vine 
Which  bears  the  wine  of  life,  the  human 

heart; 
And  he  tamed  fire  which,  like  some  beast 

of  prey. 
Most  terrible,  but  lovely,  played  beneath 


i86 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


ACT   II  :   SC,    IV 


TLe  frown  of  mau;    and  tortured  to  his 

will 
Iron  and   gold,  the  slaves  and  signs   of 

power, 
And  gems  and  poisons,  and  all  subtlest 

forms  70 

Hidden   beneath   the   mountains  and  the 

waves. 
He  gave  man  speech,  and  speech  created 

thought. 
Which  is  the  measure  of  the  universe; 
And  Science  struck  the  thrones  of  earth 

and  heaven, 
Which  shook,  but  fell  not;    and  the  har- 
monious mind 
Poured  itself  forth  in  all-prophetic  song; 
And  music  lifted  up  the  listening  spirit 
Until  it  walked,  exempt  from  mortal  care, 
Godlike,  o'er  the   clear  billows   of  sweet 

sound ; 
And  human  hands  first  mimicked  and  then 

mocked,  80 

With  moulded  limbs  more  lovely  than  its 

own, 
The  human  form,  till  marble  grew  divine; 
And  mothers,  gazing,  drank  the  love  men 

see 
Reflected  in  their  race,  behold,  and  perish. 
He  told  the  hidden   power  of  herbs  and 

springs. 
And  Disease  drank  and  slept.     Death  grew 

like  sleep. 
He  taught  the  implicated  orbits  woven 
Of  the  wide- wandering  stars;  and  how  the 

sun 
Changes  his  lair,  and  by  what  secret  spell 
The  pale  moon  is  transformed,  when  her 

broad  eye  90 

Grazes  not  on  the  interlunar  sea. 
He  taught  to  rule,  as  life  directs  the  limbs, 
The  tempest-wingfed  chariots  of  the  Ocean, 
And  the  Celt  knew  the  Indian.   Cities  then 
Were  built,  and  through  their  snow-like 

columns  flowed 
The  warm  winds,  and  the  azure  ether  shone, 
And  the  blue  sea  and  shadowy  hills  were 

seen. 
Such,  the  alleviations  of  his  state, 
Prometheus  gave   to   man,  for   which  he 

hangs 
Withering  in  destined  pain;  but  who  rains 

down  100 

Evil,  the  immedicable  plague,  which,  while 
Man  looks  on  his  creation  like  a  god 
And  sees  that  it  is  glorious,  drives  him  on, 


The  wreck  of  his  own  will,  the  scorn  of 
earth, 

The  outcast,  the  abandoned,  the  alone  ? 

Not  Jove :  while  yet  his  frown  shook  heaven 
ay,  when 

His  adversary  from  arlamantiue  chains 

Cursed  him,  he  trembled  like  a  slave.  De- 
clare 

Who  is  his  master  ?     Is  he  too  a  slave  ? 

DEMOGORGON 

All  spirits  are  enslaved  which  serve  things 
evil:  no 

Thou  knowest  if  Jupiter  be  such  or  no. 

ASIA. 

Whom  called'st  thou  God  ? 

DEMOGOKGON 

I  spoke  but  as  ye  speak. 
For  Jove  Is  the  supreme  of  living  things. 

ASIA 

Who  is  the  master  of  the  slave  ? 

OEMOGOBGON 

If  the  abysm 
Could  vomit  forth  its  secrets  —  but  a  voice 
Is  wanting,  the  deep  truth  is  imageless; 
For  what  would  it  avail  to  bid  thee  gaze 
On   the  revolving  world  ?     What   to  bid 

speak 
Fate,  Time,  Occasion,  Chance  and  Change  ? 

To  these 
All  things  are  subject  but  eternal  Love,  no 


So  much  I  asked  before,  and  my  heart  gave 
The  response  thou  hast  given;  and  of  such 

truths 
Each  to  itself  must  be  the  oracle. 
One  more  demand;  and  do  thou  answer  me 
As  my  own  soul  would  answer,  did  it  know 
That  which  1  ask.  Prometheus  shall  arise 
Henceforth  the  sun  of  this  rejoicing  world: 
When  shall  the  destined  hour  arrive  ? 


DEMOGORGON 


Behold  f 


The  rocks  are  cloven,  and  through  the  pur- 
ple night 

I  see  cars  drawn  by  rainbow  -  wingfed 
steeds  130 


ACT  II  :   SC.   V 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


187 


Which  trample  the  dim  winds;  in  each  there 

stands 
A  wild-eyed  charioteer  urging  their  flight. 
Some  look  heliiud,  as  fiends  pursued  them 

there, 
And  yet  I  see  no  shapes  but  the  keen  stars ; 
Others,  with  burning  eyes,  lean  forth,  and 

drink 
With   eager  lips   the   wind   of   their  own 

speed, 
As  if  the  thing  they  loved  fled  on  before, 
And  now,  even  now,  they  clasped  it.    Their 

bright  locks 
Stream  like  a  comet's  flashing  hair;  they 

all  139 

Sweep  onward. 

DEMOOORGON 

These  are  the  immortal  Hours, 
Of  whom  thou  didst  demand.     One  waits 
for  thee. 


A  Spirit  with  a  dreadful  countenance 
Checks  its  dark  chariot  by  the  craggy  gulf. 
Unlike  thy  brethren,  ghastly  Charioteer, 
Who    art   thou  ?     Whither   wouldst   thou 
bear  me  ?     Speak  ! 

SPIRIT 

I  am  the  Shadow  of  a  destiny 

More  dread   than  is  ray  aspect;   ere  yon 

planet 
Has  set,  the  darkness  which  ascends  with 

me 
Shall  wrap  in  lasting  night  heaven's  kingless 

throne.  149 

ASIA 

What  meanest  thou  ? 

PANTHEA 

That  terrible  Shadow  floats 
Up  from  its  throne,  as  may  the  lurid  smoke 
Of  earthquake-ruined  cities  o'er  the  sea. 
IiO  !  it  ascends  the  car;  the  coursers  fly 
Terrified ;  watch  its  path  among  the  stars 
Blackening  the  night ! 

ASIA 

Thus  I  am  answered:  strange  ! 

PANTHBA 

See,  near  the  verge,  another  chariot  stays; 
An  ivory  shell  inlaid  with  crimson  fire, 


Which  comes  and  goes  within  its  sculptured 

rim 
Of   delicate   strange   tracery;    the  young 

Spirit 
That  guides  it  has  the  dove-like  eyes  of 

hope;  160 

How  its  soft  smiles  attract  the  soul !   as 

light 
Lures  winged  insects  through  the  lampless 

air. 


My  coursers  are  fed  with  the  lightning, 
They  drink  of  the  whirlwind's  stream, 

And  when  the  red  morning  is  bright'uing 
They  bathe  in  the  fresh  sunbeam. 
They  have  strength  for  their  swiftness  I 
deem; 

Then  ascend  with  me,  daughter  of  Ocean. 

I  desire  —  and   their  speed  makes   night 
kjndle ; 

I  fear —  they  outstrip  the  typhoon;      170 
Ere  the  cloud  piled  on  Atlas  can  dwindle 

We  encircle  the  earth  and  the  moon. 

We  shall  rest  from  long  labors  at  noon; 
Then  ascend  with  me,  daughter  of  Ocean. 


Scene  V.  —  The  Car  pauses  within  a  Cloud  on 
the  Top  of  a  snowy  Mountain.  Asia,  Pan- 
THEA,  and  the  Spirit  of  the  Hook. 


On  the  brink  of  the  night  and  the  morning 

My  coursers  are  wont  to  respire; 
But  the  Earth  has  just  whispered  a  wam- 

™^    .       . 
That  their  flight  must  be  swifter  than 

fire; 

They  shall  drink  the  hot  speed  of  desire  ! 


Thou  breathest  on  their  nostrils,  but  my 

breath 
Would  give  them  swifter  speed. 

SPIRIT 

Alas  !  it  could  not 

PANTHEA 

O  Spirit !  pause,  and  tell  whence  is  the 

light 
Which  fills  the  cloud  ?  the  sun  is  yet  un- 

risen.  9 


i8S 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


ACT   II  :   SC.   V 


spmiT 
The  sun  will  rise  not  until  noon.     Apollo 
Is  held  in  heaven  by  wonder;  and  the  light 
Which  tills  this  vapor,  as  the  aerial  hue 
Of  fountain-gazing  roses  fills  the  water,' 
Flows  from  thy  mighty  sister. 

PANTHEA 

Yes,  I  feel  — 

ASIA 

What  is   it  with  thee,  sister  ?     Thon  art 
pale. 


How  thou  art  changed !     I  dare  not  look 

on  thee; 
I  feel  but  see  thee  not.     I  scarce  endure 
The  radiance  of  thy  beauty.     Some  good 

change 
Is  working  iu  the  elements,  which  suffer 
Thy  presence  thus  unveiled.     The  Nereids 
tell  20 

That  on  the  day  when  the  clear  hyaline 
Was  cloven  at  thy  uprise,  and  thou  didst 

stand 
Within  a  veined  shell,  which  floated  on 
Over  the  calm  floor  of  the  crystal  sea, 
Among  the  iEgean  isles,  and  by  the  shores 
Which  bear  thy  name,  —  love,  like  the  at- 
mosphere 
Of  the  sun's  fire  filling  the  living  world, 
Burst  from  thee,  and  illumined  earth  and 

heaven 
And  the  deej)  ocean  and  the  sunless  caves 
And  all  that  dwells  within  them ;  till  grief 
cast  30 

Eclipse  upon  the  soul  from  which  it  came. 
Such  art  thou  now;  nor  is  it  I  alone, 
Thy  sister,  thy  companion,  thine  own  chosen 

one, 
But  the  whole  world  which  seeks  thy  sym- 
pathy. 
Hearest  thou  not  sounds  i'  the  air  which 

speak  the  love 
Of  all  articulate  beings  ?    Feelest  thou  not 
The  inanimate  winds  enamoured  of  thee  ? 
List !  [Music. 

ASIA 

Thy  words  are  sweeter  than  aught  else  but 

his 
Whose   echoes  they  are;  yet  all   love   is 

sweet, 
Given  or  returned.     Common  aa  light   is 

love,  40 


And  its  familiar  voice  wearies  not  ever. 
Like  the  wide  heaven,  the  all-sustaiuiug  air, 
It  makes  the  reptile  equal  to  the  God; 
They  who  inspire  it  most  are  fortunate. 
As  I  am  now;  but  those  who  feel  it  most 
Are  happier  still,  after  long  sufferings. 
As  I  shall  soon  become. 


PANTHKA 

List! 


Spirits  speak. 


VOICE  in  the  air,  singing 

Life  of  Life,  thy  lips  enkindle 

With  their  love  the  breath  between  them ; 
And  thy  smiles  before  they  dwindle  50 

Make  the  cold  air  fire;  then  screen  them 
In  those  looks,  where  whoso  gazes 
Faints,  entangled  in  their  mazes. 

Child  of  Light  !  thy  limbs  are  burning 
Through  the  vest  which  seems   to  hide 
them ; 
As  the  radiant  lines  of  morning 

Through    the    clouds,    ere    they    divide 
them; 
And  this  atmosphere  divinest 
Shrouds  thee  wheresoe'er  thou  shinest. 

Fair  are  others ;  none  beholds  thee,  60 

But  thy  voice  sounds  low  and  tender 

Like  the  fairest,  for  it  folds  thee 

From  the  sight,  that  liquid  splendor, 

And  all  feel,  yet  see  thee  never, 

As  I  feel  now,  lost  forever  ! 

Lamp  of  Earth  !  where'er  thon  movest 
Its  dim  shapes  are  clad  with  brightness. 

And  the  souls  of  whom  thou  lovest 
Walk  upon  the  winds  with  lightness. 

Till  they  fail,  as  I  am  failing,  70 

Dizzy,  lost,  yet  unbewailing  ! 


My  soul  is  an  enchanted  boat, 
Wiiich,  like  a  sleeping  swan,  doth  float 
Upon  the  silver  waves  of  thy  sweet  sing- 

i"g; 
And  thine  doth  like  an  angel  sit 
Beside  a  helm  conducting  it, 
Whilst  all  the  winds  with  melody  are  ring- 
ing. 
It  seems  to  float  ever,  forever. 
Upon  that  many-winding  river. 
Between  mountains,  woods,  abysses,      80 
A  paradise  of  wildernesses  I 


ACT  III  :   SC.    I 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


189 


Till,  like  one  in  slumber  bound, 
Borne  to  the  ocean,  I  float  down,  around, 
Into   a   sea    profound    of    ever-spreading 
sound. 

Meanwhile  thy  spirit  lifts  its  pinions 
In  music's  most  serene  dominions; 

Catching  the  winds  that   fan  that   happy 
heaven. 
And  we  sail  on,  away,  afar, 
Without  a  course,  without  a  star, 
But,    by   the   instinct    of    sweet    music 
driven;  90 

Till  through  Elysian  garden  islets 
By  thee  most  beautiful  of  pilots. 
Where  never  mortal  pinnace  glided, 
The  boat  of  my  desire  is  guided; 

Realms  where  the  air  we  breathe  is  love, 

Which   in  the    winds   on  the   waves   doth 
move, 

Harraonizinjj  this  earth  with  what  we  feel 


We  have  passed  Age's  icy  caves. 

And  Manhood's  dark  and  tossing  waves. 

And   Youth's    smooth    ocean,   smiling    to 
betray ;  100 

Beyond  the  glassy  gulfs  we  flee 
Of  shadow-peopled  Infancy, 

Through  Death  and  Birth,  to  a  diviner  day; 
A  paradise  of  vaulted  bowers 
Lit  by  downward-gazing  flowers. 
And  watery  paths  that  wind  between 
Wildernesses  calm  and  green. 

Peopled  by  shapes  too  bright  to  see. 

And  rest,    having   beheld;  somewhat  like 
thee; 

Which  walk  upon  the  sea,  and  chant  melo- 
diously !  no 

ACT    III 

Scene  I. — Heaven.     Jupiter  on  his  Throne; 
Thetis  and  the  other  Deities  assembled. 

JUPITER 

Ye   congregated   powers   of  Iieaven,  who 

share 
The   glory   and    the   strength  of  him  ye 

serve. 
Rejoice  !  henceforth  I  am  omnipotent. 
All  else  had  been  subdued  to  me  ;  alone 
The  soul  of  man,  like  unextinguished  fire. 
Yet  bums  towards  heaven  with  fierce  re- 
proach, and  doubt, 


And  lamentation,  and  reluctant  praj'er, 
Hurling    up    insurrection,    which     might 

make 
Our  antique  empire  insecure,  though  built 
On  eldest  faith,  and  hell's  coeval,  fear;     10 
And  though  my  curses  through  the  pendu- 
lous air. 
Like  snow  on  herbless  peaks,  fall  flake  by 

flake. 
And  cling  to  it;  though  under  my  wrath's 

night 
It  climb  the  crags  of  life,  step  after  step, 
Which  wound  it,  as  ice  wounds  uusaudalled 

feet. 
It  yet  remains  supreme  o'er  misery. 
Aspiring,  unrepressed,  yet  soon  to  fall; 
Even  now  have  I  begotten  a  strange  won- 
der, 
That  fatal  child,  the  terror  of  the  earth. 
Who  waits  but    till  the  destined  hour  ar- 
rive, 20 
Bearing  from  Demogorgon's  vacant  throne 
The  dreadful  might  of  ever-living  limbs 
Which  clothed  that  awful  spirit  unbeheld, 
To  redescend,  and  trample  out  the  spark. 

Pour  forth   heaven's   wine,   Idsean  Gany- 
mede, 
And  let  it  fill  the  dsedal  cups  like  fire. 
And  from  the  flower-inwoven  soil  divine. 
Ye  all-triumphant  harmonies,  arise, 
As   dew   from  earth    under    the    twilight 

stars. 
Drink  !  be  the  nectar  circling  through  your 

veins  30 

The  soul  of  joy,  ye  ever-living  Gods, 
Till  exultation  burst  in  one  wide  voice 
Like  music  from  Elysian  winds. 

And  thou 
Ascend  beside  me,  veiled  in  the  light 
Of  the  desire  which   makes  thee  one  with 

me, 
Thetis,  bright  image  of  eternity  ! 
When  thou  didst  cry,  '  Insufferable  might  ! 
God  !  spare  me  !     I  sustain  not  the  quick 

flames. 
The  penetrating  presence ;  all  my  being, 
Like   him   whom  the   Numidian  seps  did 

thaw  4a 

Into  a  dew  with  poison,  is  dissolved. 
Sinking  through    its  foundations,'  —  even 

then 
Two   mighty    spirits,   mingling,    made    a 

third 
Mightier  than  either,  which,  unbodied  now. 


190 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


ACT  III:  sc.  11 


Between  us  floats,  felt,  although  unbeheld, 
Waiting  the  iucarnatiou,  whicli  ascends, 
(Hear  ye  the  thunder  of  the  fiery  wheels 
Griding  the  winds  ?)  from  Demogoi-gon's 

throne. 
Victory  !    victory !     Feel'st    thou  not,   O 

world, 
The  earthquake  of  his  chariot  thundering 

up  so 

Olympus  ? 

[The  Car  of  the  Hour  arrives.  Demo- 
GOKGON  descends  and  moves  towards  the 
Throne  of  Jupiter. 

Awful  shape,  what  art  thou  ?    Speak  ! 

DEMOGORGON 

Eternity.     Demand  no  direr  name. 

Descend,  and  follow  me  down  the  abyss, 

I  am  thy  child,  as  thou  wert  Saturn's 
child; 

Mightier  than  thee;  and  we  must  dwell  to- 
gether 

Henceforth  in  darkness.  Lift  thy  light- 
nings not. 

The  tyranny  of  heaven  none  may  retain. 

Or  reasstime,  or  hold,  succeeding  thee; 

Yet  if  thou  wilt,  as  't  is  tjje  destiny 

Of  trodden  worms  to  writhe  till  they  are 
dead,  60 

Put  forth  thy  might. 

JUPITER 

Detested  prodigy  ! 
Even     thus    beneath    the    deep    Titauian 

prisons 
I  trample  thee  I     Thou  lingerest  ? 

Mercy  !  mercy  ! 
No  pity,  no  release,  no  respite  !     Oh, 
That  thou  wouldst  make  mine  enemy  my 

judge. 
Even  where  he  hangs,  seared  by  my  long 

revenge, 
On  Caucasus  !    he   would  not  doom    me 

thus. 
Gentle,  and  just,  and  dreadless,  is  he  not 
The  monarch  of  the  world  ?     What  then 

art  thou  ?  69 

No  refuge  !  no  appeal  ! 

Sink  with  me  then, 
We  two  will  sink  on  the  wide  waves  of 

rnin. 
Even  as  a  vulture  and  a  snake  outspent 
Drop,  twisted  in  inextricable  fight. 
Into  a  shoreless  sea  1     Let  hell  unlock 


Its  mounded  oceans  of  tempestuous  fire, 
And  whelm  on  them  into  the  bottomless 

void 
This  desolated  world,  and  thee,  and  me. 
The  conqueror  and  the  conquered,  and  the 

wreck 
Of  that  for  which  they  combated  ! 

Ai,  Ai  ! 
The  elements  obey  me  not.     I  sink  80 

Dizzily  down,  ever,  forever,  down. 
And,  like  a  cloud,  mine  enemy  above 
Darkens  my  fall  with  victory  !     Ai,  Ai  ! 


Scene  II.  —  The  Mouth  of  a  great  River  in  the 
Island  Atlantis.  Ocean  is  discovered  reclin- 
ing near  the  shore;  Apollo  stands  beside 
him. 


He  fell,  thou  sayest,  beneath  his  conquer- 
or's frown  ? 


Ay,  when  the  strife  was  ended  which  made 

dim 
The  orb  I  rule,  and  shook  the  solid  stars, 
The  terrors  of  his  eye  illnmincd  heaven 
With    sanguine   light,   through   the   thick 

ragged  skirts 
Of  the  victorious  darkness,  as  he  fell; 
Like  the  last  glare  of  day's  red  agony. 
Which,  from  a  rent  among  the  fiery  clouds. 
Burns  far  along  the  tempest-wrinkled  deep. 

OCEAN 

He    sunk    to    the    abyss  ?    to    the    dark 
void  ?  10 

APOLLO 

An  eagle  so  caught  in  some  bursting  cloud 
On  Caucasus,  his  thunder-baffled  wings 
Entangled  in  the  whirlwind,  and  his  eyes. 
Which  gazed  on  the  uudazzling  sun,  now 

blinded 
By  the  white  lightning,  while  the  ponder- 
ous hail 
Beats  on  his  struggling  form,  which  sinks 

at  length 
Prone,  and  the  aerial  ice  clings  over  it. 

OCEAN 

Henceforth  the  fields  of  Heaven-reflecting 

sea 
Which  are  my  realm,  will  heave,  unstained 

with  blood, 


ACT  III :  sc.  in 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


191 


Beneath  the  uplifting  winds,  like  plains  of 

corn  20 

Swayed  by  the   summer  air;  my  streams 

will  flow 
Round  many-peopled  continents,  and  round 
Fortunate  isles;    and  from    their    glassy 

thrones 
Blue  Proteus  and  his  humid  nymphs  shall 

mark 
The  shadow  of  fair  ships,  as  mortals  see 
The  floating  bark  of  the  light-laden  moon 
With  that  white  star,  its  sightless  pilot's 

crest, 
Borne  down  the  rapid  sunset's  ebbing  sea  ; 
Tracking  their  path  no  more  by  blood  and 

groans, 
And  desolation,  and  the  mingled  voice      30 
Of  slavery  and  command;  but  by  the  light 
Of    wave-reflected    flowers,   and    floating 

odors, 
And  music  soft,   and   mild,   free,   gentle 

voices. 
That  sweetest  music,  such  as  spirits  love. 


And  I  shall  gaze  not  on  the  deeds  which 

make 
My  mind  obscure  with  sorrow,  as  eclipse 
Darkens  the  sphere  I  guide.    But  list,  I  hear 
The  small,  clear,  silver  lute  of  the  young 

Spirit 
That  sits  i'  the  morning  star. 

OCEAN 

Thou  must  away ; 

Thy  steeds  will  pause  at  even,  till  when 
farewell.  40 

The  loud  deep  calls  me  home  even  now  to 
feed  it 

With  azure  calm  out  of  the  emerald  urns 

Which  stand  forever  full  beside  my  throne. 

Behold  the  Nereids  under  the  green  sea. 

Their  wavering  limbs  borne  on  the  wind- 
like stream, 

Their  white  arms  lifted  o'er  their  stream- 
ing hair. 

With  garlands  pied  and  starry  sea-flower 
crowns, 

Hastening  to  grace  their  mighty  sister's  joy. 
[A  sound  of  waves  is  heard. 

It  is  the  unpastured  sea  hungering  for  calm. 

Peace,  monster;  I  come  now.     Farewell. 


APOhU) 


Farewell.    50 


ScKNE  III.  —  Caucasus.  Prometheus,  Heb- 
CUJLES,  loNE,  the  Earth,  Spirits,  Asia,  and 
Panthea,  borne  in  the  Car  with  the  Spirit 
OF  THE  Hour.  Hercules  unbinds  Pro- 
metheus, who  descends. 

HERCULES 

Most  glorious   among   spirits  !   thus   doth 

strength 
To    wisdom,   courage,   and   long-sufFering 

love. 
And  thee,  who  art  the  form  they  animate, 
Minister  like  a  slave. 

PROMETHEUS 

Thy  gentle  words 
Are  sweeter  even  than  freedom  long  de- 
sired 
And  long  delayed. 

Asia,  thou  light  of  life, 
Shadow  of  beauty  uubeheld;  and  ye, 
Fair  sister  nymphs,  who  made  long  years 

of  pain 
Sweet  to  remember,  through  your  love  and 

care; 
Henceforth  we  will  not  part.     There  is  a 

cave,  10 

All  overgrown  with  trailing  odorous  plants, 
Which  curtain  out  the  day  with  leaves  and 

flowers. 
And  paved   with  veinfed  emerald;   and  a 

fountain 
Leaps   in   the    midst   with   an  awakening 

sound. 
From  its  curved  roof  the  mountain's  frozen 

tears. 
Like  snow,  or  silver,  or  long  diamond  spires, 
Hang  downward,  raining  forth  a  doubtful 

light; 
And  there  is  heard  the  ever-moving  air 
Whispering  without  from  tree  to  tree,  and 

birds. 
And    bees;    and    all    around    are    mossy 

seats,  20 

And  the  rough  walls  are  clothed  with  long 

soft  grass; 
A   simple   dwelling,   which    shall    be    our 

own  ; 
Where  we  will  sit  and  talk  of  time  and 

change. 
As  the  world  ebbs  and  flows,  ourselves  un- 
changed. 
What  can  hide  man  from  mutability  ? 
And  if  ye  sigh,  then  I  will  smile;  and  thou, 


192 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND 


ACT   III:   SC.    Ill 


lone,  slialt  chant  fragments  of  sea-mnsic, 
Until  I  weep,  when  ye  shall  smile  away 
The  tears   she   brought,  which  yet   were 

sweet  to  shed. 
We  will  entangle   buds  and  flowers   and 

beams  30 

Which  twinkle  on  the  fountain's  brim,  and 

make 
Strange     combinations    out    of     common 

things, 
Like  human  babes  in  their  brief  innocence; 
And  we  will  search,  with  looks  and  words 

of  love, 
For  hidden  thoughts,  each  lovelier  than  the 

last. 
Our  unexhausted  spirits;  and,  like  lutes 
Touched  by  the  skill  of  the  enamoured  wind, 
Weave  harmonies  divine,  yet  ever  new. 
From  difference  sweet  where  discord  can- 
not be; 
And  hither  come,  sped  on  the   charmed 

winds,  40 

Which  meet  from  all  the  points  of  heaven 

—  as  bees 
From  every  flower  aerial  Enna  feeds 
At  their  known  island-homes  in  Himera  — 
The   echoes   of   the   human   world,   which 

tell 
Of  the  low  voice  of  love,  almost  unheard, 
And  dove-eyed  pity's  murmured  pain,  and 

music, 
Itself  the  echo  of  the  heart,  and  all 
That  tempers  or  improves  man's  life,  now 

free ; 
And  lovely  apparitions,  —  dim  at  first. 
Then  radiant,  as  the  mind  arising  bright  50 
From  the  embrace  of  beauty  (whence  the 

forms 
Of  which  these  are  the  phantoms)  casts  on 

them 
The  gathered  rays  which  are  reality  — 
Shall  visit  us,  the  progeny  immortal 
Of  Painting,  Sculpture,  and  rapt  Poesy, 
And  arts,  though  unimagined,  yet  to  be; 
The   wandering  voices  and    the   shadows 

these 
Of  all  that  man  becomes,  the  mediators 
Of  that  best  worship,  love,  by  him  and  us 
Given    and    returned;    swift   shapes    and 

sounds,  which  grow  60 

More  fair  and  soft  as  man  grows  wise  and 

kind. 
And,  veil  by  veil,  evil  and  error  fall. 
Such  virtue  has  the  cave  and  place  around. 
[Turning  to  the  Spirit  of  thk  Houb. 


For  thee,   fair   Spirit,   one   toil    remains. 

lone. 
Give  her  that  curved  shell,  which  Proteus 

old 
Made  Asia's  nuptial  boon,  breathing  within 

it 
A  voice  to  be  accomplished,  and  which  thou 
Didst  hide  in  grass  under  the  hollow  rock. 


Thou  most  desired  Hour,  more  loved  and 

lovely 
Than  all   thy  sisters,   this  is   the   mystic 

shell.  70 

See  the  pale  azure  fading  into  silver 
Lining  it  with  a  soft  yet  glowing  light. 
Looks   it   not  like   lulled  music   sleeping 

there  ? 

SPIRIT 

It  seems  in  truth  the  fairest  shell  of  Ocean : 
Its  sound  must  be  at  once  both  sweet  and 
strange. 

PROMETHEtrS 

Go,  borne  over  the  cities  of  mankind 
On  whirlwind-footed  coursers;  once  again 
Outspeed  the  sun  around  the  orbfed  world; 
And  as  thy  chariot  cleaves  the  kindling  air. 
Thou  breathe  into  the  many-folded  shell, 
Loosening  its  mighty  music;  it  shall  be    8r 
As  thunder  mingled  with  clear  echoes;  then 
Return;  and  thou  shalt  dwell  beside  our 
cave. 

And  thou,  O  Mother  Earth  !  — 

THE   EARTH 

I  hear,  I  feel; 
Thy  lips   are   on  me,  and  thy  touch  runs 

down 
Even  to  the  adamantine  central  gloom 
Along  these  marble  nerves;  'tis  life, 'tis 

And,  through  my  withered,  old,  and  icy 
frame 

The  warmth  of  an  immortal  youth  shoots 
down 

Circling.  Henceforth  the  many  children 
fair  90 

Folded  in  my  sustaining  arms;  all  plants. 

And  creeping  forms,  and  insects  rainbow- 
winged, 

And  birds,  and  beasts,  and  fish,  and  human 


ACT    III  :   SC.    Ill 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND 


193 


Which   drew  disease  and  pain   from  my 

wan  bosom, 
Draining  the  poison  of  despair,  shall  take 
And  interchange  sweet  nutriment;  to  me 
Shall  they  become  like  sister-antelopes 
By  one  fair  4^m,  snow-white,  and  swift  as 

wind, 
Nursed    among    lilies    near    a   brimming 

stream. 
The  dew-mists  of  my  sunless  sleep  shall 

float  100 

Under  the  stars   like   balm;   night-folded 

flowers 
Shall  suck  unwithering  hues  in  their  repose; 
And  men  and  beasts  in  happy  dreams  shall 

gather 
Strength  for  the  coming  day,  and  all  its 

joy; 
And  death  shall  be  the  last  embrace  of  her 
Who  takes  the  life  she  gave,  even  as  a  mo- 
ther. 
Folding   her  child,  says,  'Leave   me  not 

again.' 


Oh,  mother  !  wherefore  speak  the  name  of 

death  ? 
Cease  they  to  love,  and  move,  and  breathe, 

and  speak, 
Who  die  ? 

THE   EARTH 

It  would  avail  not  to  reply;  no 
Thou  art  immortal  and  this  tongue  is  known 
But  to  the  uncommunicating  dead. 
Death  is  the  veil  which  those  who  live  call 

life; 
They  sleep,  and  it  is  lifted;  and  meanwhile 
In  mild  variety  the  seasons  mild 
AVith  rainbow-skirted  showers,  and  odorous 

winds, 
And  long  blue  meteors  cleansing  the  dull 

night, 
And   the  life-kindling  shafts  of  the  keen 

sun's 
All-piercing  bow,  and  the  dew-mingled  rain 
Of  the  calm  moonbeams,  a  soft  influence 

mild,  ,20 

Shall  clothe  the  forests  and  the  fields,  ay, 

even 
The  crag-built  deserts  of  the  barren  deep, 
With   ever-living   leaves,  and   fruits,  and 

flowers. 
And  thou  !   there  is  a  cavern  where  my 

spirit 


Was  panted  forth  in  anguish  whilst   thy 

pain 
Made  my  heart  mad,  and  those  who  did 

inhale  it 
Became  mad  too,  and  built  a  temple  there. 
And  spoke,  and  were  oracular,  and  lured 
The  erring  nations  round  to  mutual  war. 
And  faithless  faith,  such  as  Jove  kept  with 

thee ;  130 

Which  breath  now  rises  as  amongst  tall 

weeds 
A  violet's  exhalation,  and  it  fills 
With  a  serener  light  and  crimson  air 
Intense,  yet   soft,    the   rocks    and   woods 

around ; 
It  feeds  the  quick  growth  of  the  serpent 

vine. 
And  the  dark  linked  ivy  tangling  wild. 
And  budding,  blown,  or  odor-faded  blooms 
Which  star  the   winds  with  points  of  col- 
ored light 
As   they  rain   through   them,  and   bright 

golden  globes 
Of  fruit  suspended  in  their  own  green  hea- 
ven, _  ,43 
And  through  their  veiufed  leaves  and  amber 

stems 
The  flowers  whose  purple  and  translucid 

bowls 
Stand  ever  mantling  with  aerial  dew. 
The  drink  of  spirits;  and  it  circles  round, 
Like  the  soft   waving    wings   of   noonday 

dreams. 
Inspiring  calm  and   happy  thoughts,  like 

mine. 
Now  thou  art  thus  restored.     This  cave  is 

thine. 
Arise  !     Appear  ! 

[A  Spirit  rises  in  the  likeness  of  a  winged 
child. 

This  is  my  torch-bearer ; 
Who  let  his  lamp  ont  in  old  time  with  gazing 
On  eyes  from  which  he  kindled  it  anew  150 
With  love,  which  is  as  fire,  sweet  daughter 

mine. 
For  such  is  that  within  thine  own.     Run, 

wayward, 
And  guide  this  company  beyond  the  peak 
Of  Bacchic  Nysa,  Msenad-haunted  moun- 
tain, 
And  beyond  Indus  and  its  tribute  rivers. 
Trampling  the  torrent  streams  and  glassy 

lakes 
With  feet  unwet,  unwearied,  undelaying. 
And  up  the  green  ravine,  across  the  vale, 


194 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND 


ACT   III:   SC.    IV 


Beside  the  windless  and  crystalline  pool, 
Where  ever  lies,  ou  unerasing  waves,      i6o 
The  image  of  a  temple,  built  above, 
Distinct  with  column,  arch,  and  architrave, 
And  palm-like  capital,  and  overwrought. 
And  populous  most  with  living  imagery, 
Praxiteleau  shapes,  whose  marble  smiles 
Fill  the  hushed  air  with  everlasting  love. 
It  is  deserted  now,  but  once  it  bore 
Thy  name,  Prometheus;  there  the  emulous 

youths 
Bore   to  thy    honor    through    the    divine 

gloom 
The  lamp  which  was  thiue  emblem;  even 
as  those  170 

Who  bear  the  uutransmitted  torch  of  hope 
Into  the  grave,  across  the  night  of  life. 
As  thou  hast  borne  it  most  triumphantly 
To  this   far   goal  of  Time.     Depart,  fare- 
well ! 
Beside  that  temple  is  the  destined  cave. 


Scene  IV.  —  A  Forest.  In  the  background  a 
Cave.  Prometheus,  Asia,  Panthea,  Ionb, 
and  the  Spirit  of  the  Earth. 


Sister,  it  is  not  earthly;  how  it  glides 
Under  the  leaves  !  how  on  its  head  there 

burns 
A  light,  like  a  green  star,  whose  emerald 

beams 
Are  twined  with  its  fair  hair !  how,  as  it 

moves, 
The    splendor   drops    in  flakes  upon   the 

grass  ! 
Knowest  thou  it  ? 

PANTHEA 

It  is  the  delicate  spirit 
That    guides    the  earth  through  heaven. 

From  afar 
The  populous  constellations  call  that  light 
The  loveliest  of  the  planets ;  and  sometimes 
It  floats  along  the  spray  of  the  salt  sea,     10 
Or  makes  its  chariot  of  a  foggy  cloud, 
Or  walks  through  fields  or  cities  while  men 

sleep, 
Or  o'er   the  mountain  tops,  or  down  the 

rivers. 
Or  through  the  green  waste  wilderness,  as 

now. 
Wondering  at  all   it    sees.     Before  Jove 

reigned 
It  loved  our  sister  Asia,  and  it  came 


Each  leisure  hour  to  drink  the  liquid  light 
Out  of  her  eyes,  for  which  it  said  it  thirsted 
As  one  bit  by  a  dipsas,  and  with  her 
It  made   its  childish  confidence,  and  told 

her  20 

All  it  had  known  or  seen,  for  jt  saw  much. 
Yet  idly  reasoned  what  it  saw;  and  called 

her. 
For  whence   it  sprung  it  knew    not,   nor 

do  I, 
Mother,  dear  mother. 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  EARTH,  running  to  ASIA 
Alother,  dearest  mother ! 
May  I  then  talk  with  thee  as  I  was  wont  ? 
May  I  then  hide  my  eyes  in  thy  soft  arms. 
After  thy  looks  have  made  them  tired  of 

joy? 

May   I   then  play    beside  thee  the  long 

noons. 
When  work    is  none   in  the  bright  silent 

air  ?  29 

ASIA 

I  love  thee,  gentlest  being,  and  henceforth 
Can    cherish    thee    uuenvied.      Speak,    I 

pr?y; 

Thy   simple   talk  once   solaced,    now  de- 
lights. 

SPIRIT   OF   THE    EARTH 

Mother,  I  am  grown  wiser,  though  a  child 
Cannot  be  wise  like  thee,  within  this  day; 
And  happier  too;  happier  and  wiser  both. 
Thou  knowest  that  toads,  and  snakes,  and 

loathly  worms. 
And  venomous  and  malicious  beasts,  and 

boughs 
That  bore  ill  berries  in  the  woods,  were 

ever 
An  hindrance  to  my  walks  o'er  the  green 

world; 
And  that,   among  the  haunts  of  human- 
kind, 40 
Hard-featured  men,  or  with  proud,  angry 

looks, 
Or  cold,  staid   gait,   or  false  and  hollow 

smiles, 
Or  the  dull  sneer  of  self-loved  ignorance, 
Or  other  such  foul  masks,  with  which  ill 

thoughts 
Hide  that  fair  being  whom  we  spirits  call 

man; 
And  women  too,  ugliest  of  all  things  evil, 
(Though  fair,  even  in  a  world  where  thou 

art  fair, 


ACT   III  :   SC.    IV 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


195 


When  good  and  kind,  free  and  sincere  like 

thee) 
When  false  or  frowning  made  me  sick  at 

heart 
To  pass  them,  though  they  slept,  and  I  un- 
seen, so 
Well,  ray  path  lately  lay  through  a  great 

city 
Into  the  woody  hills  surrounding  it; 
A  sentinel  was  sleeping  at  the  gate; 
When  there  was  heard  a  sound,  so  loud,  it 

shook 
The  towers  amid  the  moonlight,  yet  more 

sweet 
Tlian  any  voice  but  thine,  sweetest  of  all; 
A  long,  long  sound,  as  it  would  never  end; 
And  all  the  inhabitants  leapt  suddenly 
Out   of  their  rest,  and  gathered  in    the 

streets, 
Looking  in  wonder  up  to  Heaven,  while 

yet  60 

The  music  pealed  along.     I  hid  myself 
Within  a  fountain  in  the  public  square. 
Where  I  lay  like  the  reflex  of  the  moon 
Seen  in  a  wave  under  green  leaves;  and 

soon 
Those  ugly  human  shapes  and  visages 
Of  which  I  spoke  as  having  wrought  me 

pain, 
Passed  floating  through  the  air,  and  fading 

still 
Into  the  winds  that  scattered  them;    and 

those 
From  whom  they  passed  seemed  mild  and 

lovely  forms 
After  some  foul  disguise  had  fallen,  and 

all  70 

Were  somewhat  changed,  and  after  brief 

surprise 
And  greetings  of  delighted  wonder,  all 
Went  to  their  sleep   again;  and  when  the 

dawn 
Came,  wouldst  thou  think  that  toads,  and 

snakes,  and  efts, 
Could  e'er  be  beautiful  ?  yet  so  they  were. 
And   that  with   little  change  of   shape  or 

hue; 
All  things  had  put  their  evil  nature  off; 
I  cannot  tell  my  joy,  when  o'er  a  lake. 
Upon  a  drooping   bough  with   nightshade 

twined, 
I  saw  two  azure  halcyons  clinging  down- 
ward 80 
And  thinning  one  bright  bunch  of  amber 

berries, 


With  quick  long  beaks,  and  in  the  deep 

there  lay 
Those  lovely  forms  imaged  as  in  a  sky; 
So  with  my  thoughts  full  of  these  happy 

changes. 
We  meet  again,  the  happiest  change  of  all. 


And  never  will   we   part,  till  thy  chaste 

sister. 
Who   guides    the   frozen  and    inconstant 

moon. 
Will   look  on   thy  more  warm  and  equal 

light 
Till   her  heart   thaw  like  flakes  of  April 

snow,  89 

And  love  thee. 

SPIKIT   OF  THE   £AKTH 

What !  as  Asia  loves  Prometheus  ? 

ASIA 

Peace,   wanton !     thou    art    yet    not    old 

enough. 
Think  ye  by  gazing  on  each  other's  eves 
To  multiply  your  lovely  selves,  and  fill 
With  sphered  fires  the  interlunar  air  ? 

SPIRIT   OF   THE   EARTH 

Nay,  mother,  while   my  sister  trims   her 

lamp 
'T  is  hard  I  should  go  darkling. 


Listen;  look  I 
Hie  Spmrr  of  the  Hour  ejiters 

PROMETHEUS 

We  feel  what  thou  hast  heard  and  seen; 
yet  speak. 

SPIRIT    OF    THE    HOUR 

Soon  as  the  sound  had  ceased  whose  thunder 

filled 
The  abysses  of  the  sky  and  the  wide  earth. 
There  was  a  change;  the  impalpable  thin 
air  100 

And   the  all-circling  sunlight  were  trans- 
formed. 
As  if  the  sense  of  love,  dissolved  in  them, 
Had  folded  itself  round  the  sphered  world. 
My  vision  then  grew  clear,  and  I  could  see 
Into  the  mysteries  of  the  universe. 
Dizzy  as  with  delight  I  floated  down; 


196 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


ACT   III:   SC.    IV 


Winnowing  the  lightsome  air  with  languid 

plumes, 
My  coursers  sought  their  birthplace  in  the 

sun, 
Where   they  henceforth  will  live  exempt 

from  toil. 
Pasturing  flowers  of  vegetable  fire,  no 

And  where  my  moonlike   car   will  stand 

within 
A  temple,  gazed  upon  by  Phidian  forms 
Of  thee,  and  Asia,  and  the  Earth,  and  me. 
And  you,  fair  nymphs,  looking  the  love  we 

feel,  — 
In  memory  of  the  tidings  it  has  borne,  — 
Beneath     a    dome     fretted    with    graven 

flowers. 
Poised  on  twelve  columns  of  resplendent 

stone. 
And  open  to  the  bright  amd  liquid  sky. 
Yoked  to  it  by  an  amphisbeuic  snake 
The  likeness  of  those  winged  steeds  will 

mock  120 

The  flight  from  which  they  find  repose. 

Alas, 
Whither  has   wandered    now  my  partial 

tongue 
When  all  remains  untold  which  ye  would 

hear  ? 
As  I  have  said,  I  floated  to  the  earth; 
It  was,  as  it  is  still,  the  pain  of  bliss 
To  move,  to  breathe,  to  be.     I  wandering 

went 
Among  the  haunts  and  dwellings  of  man- 
kind, 
And  first  was  disappointed  not  to  see 
Such  mighty  change  as  I  had  felt  within 
Expressed  in  outward  things;   but  soon  I 

looked,  130 

And  behold,  tlirones  were  kingless,  and  men 

walked 
One  with  the  other  even  as  spirits  do  — 
None   fawned,  none   trampled;   hate,  dis- 
dain, or  fear. 
Self-love  or  self-contempt,  on  human  brows 
No  more  inscribed,  as  o'er  the  gate  of  hell, 
'  All  hope  abandon,  ye  who  enter  here.' 
None  frowned,  none  trembled,  none  with 

eager  fear 
Gazed  on  another's  eye  of  cold  command. 
Until  the  subject  of  a  tyrant's  will  139 

Became,  worse  fate,  the  abject  of  his  own. 
Which  spurred  him,  like  anoutspent  horse, 

to  death. 
None  wrought  his  lips  in  truth-entangling 

lines 


Which  smiled  the  lie  his  tongue  disdained 

to  speak. 
None,  with  firm  sneer,  trod  out  in  his  own 

heart 
The  sparks  of  love  and  hope  till  there  re- 
mained 
Those  bitter  ashes,  a  soul  self-consumed. 
And  the  wretch  crept  a  vampire  among 

men. 
Infecting  all  with  his  own  hideous  ill. 
None  talked  that  common,  false,  cold,  hol- 
low talk 
Which   makes   the   heart   deny  the  yes  it 

breathes,  1 50 

Yet  question  that  unmeant  hypocrisy 
With  such  a  self-mistrust  as  lias  no  name. 
And  women,  too,  frank,  beautiful,  and  kind. 
As  the  free  heaven  which  rains  fresh  light 

and  dew 
On  the  wide  earth,  passed;  gentle,  radiant 

forms. 
From  custom's  evil  taint  exempt  and  pure; 
Speaking  the  wisdom  once  they  could  not 

think. 
Looking  emotions  once  they  feared  to  feel. 
And  changed  to  all  which  once  they  dared 

not  be. 
Yet  being  now,  made  earth  like  heaven; 

nor  pride,  160 

Nor  jealousy,  nor  envy,  nor  ill  shame, 
The  bitterest  of  those  drops  of  treasured 

gall, 
Spoiled  the  sweet   taste  of  the  nepenthe, 

love. 

Thrones,  altars,  judgment-seats,  and  pris- 
ons, wherein. 
And  beside  which,  by  wretched  men  were 

borne 
Sceptres,  tiaras,  swords,  and   chains,   and 

tomes 
Of  reasoned  wrong,  glozed  on  by  ignorance. 
Were   like   those  monstrous  and  barbaric 

shapes, 
The  ghosts  of  a  no-more-remembered  fame 
Which   from   their   unworn  obelisks,  look 
forth  ,70 

In  triumph  o'er  the  palaces  and  tombs 
Of  those  who  were  their  conquerors ;  mould- 
ering round. 
Those  imaged   to  the  pride  of  kings  and 

priests 
A  dark  yet  mighty  faith,  a  power  as  wide 
As  is  the  world  it  wasted,  and  are  now 
But  an  astonishment;  even  so  the  tools 


ACT    IV 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND 


197 


And  emblems  of  its  last  captivity, 
Amid  the  dwellings  of  the  peopled  earth, 
Stand,  not  o'erthrowu,  but  unregarded  now. 
And  those  foul  shapes,  —  abhorred  by  god 
and  man,  180 

Which,  under  many  a  name  and  many  a 

form 
Strange,   savage,   ghastly,   dark,   and    ex- 
ecrable, 
Were  Jupiter,  the  tyrant  of  the  world, 
And    which    the     nations,    panic-stricken, 

served 
With   blood,  and   hearts  broken   by  long 

hope,  and  love 
Dragged  to  his  altars  soiled  and  garland- 
less. 
And  slain  among  men's  unreclaiming  tears. 
Flattering  tlie  thing  they  feared,  which  fear 

was  hate,  — 
Frown,  mouldering  fast,  o'er  their  aban- 
doned shrines. 
The  painted  veil,  by  those  who  were,  called 
life,  190 

Which  mimicked,  as  with  colors  idly  spread. 
All  men  believed  and  hoped,  is  torn  aside; 
The  loathsome  mask  has  fallen,  the  man 

remains 
Sceptreless,  free,  uncircumscribed,  but  man 
Equal,  unclassed,  tribeless,  and  nationless. 
Exempt   from   awe,  worship,   degree,  the 

king 
Over  himself;  just,  gentle,  wise;  but  man 
Passionless — no,  yet  free  from  guilt  or  pain, 
Which  were,  for  his  will  made  or  suffered 

them; 
Nor  yet  exempt,  though  ruling  them  like 
slaves,  2CX3 

From  chance,  and  death,  and  mutability. 
The  clogs  of  that  which  else  might  over- 
soar 
The  loftiest  star  of  unascended  heaven, 
Pinnacled  dim  in  the  intense  inane. 

ACT    IV 

Scene  —  A  part  of  the  Forest  near  the  Cave 
of  Prometheus.  Panthea  and  Ione  are 
sleeping :  they  awaken  gradually  during  the 
first  Song. 

VOICE   OF   UNSEEN    SPIRITS 

The  pale  stars  are  gone  ! 
For  the  sun,  their  swift  shepherd 
To  their  folds  them  compelling, 
In  the  depths  of  the  dawn, 


Hastes,  in  meteor-eclipsing  array,  and  they 

flee 
Beyond  his  blue  dwelling, 
As  fawns  flee  the  leopard, 

But  where  are  ye  ? 

A  Train  of  dark  Forms  and  Shadows  passes  by 
confusedly,  singing. 

Here,  oh,  here  ! 

We  bear  the  bier  to 

Of  the  father  of  many  a  cancelled  year  I 

Spectres  we 

Of  the  dead  Hours  be; 
We  bear  Time  to  his  tomb  in  eternity. 

Strew,  oh,  strew 

Hair,  not  yew  ! 
Wet  the  dusty  pall  with  tears,  not  dew  t 

Be  the  faded  flowers 

Of  Death's  bare  bowers 
Spread   on   the    corpse   of    the    King    of 
Hours !  20 

Haste,  oh,  haste ! 

As  shades  are  chased. 
Trembling,   by    day,  from   heaven's  blue 
waste. 

We  melt  away. 

Like  dissolving  spray, 
From  the  children  of  a  diviner  day, 

With  the  lullaby 

Of  winds  that  die 
On  the  bosom  of  their  own  harmony  1 

IONE 

What  dark  forms  were  they  ?  3c 

PANTHEA 

The  past  Hours  weak  and  gray, 
With  the  spoil  which  their  toil 

Raked  together 
From  the  conquest  but  One  could  foil. 

IONE 

Have  they  passed  ? 

PANTHEA 

They  have  passed; 
They  outspeeded  the  blast, 
While  't  is  said,  thej-  are  fled  ! 

IONE 

Whither,  oh,  whither  ? 

PANTHEA 

To  the  dark,  to  the  past,  to  the  dead. 


198 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND 


ACT   IV 


VOICE   OF   UKSEEN   SPllilTS 

Bright  clouds  float  iu  beaveu,  40 

Dew-stars  gleam  on  earth, 
Waves  assemble  on  ocean, 
They  are  gathered  and  driven 
By  the  storm  of  delight,  by  the  panic  of 

glee  I 
They  shake  with  emotion, 
They  dance  in  their  mirth. 

But  where  are  ye  ? 

The  pine  boughs  are  singing 
Old  songs  witb  new  gladness. 
The  billows  and  fountains  50 

Fresh  music  are  flinging, 
Like  the  notes  of  a  spirit  from  land  and 

from  sea; 
Tbe  storms  mock  the  mountains 
With  the  thunder  of  gladness, 

But  where  are  ye  ? 

lONE 

What  charioteers  are  these  ? 

PANTHEA 

Where  are  their  chariots  ? 

SEMICHOBUS   OF  HOURS 

The  voice  of   the  Spirits  of  Air  and  of 
Earth 
Has  drawn  back  the  figured  ourtaiu  of 
sleep, 
Which  covered  our  being  and  darkened 
our  birth  59 

In  the  deep. 

A  VOICE 

In  the  deep  ? 

BEMICHORUS   II 

Oh  I  below  the  deep. 

SEMICHORUS  I 

An  hundred  ages  we  had  been  kept 
Cradled  in  visions  of  hate  and  care. 

And  each  one  who  waked  as  his  brother 
slept 
Found  the  truth  — 

SGHICHOBCJS  n 

Worse  than  his  visions  were  ! 

8EMICHORDS  I 
W  e  have  heard  the  lute  uf  Hope  in  sleep; 


We  have  kuow^n  the  voice  of   Love   in 
dreams  ; 
We   have   felt   the  wand   of  Power,  and 
leap  — 

BEMICHORUS    II 

As  the  billows  leap  in  the  morning  beams  ! 


Weave  the  dance  on  the  floor  of  the  breeze, 
Pierce  with  song  heaven's  silent  light,   70 

Enchant  the  day  that  too  swiftly  flees, 
To  check  its  flight  ere  the  cave  of  night. 

Once  the  hungry  Hours  were  hounds 

Which   chased   the  day  like  a  bleeding 
deer. 
And  it  limped  and   stumbled  with   many 
wounds 
Through  the  nightly  dells  of  the  desert 
year. 

But  now,  oh,  weave  the  mystic  measure 
Of  music,  and  dance,  and  shapes  of  light, 

Let  the  Hours,  and  the  Spirits  of  might 
and  pleasure,  79 

Like  the  clouds  and  sunbeams,  unite  — 


Unite  ! 


See,  where  the  Spirits  of  the  human  mind. 
Wrapped  in  sweet  sounds,  as  in  bright  veils, 
approach. 

CHORUS  OF   SPIRITS 

We  join  the  throng 

Of  the  dance  and  the  song. 
By  the  whirlwind  of  gladness  borne  along; 

As  the  flying-fish  leap 

From  the  Indian  deep 
And  mix  with  the  sea-birds  half-asleep. 

CHORUS  OF  HOURS 

Whence  come  ye,  so  wild  and  so  fleet,      8t> 
For  sandals  of  lightning  are  on  your  feet. 
And   your   wings    are   soft   and    swift   as 

thought, 
And  your  eyes  are  as  love  which  is  veiled 

not? 

CHORUS   OF    SPIRITS 

We  come  from  the  mind 
Of  humankind, 


ACT    IV 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


199 


Which  was  late  so  dusk,  and  obscene,  and 
blind  ; 

Now  't  is  an  ocean 

Of  clear  emotion, 
A  heaven  of  serene  and  mighty  motion. 

From  that  deep  abyss 

Of  wonder  and  bliss,  100 

Whose  caverns  are  crystal  palaces; 

From  those  skyey  towers 

Where  Thought's  crowned  powers 
Sit  watching  your  dance,  ye  happy  Hours  ! 

From  the  dim  recesses 

Of  woven  caresses. 
Where  lovers  catch  ye  by  your  loose  tresses; 

From  the  azure  isles, 

Where  sweet  Wisdom  smiles,        log 
Delaying  your  ships  with  her  siren  wiles. 

From  the  temples  high 

Of  Man's  ear  and  eye, 
Roofed  over  Sculpture  and  Poesy ; 

From  the  murmurings 

Of  the  unsealed  springs. 
Where  Science  bedews  his  daedal  wings. 

Years  after  years. 
Through  blood,  and  tears, 
And  a  thick  hell  of  hatreds,  and  hopes,  and 
fears, 
We  waded  and  flew,  120 

And  the  islets  were  few 
Where  the  bud-blighted  flowers  of  happi- 
ness grew. 

Our  feet  now,  every  palm. 

Are  sandalled  with  calm. 
And  the  dew  of  our  wings  is  a  rain  of 
balm ; 

And,  beyond  our  eyes, 

The  human  love  lies, 
Which  makes  all  it  gazes  on  Paradise. 

CHORUS    OF    SPIRITS   AND   HOURS 

Then  weave  the  web  of   the  mystic  mea- 
sure; 
From  the  depths  of  the  sky  and  the  ends 
of  the  earth,  130 

Come,  swift  Spirits  of  might  and  of  plea- 
sure, 
Fill  the  (lance  and  the  music  of  mirth. 
As  the  waves  of  a  thousand  streams  rush 

by 

To  an  ocean  of  splendor  and  harmony  I 


CHORUS   OF   SPIRITS 

Our  spoil  is  won. 

Our  task  is  done, 
We  are  free  to  dive,  or  soar,  or  run; 

Beyond  and  around, 

Or  within  the  bound  139 

Which  clips  the  world  with  darkness  round. 

We  '11  pass  the  eyes 

Of  the  starry  skies 
Into  the  hoar  deep  to  colonize; 

Death,  Chaos  and  Night, 

From  the  sound  of  our  flight, 
Shall  flee,  like  mist  from  a  tempest's  might. 

And  Earth,  Air  and  Light, 

And  the  Spirit  of  Might, 
Which  drives  round  the  stars  in  their  fiery 
flight; 

And  Love,  Thought  and  Breath,  150 

The  powers  that  quell  Death, 
Wherever  we  soar  shall  assemble  beneath. 

And  our  singing  shall  build 

In  the  void's  loose  field 
A  world  for  the  Spirit  of  Wisdom  to  wield ; 

We  will  take  our  plan 

From  the  new  world  of  man. 
And  our  work  shall  be  called  the  Prome- 
thean. 

CHORUS   OF   HOURS 

Break  the  dance,  and  scatter  the  song; 
Let  some  depart,  and  some  remain;  160 

SEMICHORUS   I 

We,  beyond  heaven,  are  driven  along; 

SEMICHORUS  n 

Us  the  enchantments  of  earth  retain; 

SEMICHORUS  I 

Ceaseless,  and  rapid,  and  fierce,  and  free, 
With  the  Spirits  which  build  a  new  earth 

and  sea. 
And  a  heaven  where  yet  heaven  could  never 

be; 

SEMICHORUS  n 

Solemn,  and  slow,  and  serene,  and  bright. 
Leading    the    Day,   and   outspeediug    the 

Night, 
With   the   powers  of   a  world   of   perfect 

light; 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND 


ACT    IV 


8EMICHORU8  I 

We  whirl,  singing  loud,  round  the  gather- 
ing sphere, 

Till  the  trees,  and  the  beasts,  and  the  clouds 
appear  170 

From  its  chaos  made  calm  by  love,  not 
fear; 

SEHICHOBUS  II 

We  encircle  the  ocean  and   mountains  of 

earth, 
And  the  happy  forms  of  its  death  and  birth 
Change  to  the  music  of  our  sweet  mirth. 

CHORUS  OF   HOURS  AND   SPIRITS 

Break  the  dance,  and  scatter  the  song; 

Let  some  depart,  and  some  remain; 
Wherever  we  fly  we  lead  along 
In  leashes,  like  star-beams,  soft  yet  strong. 

The  clouds  that  are  heavy  with  love's 
sweet  rain.  179 

PANTHEA 

Ha  f  they  are  gone  ! 

lONE 

Yet  feel  yoo  no  delight 
From  the  past  sweetness  ? 

PANTHEA 

As  the  bare  green  hill, 
Wlien  some  soft  clond  vanishes  into  rain. 
Laughs  with  a  thousand   drops   of   sunny 

water 
To  the  unpavilioned  sky  I 


Even  whilst  we  speak 
New   notes   arise.     What    is    that    awful 
sound  ? 

PANTHEA 

'Tis  the  deep  music  of  the  rolling  world, 
Kindling  within  the  strings  of  the  waved 

air 
^olian  modulations. 


Listen  too. 
How  every  pause  is  filled  with  under-notes. 
Clear,  silver,  icy,  keen  awakening  tones. 
Which  pierce  the  sense,  and  live  within  the 

sonl,  191 

As  the  sharp  stars  pierce  winter's  crystal 

air 
And  gaze  upon  themselves  within  the  sea. 


PANTHEA 

But  see  where,  through  two  openings   in 

the  forest 
Which  hanging  branches  overcanopy, 
And  where  two  runnels  of  a  rivulet. 
Between  the  close  moss  violet-inwoven. 
Have  made  their  path  of  melody,  like  sis- 
ters 
Who  part  with  sighs  that  they  may  meet 

in  smiles. 
Turning  their  dear  disunion  to  an  isle      2co 
Of    lovely   grief,   a   wood   of    sweet    sad 

thonglits; 
Two  visions  of  strange  radiance  float  upon 
The    ocean-like    enchantment    of    strong 

sound, 
Which  flows  intenser,  keener,  deeper  yet. 
Under  the  ground  and  through  the  wind- 
less air. 


I  see  a  chariot  like  that  thinnest  boat 
In  which  the  mother  of  tiie  months  is  borne 
By  ebbing  night  into  her  western  cave, 
When     she     upsprings     from     iuterlunar 

dreams;  209 

O'er  which  is  curved  an  orb-like  canopy 
Of  gentle  darkness,  and  the  hills  and  woods, 
Distinctly  seen  through  that  dusk  airy  veil, 
Regard  like  shapes  in  an  enchanter's  glass; 
Its  wlieels  are  solid  clouds,  azure  and  gold, 
Such  as  the  genii  of  the  thunder-storm 
Pile  on  the  floor  of  the  illumined  sea 
When  the  sun  rushes  under  it;  they  roll 
And   move  and   grow  as  with  an   inward 

wind ; 
Within  it  sits  a  winged  infant  —  white 
Its  countenance,  like  the  whiteness  of  bright 

snow,  220 

Its  plumes  are  as  feathers  of  sunny  frost, 
Its  limbs  gleam  white,  through  the  wind- 
flowing  folds 
Of  its  wliite  robe,  woof  of  ethereal  pearl, 
Its  hair  is  white,  the  brightness  of  white 

light 
Scattered  in  strings;  yet  its  two  eyes  are 

heavens 
Of  liquid  darkness,  which  the  Deity 
Within  seems  pouring,  as  a  storm  is  poured 
From  jagged  clouds,  out  of  their  arrowy 

laslies. 
Tempering  the  cold  and  radiant  air  around 
With  fire  that  is  not  brightness;  in  its  hand 
It  sways  a  quivering  moonbeam,  from  whose 

point  2}t 


ACT   IV 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


20I 


A  guiding  power  directs  the  chariot's  prow 
Over  its  wheeled  clouds,  which  as  they  roll 
Over   the   grass,  and   flowers,  and  waves, 

wake  sounds. 
Sweet  as  a  singing  rain  of  silver  dew. 


And  from  the  other  opening  in  the  wood 
Rushes,  with  loud  and  whirlwind  harmony, 
A    sphere,    which    is    as   many   thousand 

spheres; 
Solid  as  crystal,  yet  through  all  its  mass 
Flow,  as  through  empty  space,  music  and 

light;  240 

Ten  thousand  orbs  involving  and  involved, 
Purple  and  azure,  white,  green  and  golden, 
Sphere   witliin    sphere;    and  every   space 

between 
Peopled  with  unimaginable  shapes, 
Such  as  ghosts  dream  dwell  in  the  lampless 

deep; 
Yet  each  inter-transpicuous;  and  they  whirl 
Over  each  other  with  a  thousand  motions. 
Upon  a  thousand  sightless  axles  spinning, 
And  witli  the  force  of  self -destroying  swift- 
ness. 
Intensely-,  slowly,  solemnly,  roll  on,  250 

Kindling  with  mingled  sounds,  and  many 

tones, 
Intelligible  words  and  music  wild. 
With  mighty  whirl  the  multitudinous  orb 
Grinds  the  briglit  brook  into  an  azure  mist 
Of  elemental  subtlety,  like  light; 
And  the  wild  odor  of  the  forest  flowers. 
The  music  of  the  living  grass  and  air. 
The  emerald  light  of  leaf-entangled  beams. 
Round  its  intense  yet  self-conflicting  speed 
Seem  kneaded  into  one  aerial  mass  260 

Which  drowns  the  sense.     Within  the  orb 

itself. 
Pillowed  upon  its  alabaster  arms. 
Like  to  a  child  o'erwearied  with  sweet  toil. 
On  its  own  folded  wings  and  wavy  hair 
The  Spirit  of  the. Earth  is  laid  asleep. 
And  you  can  see  its  little  lips  are  moving, 
Amid  the  changing  liglit  of  their  own  smiles. 
Like  one  who  talks  of  wliat  he  loves  in 

dream. 


'T  is  only  mocking  the  orb's  harmony. 


And  from  a  star  upon  its  forehead  shoot,  270 
Like  swords  of  azure  fire  or  golden  spears 


With  tyrant-quelling  myrtle  overtwined, 
Embleming  heaven  and  earth  united  now, 
Vast  beams  like  spokes  of  some  invisible 

wheel 
W^hich  whirl  as  the  orb  whirls,  swifter  than 

thought. 
Filling  the  abyss  with  sun-like  lightnings. 
And  perpendicular  now, and  now  transverse. 
Pierce  the  dark  soil,  and  as  they  pierce  and 

pass 
Make  bare  the  secrets  of  the  earth's  deep 

heart; 
Infinite  mine  of  adamant  and  gold,  280 

Valueless  stones,  and  unimagined  gems, 
And  caverns  on  crystalline  columns  poised 
With  vegetable  silver  overspread; 
Wells  of  unfathomed  fire,  and  water-springs 
Whence  the  great  sea  even  as  a  child  is  fed. 
Whose     vapors     clothe     earth's    monarch 

mountain-tops 
With   kingly,   ermine   snow.     The   beams 

flash  on 
And  make  appear  the  melancholy  ruins 
Of   cancelled    cycles;    anchors,    beaks    of 

ships; 
Planks  turned  to  marble;  quivers,  helms, 

and  spears,  290 

And  gorgon-headed  targes,  and  the  wheels 
Of  scythM  chariots,  and  the  emblazonrj' 
Of  trophies,  standards,  and  armorial  beasts. 
Round   which   death   laughed,   sepulchred 

emblems 
Of  dead  destruction,  ruin  within  ruin  ! 
The  wrecks  beside  of  many  a  city  vast. 
Whose  population  which  the  earth  grew 

over 
Was  mortal,  but  not  human;  see,  they  lie. 
Their  monstrous  works,  and  uncouth  skele- 
tons. 
Their  statues,  homes  and  fanes;  prodigious 

shapes  300 

Huddled  in  gray  annihilation,  split. 
Jammed  in  the  hard,  black  deep;  and  over 

these. 
The  anatomies  of  unknown  wingfed  things. 
And  fishes  which  were  isles  of  living  scale, 
And  serpents,  bony  chains,  twisted  around 
The  iron  crags,  or  within  heaps  of  dust 
To  which  the  tortuous  strength  of  their  last 

pangs 
Had  crushed  the  iron  crags ;  and  over  these 
The  jagged  alligator,  and  the  might         309 
Of  earth-convulsing  behemoth,  which  once 
Were    monarch  beasts,  and  on  the  slimy 

shores, 


202 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


ACT    IV 


And  weed-overgrown  continents  of  earth, 
luci-eased    and    multiplied    like    summer 

worms 
On  an  abandoned  corpse,  till  the  blue  globe 
Wrapped  deluge  round  it  like  a  cloke,  and 

they 
Yelled,    gasped,  and    were   abolished;    or 

some  God, 
Whose  throne  was  in  a  comet,  passed,  and 

cried, 
Be  not !  and  like  my  words  they  were  no 

more. 

THE   EARTH 

The  joy,  the  triumph,  the  delight,  the  mad- 
ness ! 

The  boundless,  overflowing,  bursting  glad- 
ness, 320 

The  vaporous  exultation  not  to  be  confined  ! 
Ha  !  ha  !  the  animation  of  delight 
Which  wraps  me,  like  an  atmosphere  of 
light, 

And  bears  me  as  a  cloud  is  borne  by  its 
own  wind. 

THE    MOON 

Brother  mine,  calm  wanderer, 
Happy  globe  of  land  and  air. 
Some  Spirit  is  darted  like  a  beam  from 
thee. 
Which  penetrates  my  frozen  frame. 
And  passes  with  the  warmth  of  flame. 
With  love,  and  odor,  and  deep  melody    330 
Through  me,  through  me  ! 

THE   EARTH 

Ha  !  ha  !  the  caverns  of  my  hollow  moun- 
tains. 

My     cloven    fire-crags,    sound-exulting 
fountains. 
Laugh  with  a  vast   and-  inextinguishable 
laugliter. 

The   oceans,  and  the   deserts,   and   the 
abysses, 

And  the  deep  air's  unmeasured  wilder- 
nesses. 
Answer  from  all  their  clouds  and  billows, 
echoing  after. 

They  cry  aloud  as  I  do.     Sceptred  curse. 
Who  all  our  green  and  azure  universe 
Threatenedst  to  muffle    round  with  black 
destruction,  sending  340 

A  solid  cloud  to  rain  hot  thunder-stones 
And   splinter  and  knead  down  my  chil- 
dren's bones, 


All  I  bring  forth,  to  one  void  mass  batter- 
ing and  blending, 

Until  each  crag-like  tower,  and  storied 

column. 
Palace,  and  obelisk,  and  temple  solemn. 
My  imperial  mountains  crowned  with  cloud, 

and  snow,  and  fire. 
My  sea-like    forests,    every   blade    and 

blossom 
Which   finds   a  grave  or  cradle  in  my 

bosom. 
Were  stamped  by  thy  strong  hate  into  a 

lifeless  mire: 

How  art  thou  sunk,  withdrawn,  covered , 
drunk  up  350 

By  thirsty  nothing,  as  the  brackish  cup 
Drained  by  a  desert-troop,  a  little  drop  for 
all; 
And  from  beneath,  around,  within,  above. 
Filling  thy  void  annihilation,  love 
Bursts  in  like  light  on  caves  cloven  by  the 
thunder-ball ! 

THE    MOON 

The  snow  upon  my  lifeless  mountains 
Is  loosened  into  living  fountains. 

My  solid  oceans  flow,  and  sing  and  shine; 
A  spirit  from  my  lieart  bursts  forth. 
It  clothes  with  unexpected  birth  360 

My  cold  bare  bosom.     Oh,  it  must  be  thine 
On  mine,  on  mine  ! 

Gazing  on  thee  I  feel,  I  know, 
Green   stalks    burst    forth,  and    bright 
flowers  grow, 
And  living  shapes  upon  ni}'  bosom  move; 
Music  is  in  the  sea  and  air. 
Winged  clouds  soar  here  and  there 
Dark  with  the  rain  new  buds  are  dream- 
ing of: 

'T  is  love,  all  love  ! 

THE   EARTH 

It  interpenetrates  my  granite  mass,      370 
Through  tangled  roots  and  trodden  clay 
doth  pass 
Into  the  utmost  leaves  and  delicatest  flow- 
ers; 
Upon  the  winds,  among  the  clouds  't  is 

spread. 
It  w!ik'.\s  a  life  in  the  forgotten  dead,  — 
They  breathe  a  spirit  up  from  their  obscur- 
ebt  bowers; 


ACT   IV 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


203 


And   like   a  storm   bursting  its   cloudy 
prison 

With  thunder,  and  with  whirlwind,  has 
arisen 
Out  of  the    lanipless  caves  of  unimagined 
beino:; 

With   earthquake  shock    and    swiftness 
making  shiver 

Thought's   stagnant    chaos,    iinremoved 
forever,  380 

Till   hate,  and   fear,  and   pain,  light-van- 
quished shadows,  fleeing, 

Leave  Man,  who  was  a  many-sided  mir- 
ror 

Which  coTild  distort  to  many  a  shape  of 
error 
This  true  fair  world  of  things,  a  sea  re- 
flecting love; 

Which  over  all  his  kind,  as  the  sun's  hea- 
ven 

Gliding   o'er  ocean,  smooth,  serene,  and 
even, 
Darting  from  starry  depths  radiance  and 
life  doth  move: 

Leave   Man  even  as  a  leprous  child  is 

left. 
Who  follows  a  sick  beast  to  some  warm 
cleft 
Of  rocks,  through  which  the  might  of  heal- 
ing springs  is  poured ;  390 
Then  when  it  wanders   home  with  rosy 

smile. 
Unconscious,  and  its  mother  fears  awhile 
It  is  a  spirit,  then  weeps  on  her  child  re- 
stored : 

Man,   oh,  not  men  !  a  chain  of  linked 
thought. 

Of  love  and  might  to  be  divided  not. 
Compelling  the  elements  with  adamantine 
stress; 

As  the  sun  rules  even  with  a  tyrant's 
gaze 

The  unquiet  republic  of  the  maze 
Of  planets,  struggling  fierce  towards  hea- 
ven's free  wilderness: 

Man,   one  harmonious  soul  of  many   a 

soul,  400 

Whose  nature  is  its  own  divine  control. 
Where  all  tilings  flow  to  all,  as  rivers  to  the 
sea; 
Familiar  acts  are  beautiful  through  love ; 


Labor,  and  pain,  and  grief,  in  life's  green 
grove 
Sport   like  tame  beasts;    none  knew  how 
gentle  they  could  be  ! 

His   will,   with  all  mean  passions,  bad 

delights. 
And  selfish  cares,  its  trembling  satellites, 
A  spirit  ill  to  guide,  but  mighty  to  obey. 
Is  as  a  tempest-winged  ship,  whose  helm 
Love  rules,  through  waves  which   dare 
not  overwhelm,  410 

Forcing  life's  wildest  shores  to  own  its  sov- 
ereign sway. 

All  things  confess  his  strength.    Through 

the  cold  mass 
Of    marble    and    of    color    his  dreams 

pass  — 
Bright  threads  whence  mothers  weave  the 

robes  their  children  wear; 
Language  is  a  perpetual  Orphic  song, 
Which    rules    with    daedal    harmony  a 

throng 
Of  thoughts  and  forms,  which  else  senseless 

and  shapeless  were. 

The  lightning  is  his  slave;  heaven's  ut- 
most deep 

Gives  up  her  stars,  and  like  a  flock   of 
sheep 
They   pass   before  his  eye,  are  numbered, 
and  roll  on  !  420 

The  tempest   is  his  steed,  he  strides  the 
air; 

And   the  abyss  shouts   from   her  depth 
laid  bare, 
'  Heaven,  hast  thou  secrets  ?     Man  unveils 
me;  I  have  none.' 

THK    MOON 

The  shadow  of  white  death  has  passed 
From  my  path  in  heaven  at  last, 
A  clinging  shroud  of  solid  frost  and  sleep; 
And  through  my  newly  woven  bowers. 
Wander  happy  paramours. 
Less  mighty,  but  as  mild  as  those  who 
keep 

Thy  vales  more  deep.  430 

THE    EARTH 

As   the  dissolving  warmth  of  dawn  may 

fold 
A  half  unfrozen  dew-globe,  green,  and 

gold, 


204 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND 


ACT    IV 


And  crystalline,  till  it  becomes  a  winged 
mist, 
And  wanders  up   the  vault  of  the  blue 

day. 
Outlives  the  noon,  and  on  the  sun's  last 
ray 
Hangs   o'er  the  sea,  a  fleece  of  fire  and 
amethyst. 

THE   MOON 

Thou  art  folded,  thou  art  lying 
In  the  light  which  is  undying 
Of  thine   own  joy,  and  heaven's   smile 
divine ; 
All  suns  and  constellations  shower   440 
On  thee  a  light,  a  life,  a  power. 
Which  doth  array  thy  sphere;  thou  pour- 
est  thine 

On  mine,  on  mine  ! 

THE   EAKTH 

I  spin  beneath  my  pyramid  of  night 
Which  points  into  the  heavens,  dreaming 

delight, 
Murmuring  victorious  joy  in  my  enchanted 

sleep; 
As  a  youth  lulled  in  love-dreams  faintly 

sighing, 
Under  the  shadow  of  his  beauty  lying, 
Which  round  his  rest  a  watch  of  light  and 

warmth  doth  keep. 

THE  MOON 

As  in  the  soft  and  sweet  eclipse,       450 
When  soul  meets  soul  on  lovers'  lips, 
High  hearts  are  calm,  and  brightest  eyes 
are  dull ; 
So  when  thy  shadow  falls  on  me, 
Then  am  I  mute  and  still,  by  thee 
Covered ;  of  thy  love,  Orb  most  beautiful. 
Full,  oh,  too  full ! 

Thou  art  speeding  round  the  sun, 
Brightest  world  of  many  a  one; 
Green  and  azure  sphere  which  shinest 
With  a  light  whicli  is  divinest  460 

Among  all  the  lamps  of  Heaven 
To  whom  life  and  light  is  given; 
I,  thy  crystal  paramour, 
Borne  beside  thee  by  a  power 
Like  the  polar  Paradise, 
Magnet-like,  of  lovers'  eyes; 
I,  a  most  enamoured  maiden, 
Whose  weak  brain  is  overladen 


With  the  pleasure  of  her  love, 

Maniac-like  around  thee  move,  470 

Gazing,  an  insatiate  bride. 

On  thy  form  from  every  side, 

Like  a  Maenad  round  the  cup 

Which  Agave  lifted  up 

In  the  weird  Cadmean  forest. 

Brother,  wheresoe'er  thou  soarest 

I  must  hurry,  whirl  and  follow 

Through  the  heavens  wide  and  hollow, 

Sheltered  by  the  warm  embrace 

Of  thy  soul  from  hungry  space,  480 

Drinking  from  thy  sense  and  sight 

Beaut}^,  majesty  and  might. 

As  a  lover  or  a  chameleon 

Grows  like  what  it  looks  upon, 

As  a  violet's  gentle  eye 

Gazes  on  the  azure  sky 

Until  its  hue  grows  like  what  it  beholds, 
As  a  gray  and  watery  mist 
Glows  like  solid  amethyst 

Athwart    the    western    mountain    it    en- 
folds, 490 
When  the  sunset  sleeps 
Upon  its  snow. 

TELE  EARTH 

And  the  weak  day  weeps 
That  it  should  be  so. 
O  gentle  Moon,  the  voice  of  thy  delight 
Falls  on  me  like  thy  clear  and  tender  light 
Soothing   the  seaman   borne   the  summer 
night 
Through  isles  forever  calm; 
O  gentle  Moon,  thy  crystal  accents  pierce 
The  caverns  of  my  pride's  deep  universe,  500 
Charming  the  tiger  joy,  whose  tramplings 
fierce 
Made  wounds  which  need  thy  balm. 


I  rise  as  from  a  bath  of  sparkling  water, 
A  bath  of  azure  light,  among  dark  rocks, 
Out  of  the  stream  of  sound. 

lONE 

Ah  me  !  sweet  sister, 
The  stream  of  sound  has  ebbed  away  from 

us, 
And  you  pretend  to  rise  out  of  its  wave, 
Because  your  words  fall  like  the  clear  soft 

dew 
Shaken  from  a  bathing  wood-nymph's  limbs 

and  hair. 


ACT   IV 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


205 


PANTHEA 

Peace,  peace  !  a  mighty  Power,  which  is  as 
darkness,  510 

Is  rising  ont  of  Earth,  and  from  the  sky 

Is  showered  like  night,  and  from  within 
the  air 

Bursts,  like  eclipse  which  had  been  gathered 

"P 
Into  the   pores   of    sunlight;    the    bright 

visions. 
Wherein  the  singing  Spirits  rode  and  shone. 
Gleam  like  pale  meteors  through  a  watery 

niglit. 

lONE 

There  is  a  sense  of  words  upon  mine  ear. 

PANTHEA 

An  universal  sound  like  words:  Oh,  list  ! 

DEMOGORGON 

Thou,  Eartli,  calm  empire  of  a  happy  soul. 
Sphere  of   diviuest  shapes  and   harmo- 
nies, 520 
Beautiful  orb  !  gathering  as  thou  dost  roll 
The  love  which  paves  thy  path  along  the 
skies: 

THE   EARTH 

I  hear:  I  am  as  a  drop  of  dew  that  dies. 

DEMOGORGON 

Thou,  Moon,  which  gazest  on  the  nightly 

Earth 
With  wonder,  as  it  gazes  upon  thee; 
Whilst  each  to  men,  and  beasts,  and  the 

swift  birth 
Of  birds,  is  beauty,  love,  calm,  harmony: 

THE    MOON 

I  hear:  I  am  a  leaf  shaken  by  thee. 

DEMOGORGON 

Ye  kings  of  suns  and  stars,  Daemons  and 
Gods, 
Ethereal  Dominations,  who  possess      530 
Elysian,  windless,  fortunate  abodes 

Beyond    Heaven's    constellated    wilder- 
ness: 

A    VOICE  {from  above) 
Our  great  Republic  hears:  we  are  blessed, 
and  bless. 

DEMOGORGON 

Ye  happy  dead,  whom  beams  of  brightest 


Are  clouds  to  hide,  not  colors  to  portray, 
Whether  your  nature  is  tliat  universe 
Which  once  ye  saw  and  suffered  — 

A   VOICE   FROM   BENEATH 

Or,  as  they 
Whom  we  have  left,  we  change  and  pass 
away. 

DEMOGORGON 

Ye  elemental  Genii,  who  have  homes 

From  man's  high  mind  even  to  the  cen- 
tral stone  54a 
Of  sullen  lead ;  from  Heaven's  star-fretted 
domes 
To  the  dull  weed  some  sea-worm  battens 
on: 

A   CONFUSED   VOICE 

We  hear:  thy  words  waken  Oblivion. 

DEMOGORGON 

Spirits,  whose  homes  are  flesh;   ye  beasts 
and  birds, 
Ye  worms  and  fish;  ye  living  leaves  and 
buds; 
Lightning   and    wind;    and   ye  untamable 
herds. 
Meteors  and  mists,  which   throng   air's 
solitudes: 

A   VOICE 

Thy  voice  to  us  is  wind  among  still  woods. 

DEMOGORGON 

Man,  who  wert  once  a  despot  and  a  slave, 
A  dupe  and  a  deceiver,  a  decay,  550 

A  traveller  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave 
Through  the  dim  night  of  this  immortal 
day: 


Speak:  thy  strong  words  may  never  pass 
away. 

DEMOGORGON 

This  is  the  day  which  down  the  void  abysm 

At  the  Earth-bom's  spell  yawns  for  Hea- 
ven's despotism. 
And  Conquest  is  dragged  captive  through 
the  deep; 

Love,   from   its   awful    throne   of  patient 
power 

In  the  wise  heart,  from  the  last  giddy  hour 
Of  dread  endurance,  from  the  slippery, 
steep, 


2o6 


THE  CENCI 


And    narrow   verge    of    crag-like  agony, 

springs  s^o 

And  folds  over  the  world  its  healing  wings. 

Gentleness,  Virtue,  Wisdom,  and  Endur- 
ance — 

These  are  the  seals  of  that  most  firm  assur- 
ance 
Which  bars   the  pit  over   Destruction's 
streiigtli; 

And  if,  with  infirm  hand,  Eternity, 

Mother  of  many  acts  and   hours,  should 
free 
The  serpent  that  would  clasp  her  with 
his  length, 


These  are  the  spells  by  which  to  rcassume 
An  empire  o'er  the  disentangled  doom.    569 

To  suffer  woes  which  Hope  thinks  infinite; 

To  forgive  wrongs  darker   than  death  or 
night; 
To  defy  Power,  which  seems  omnipotent; 

To  love,  and  bear;  to  hope  till  Hope  creates 

From  its  own  wreck  the  thing  it  contem- 
plates; 
Neither  to  change,  nor  falter,  nor  repent; 

This,  like  thy  glory,  Titan,  is  to  be 

Good,  great  and  joyous,  beautiful  and  free; 

This  is  alone  Life,  Joy,  Empire,  and  Vic- 
tory I 


THE   CENCI 


A   TRAGEDY 


IN   FIVE   ACTS 


The  Cenct  was  Shelley's  first  attempt  at  writ- 
ing drama,  a  fonn  of  composition  for  which  lie 
had  conceived  himself  to  have  no  talent.  It 
was  executed  with  greater  rapidity  than  any  of 
liis  earlier  works,  being  begun  at  Rome  by  May 
14,  and  finished  at  Leghorn,  August  8,  181'J, 
though  as  usual  Shelley  continued  to  revise  it 
till  it  left  his  hands.  He  printed  two  hundred 
and  fifty  copies  at  an  Italian  press,  and  these 
were  issued  in  the  spring  of  1820,  at  London, 
as  the  first  edition.  A  second  edition  was  pub- 
lished the  following  year.  Shelley  desired 
that  the  play  should  be  put  upon  the  stage, 
and  had  it  offered  at  Covent  Garden  by  Pea- 
cock, but  it  was  declined  on  accoimt  of  the 
subject.  He  tliought  it  was  written  in  a  way 
to  make  it  popular,  and  that  the  repulsive  ele- 
ment in  the  story  had  been  eliminated  by  the 
delicacy  of  his  treatment.  His  interest  in  it 
lessened  after  its  refusal  by  the  managers  ;  but 
their  judgment  was  supported  by  the  unfavor- 
able impression  made  by  it  when  it  was  pri- 
vately played  for  the  first  time  under  the 
auspices  of  the  Shelley  Society,  at  London,  in 
188«. 

Mrs.  Shelley's  note,  as  usual,  gives  nearly 
all  that  is  essential  to  the  history  of  the  poem 
and  of  Shelley's  interest  in  it : 

'  When  in  Rome,  in  1819,  a  friend  put  into 
our  hands  the  old  manuscript  account  of  the 
story  of  The  Cenci.  We  visited  the  Colonna 
and  Doria  palaces,  where  the  portraits  of  Bea- 
trice were  to  be  found ;  and  her  beauty  cast 
the  reflection  of  its  own  grace  over  her  appall- 
ing   story.      Shelley's     imagination     became 


strongly  excited,  and  he  urged  the  subject  to 
me  as  one  fitted  for  a  tragedy.  More  than 
ever  I  felt  my  incompetence  ;  but  I  entreated 
him  to  write  it  instead  ;  and  he  began  and  pro- 
ceeded swiftly,  nrged  on  by  intense  sj'mpa- 
thy  with  the  sufferings  of  the  human  beings 
whose  passions,  so  long  cold  in  the  tomb.  h« 
revived,  and  gifted  with  poetic  language.  This 
tragedy  is  the  only  one  of  his  works  that 
he  communicated  to  me  during  its  progress. 
We  talked  over  tlie  arrangement  of  the  scenes 
together.  .  .  . 

'  We  suffered  a  severe  affliction  in  Rome  by 
the  loss  of  our  eldest  child,  who  was  of  such 
beauty  and  promise  as  to  cause  him  deservedly 
to  be  the  idol  of  our  hearts.  We  left  the  cap- 
ital of  the  world,  anxious  for  a  time  to  escape 
a  spot  associated  too  intimately  with  his  pre- 
sence and  loss.  Some  friends  of  ours  were 
residing  in  the  neighborhood  of  Leghorn,  and 
we  took  a  small  house,  Villa  Valsovano,  about 
half-way  between  the  town  and  Monte  Nero, 
where  we  remained  during  the  summer.  Our 
villa  was  situated  in  the  midst  of  a  podere ;  the 
peasants  sang  as  they  worked  beneath  our 
windows,  during  the  heats  of  a  very  hot  sea- 
son, and  at  night  the  water-wheel  creaked  as 
the  process  of  irrigation  went  on,  and  the  fire- 
flies flashed  from  among  the  myrtle  hedges  :  — 
nature  was  bright,  sunshiny,  and  cheerful,  or 
diversified  by  storms  of  a  majestic  terror,  such 
as  we  had  never  before  witnes-sed. 

'  At  the  top  of  the  house  there  was  a  sort  of 
terrace.  There  is  often  such  in  Italy,  gener- 
ally roofed.     This  one  was  very  small,  yet  not 


INTRODUCTORY   NOTE 


207 


only  roofed  but  glazed ;  this  Shelley  made  his 
study ;  it  looked  out  on  a  wide  prospect  of  fer- 
tile country,  and  commanded  a  view  of  the  near 
sea.  The  storms  that  sometimes  varied  our 
day  showed  tliemselves  most  picturesquely  as 
they  were  driven  across  the  ocean ;  sometimes 
the  dark  lurid  clouds  dipped  towards  the  waves, 
and  became  water  spouts,  that  churned  up  the 
waters  beneath,  as  they  were  chased  onward, 
and  scattered  by  the  tempest.  At  other  times 
the  dazzling  sunlight  and  heat  made  it  almost 
intolerable  to  every  other  ;  but  Shelley  basked 
in  both,  and  his  health  and  spirits  revived  under 
their  influence.  In  this  airy  cell  he  wrote  the 
principal  part  of  The  Cenci.  He  was  making 
a  study  of  Calderon  at  the  time,  reading  his 
best  tragedies  with  an  accomplished  lady  [Mrs. 
Gisborne]  living  near  us,  to  whom  his  letter 
from  Leghorn  was  addressed  during  the  fol- 
lowing year.  He  admired  Calderon,  both  for 
his  poetry  aud  his  dramatic  genius ;  but  it 
shows  his  judgment  and  originality,  that, 
though  greatly  struck  by  his  first  acquaintance 
with  the  Spanish  poet,  none  of  his  peculiarities 
crept  into  the  composition  of  The  Cenci;  and 
there  is  no  trace  of  his  new  studies,  except  in 
that  passage  to  which  he  himself  alludes,  as 
suggested  by  one  in  Ei  Purgatorio  de  San 
Patricio. 

'  Shelley  wished  The  Cenci  to  be  acted.  He 
was  not  a  play-goer,  being  of  such  fastidious 
taste  that  he  was  easily  disgusted  by  the  bad 
filling  up  of  the  inferior  parts.  \VTiile  pre- 
paring for  our  departure  from  England,  how- 
ever, he  saw  Miss  O'Neil  several  times  ;  she 
was  then  in  the  zenith  of  her  glory,  and  Shelley 
was  deeply  moved  by  her  impersonation  of 
several  parts,  and  by  the  graceful  sweetness, 
the  intense  pathos,  and  sublime  vehemence  of 
passion  she  displayed.  She  was  often  in  his 
thoughts  as  he  wrote,  and  when  he  had  finished, 
he  became  anxious  that  his  tragedy  should  be 
acted,  and  receive  the  advantage  of  having 
this  accomplished  actress  to  fiU.  the  part  of  the 
heroine.  With  this  view  he  wrote  the  follow- 
ing letter  to  a  friend  [Peacock,  July,  1819]  in 
London : — 

' "  The  object  of  the  present  letter  is  to  ask  a 
favor  of  you.  I  have  written  a  tragedy  on  the 
subject  of  a  story  well  known  in  Italy,  and,  in 
my  conception,  eminently  dramatic.  I  have 
taken  some  pains  to  make  my  play  fit  for  re- 
presentation, and  those  who  have  already  seen 
it  judge  favorably.  It  is  written  without  any 
of  the  peculiar  feelings  and  opinions  which 
characterize  my  other  compositions :  I  having 
attended  simply  to  the  impartial  development 
of  such  characters  as  it  is  pro]>able  the  persons 
represented  really  were,  together  with  the  great- 
est degree  of  popular  effect  to  be  produced  by 
such  a  development.     I  send  you  a  translation 


of  the  Italian  MS.  on  which  my  play  is  founded ; 
the  chief  subject  of  which  I  have  touched  very 
delicately ;  for  my  principal  doubt  as  to 
whether  it  would  succeed,  as  an  acting  play, 
hangs  entirely  on  the  question,  as  to  whether 
such  a  thing  as  incest  in  this  shape,  however 
treated,  would  be  admitted  on  the  stage.  I 
think,  however,  it  will  form  no  objection,  con- 
sidering, first,  that  the  facts  are  matter  of  his- 
tory and,  secondly,  the  peculiar  delicacy  with 
which  I  have  treated  it. 

'  "  I  am  exceedingly  interested  in  the  ques- 
tion of  whether  this  attempt  of  mine  will  suc- 
ceed or  no.  I  am  strongly  inclined  to  the 
affirmative  at  present ;  f  ouudit>g  my  hopes  on 
this,  that  as  a  composition  it^^is  certainly  not 
inferior  to  any  of  the  modem  plays  that  have 
been  acted,  with  the  exception  of  Remorse; 
that  tlie  interest  of  its  plot  it  incredibly  grater 
and  more  real,  and  that  there  is  nothing  beyond 
what  the  multitude  are  contented  to  believe 
that  they  can  understand,  either  in  imagery, 
opinion,  or  sentiment.  I  wish  to  preserve  a 
complete  incognito,  and  can  trust  to  you  that, 
whatever  else  you  do,  you  will  at  least  favor 
me  on  this  point.  Indeed  this  is  essential, 
deeply  essential  to  its  success.  After  it  had 
been  acted,  and  successfully  (could  I  hope  such 
a  thing),  I  would  own  it  if  I  pleased,  and  use 
the  celebrity  it  might  acquire,  to  my  own  pur- 
poses. 

' "  What  I  want  yon  to  do,  is  to  procure  for 
me  its  presentation  at  Covent  Garden.  The 
principal  character,  Beatrice,  is  precisely  fitted 
for  Miss  O'Neil.  and  it  might  even  seem 
written  for  her,  (God  forbid  that  I  should  ever 
see  her  play  it  —  it  would  tear  my  nerves  to 
pieces,)  and  in  all  respects  it  is  fitted  only  for 
Covent  Garden.  The  chief  male  character  I 
confess  I  should  be  very  unwilling  that  any 
one  but  Kean  should  play  —  that  is  impossible, 
and  I  must  be  contented  with  an  inferior  ac- 
tor." 

'  The  play  was  accordingly  sent  to  Mr. 
Harris.  He  pronounced  the  subject  to  be  so 
objectionable  that  he  conld  not  even  submit 
the  part  to  Miss  O'Neil  for  perusal,  but  ex- 
pressed his  desire  that  the  author  would  write 
a  tragedy  on  some  other  subject,  which  he  would 
gladly  accept.  Shelley  printed  a  small  edition 
at  Leghorn,  to  insure  its  correctness  ;  as  he  was 
much  annoyed  by  the  many  mistakes  that  crept 
into  his  text,  when  distance  prevented  him 
from  correcting  the  press. 

'  Universal  approbation  soon  stamped  The 
Cenci  as  the  best  tragedy  of  modern  times. 
Writing  concerning  it.  Shelley  said  :  "  I  have 
been  cautious  to  avoid  the  introducing  faults 
of  youthful  composition  ;  diffuseness,  a  profu- 
sion of  inapplicable  imagery,  vagueness,  gener- 
ality, and,   as   Hamlet   says,  words,    uorda^" 


2o8 


THE   CENCI 


There  is  nothing  that  is  not  purely  dramatic 
throughout;  and  the  character  of  Beatrice, 
proceeding  from  vehement  struggle  to  horror, 
to  deadly  resolution,  and  lastly,  to  the  ele- 
vated dignity  of  calm  suffering,  joined  to  pas- 
sionate tenderness  and  pathos,  is  touched  with 
hues  so  vivid  and  so  beautiful,  that  the  poet 
seems  to  have  read  intimately  the  secrets  of 
the  noble  heart  imaged  in  the  lovely  counte- 
nance of  the  unfortunate  girl.  Tlie  Fifth  Act  is 
a  masterpiece.  It  is  the  finest  thing  he  ever 
■wrote,  and  may  claim  proud  comparison  not 
only  with  any  contemporary,  but  preceding 
poet.  The  varying  feelings  of  Beatrice  are 
expressed  with  passionate,  heart-reaching  elo- 
quence. Every  character  has  a  voice  that 
echoes  truth  in  its  tones.  It  is  curious,  to  one 
acquainted  with  the  written  story,  to  mark  the 
success  with  which  the  poet  has  inwoven  the 
real  incidents  of  the  tragedy  into  his  scenes, 
and  yet,  through  the  power  of  poetry,  has 
obliterated  all  that  would  otherwise  have  shown 
too  harsh  or  too  hideous  in  the  picture.  His 
success  was  a  double  triumph  ;  and  often  after 
he  was  earnestly  entreated  to  write  again  in  a 
style  that  commanded  popular  favor,  while  it 
was  not  less  instinct  with  truth  and  genius. 
But  the  bent  of  his  mind  went  the  other  way  ; 
and  even  when  employed  on  subjects  whose 
interest  depended  on  character  and  incident, 
he  would  start  off  in  another  direction,  and 
leave  the  delineations  of  human  passion,  which 
he  could  depict  in  so  able  a  manner,  for  fantas- 
tic creations  of  his  fancy,  or  the  expression  of 
those  opinions  and  sentiments  with  regard  to 
human  nature  and  its  destiny,  adesire  to  diffuse 
■which  was  the  master  passion  of  his  soul.' 

Though  Shelley's  references  to  the  drama,  in 
his  correspondence,  are  many,  they  are  rather 
concerned  with  the  stage-production  and  publi- 
cation of  it  than  with  criticism.  Wliile  still 
warm  with  its  composition  he  wrote  to  Peacock, 
'  My  work  on  The  Cenci,  which  was  done  in 
two  months,  was  a  fine  antidote  to  nervous 
medicines  and  kept  np,  I  think,  the  pain  in  my 
side  as  sticks  do  a  fire.  Since  then  I  have  ma- 
terially improved  ; '  and  in  offering  the  dedica- 
tion to  I>eigh  Hitnt,  he  says,  — '  I  have  written 
something  and  finished  it,  different  from  any- 
thing else,  and  a  new  attempt  for  me  ;  and  I 
mean  to  dedicate  it  to  you.  I  should  not  have 
done  so  •without  your  approbation,  but  I  asked 
your  picture  last  night,  and  it  smiled  assent. 
If  I  did  not  think  it  in  some  degree  worthy  of 
you,  I  would  not  make  you  a  public  offering 
of  it.  I  expect  to  have  to  ■write  to  you  soon 
abont  it.  If  Oilier  is  not  turned  Christian, 
Jew,  or  become  infected  with  the  Murrain,  he 
will  publish  it.  Don't  let  him  be  frightened, 
for  it  is  nothing  which  by  any  courtesy  of  lan- 
g^nage  can  be  termed  either  moral  or  immoral.' 


In  letters  to  Oilier  he  describes  it  as  '  calcn 
lated  to  produce  a  very  popular  effect,'  '  ex- 
pressly written  for  theatrical  exhibition,'  and 
*  written  for  the  multitude.'  He  doubtless 
had  in  mind,  while  using  these  phrases,  its  re- 
straint of  style,  in  which  it  is  unique  among 
his  longer  works,  and  its  freedom  from  abstract 
thought  and  the  peculiar  imagery  in  which  he 
delighted.  Its  failure  disappointed  him,  as  it 
is  the  only  one  of  his  works  from  which  he 
seems  to  have  expected  contemporary  and 
popular  success.  '  The  Cenci  ought  to  have 
been  popular,'  he  writes  again  to  Oilier  ;  and 
the  effect  of  continued  neglect  of  his  writings, 
in  depressing  his  spirits,  is  shown  in  a  letter  the 
preceding  day  to  Peacock,  — '  Nothing  is  more 
difficult  and  unwelcome  than  to  write  without 
a  confidence  of  findhig  readers  ;  and  if  my  play 
of  2'Ac  Cenci  found  none  or  few,  I  despair  of 
ever  producing  anything  that  shall  merit  them.' 
Byron  was  '  loud  in  censure,'  and  Keats  was 
critical,  in  the  very  point  where  criticism  was 
perhaps  least  needed  ;  he  wrote,  acknowledging 
a  gift  copy,  —  '  You,  I  am  sure,  will  forgive  me 
for  sincerely  remarking  that  you  might  curb 
your  magnanimity,  and  be  more  of  an  artist,  and 
load  every  rift  of  your  subject  with  ore.  The 
thought  of  such  discipline  must  fall  like  cold 
chains  upon  you,  wlio  perhaps  never  sat  w'th 
your  wings  furled  for  six  months  together. 
And  is  not  this  extraordinary  talk  for  the 
writer  of  Endymion,  whose  mind  was  like  a 
pack  of  scattered  cards  ?  '  Trelawny  records 
Shelley's  last,  and  most  condensed  judgment : 
'  In  writing  The  Cenci  my  object  was  to  see  how 
I  could  succeed  in  describing  passions  I  have 
never  felt,  and  to  tell  the  most  dreadful  story 
in  pure  and  refined  language.  The  image  of 
Beatrice  haunted  me  after  seeing  her  portrait. 
The  story  is  well  authenticated,  and  the  details 
far  more  horrible  than  I  have  painted  them. 
The  Cenci  is  a  work  of  art ;  it  is  not  colored  by 
my  feelings  nor  obscnred  by  my  metaphysics. 
I  don't  think  miieh  of  it.  It  gave  me  less 
trouble  than  anything  I  have  written  of  the 
same  length.' 

DEDICATION 
TO  LEIGH  HUNT,   ESQ. 

My  dkar  Frikkd,  —  I  inscribe  with  your 
name,  from  a  distant  country,  and  after  an  ab- 
sence whose  months  have  seemed  years,  tliis 
the  latest  of  my  literary  efforts. 

Those  writings  which  I  have  hitherto  pub- 
lished have  been  little  else  than  visions  which 
impersonate  my  own  apprehensions  of  the  beau- 
tiful and  the  just.  I  can  also  perceive  in  them 
the  literary  defects  incidental  to  youth  and  im- 


AUTHOR'S   PREFACE 


209 


patience ;  they  are  dreams  of  what  ought  to 
be  or  may  be.  The  drama  which  I  now  pre- 
sent to  you  is  a  sad  reality.  I  lay  aside  the 
presumptuous  attitude  of  an  instructor  and  am 
content  to  paint,  with  such  colors  as  my  own 
heart  furnishes,  tliat  which  has  been. 

Had  I  known  a  person  more  highly  endowed 
than  yoursalf  with  all  that  it  becomes  a  man 
to  possess,  I  liad  solicited  for  this  work  the 
ornament  of  his  name.  One  more  gentle,  hon- 
orable, innocent  and  brave  ;  one  of  more  ex- 
alted toleration  for  all  who  do  and  think  evil, 
and  yet  himself  more  free  from  evil ;  one  who 
knows  better  how  to  receive  and  how  to  con- 
fer a  benefit,  though  he  must  ever  confer  far 
more  than  he  can  recsive  ;  one  of  simpler,  and, 
in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word,  of  purer  life 
and  manners,  I  never  knew  ;  and  I  had  already 
been  fortunate  in  friendships  when  your  name 
was  added  to  the  list. 

In  that  patient  and  irreconcilable  enmity 
with  domestic  and  political  tyranny  and  impos- 
ture which  the  tenor  of  your  life  has  illus- 
trated, and  which,  had  I  health  and  talents, 
should  illustrate  mine,  let  us,  comforting  each 
other  in  our  task,  live  and  die. 

All  happiness  attend  you ! 
Your  affectionate  friend, 

Peucy  B.  Shelley. 

Rome,  May  29,  1819. 

PREFACE 

A  Mantjsckipt  was  communicated  to  me 
during  my  travels  in  Italy,  which  was  copied 
from  the  archives  of  the  Cenei  Palace  at  Rome 
and  contains  a  detailed  account  of  the  horrors 
which  ended  in  the  extinction  of  one  of  the 
noblest  and  richest  families  of  that  city,  during 
the  Pontificate  of  Clement  VIII.,  in  the  year 
1599.  The  story  is  that  an  old  man,  having 
spent  his  life  in  debauchery  and  wickedness, 
conceived  at  length  an  implacable  hatred 
towards  his  children ;  which  showed  itself 
towards  one  daughter  imder  the  form  of  an  in- 
cestuous passion  aggravated  by  every  circum- 
stance of  cruelty  and  violence.  This  daughter, 
after  long  and  vain  attempts  to  escape  from 
what  she  considered  a  perpetual  contamination 
both  of  body  and  mind,  at  length  plotted  with 
her  mother-in-law  and  brother  to  murder  their 
common  tvrant.  The  young  maiden  who  was 
urged  to  this  tremendous  dead  by  an  impulse 
which  overpowered  its  horror  was  evidently  a 
most  gentle  and  amiable  being,  a  creature 
formed  to  adorn  and  be  admired,  and  thus  vio- 
lently thwarted  from  her  nature  by  the  necessity 
of  circumstance  and  opinion.  The  deed  was 
quickly  discovered,  and,  in  spite  of  the  most 
earnest  prayers  made  to  the  Pope  by  the  high- 
est persons  in  Rome,  the  criminals  were  put  to 


death.  The  old  man  had  during  his  life  re- 
peatedly bought  his  pardon  from  the  Pope  for 
capital  crimes  of  the  most  enormous  and  un- 
speakable kind  at  the  price  of  a  hundred  thou- 
sand crowns ;  the  death  therefore  of  his  vic- 
tims can  scarcely  be  accounted  for  by  the  lovo 
of  justice.  The  Pope,  among  other  motives 
for  severity,  probably  felt  that  whoever  killed 
the  Count  Cenci  deprived  his  treasury  of  a 
certain  and  copious  source  of  revenue.^  Such 
a  story,  if  told  so  as  to  present  to  the  reader 
all  the  feelings  of  those  who  once  acted  it, 
their  hopes  and  fears,  their  confidences  and 
misgivings,  their  various  interests,  passions  and 
opinions,  acting  upon  and  with  each  other  yet 
all  conspiring  to  one  tremendous  end,  would  be 
as  a  light  to  make  apparent  some  of  the  most 
dark  and  secret  caverns  of  the  human  heart. 

On  my  arrival  at  Rome  I  found  that  the 
story  of  the  Cenei  was  a  subject  not  to  be 
mentioned  in  Italian  society  without  awaken- 
ing a  deep  and  breathless  interest ;  and  that 
the  feelings  of  the  company  never  failed  to  in- 
cline to  a  romantic  pity  for  the  wrongs  and  a 
passionate  exculpation  of  the  horrible  deed 
to  which  they  urged  her  who  has  been  mingled 
two  centuries  with  tha  common  dust.  All 
ranks  of  people  knew  the  outlines  of  this  his- 
tory and  participated  in  the  overwhelming  in- 
terest which  it  seems  to  have  the  mag^c  of  ex- 
citing in  the  human  heart.  I  had  a  copj'  of 
Guide's  picture  of  Beatrice  which  is  preserved 
in  the  Colonna  Palace,  and  my  servant  instantly 
recognized  it  as  the  portrait  of  La  Cenci. 

This  national  and  universal  interest  which 
the  story  produces  and  has  produced  for  two 
centuries  and  among  all  ranks  of  people  in  a 
great  City,  where  the  imagination  is  kept  for- 
ever active  and  awake,  first  suggested  to  me 
the  conception  of  its  fitness  for  a  dramatic 
purpose.  In  fact  it  is  a  tragedy  which  has  al- 
ready received,  from  its  capacity  of  awakening 
and  sustaining  the  sympathy  of  men,  appro- 
bation and  success.  Nothing  remained  as  I  im- 
agined but  to  clothe  it  to  the  apprehensions  of 
my  countrymen  in  such  language  and  action  as 
would  biing  it  home  to  their  hearts.  The 
deepest  and  the  sublimest  tragic  compositions, 
King  Lear  and  the  two  plays  in  which  the  tale 
of  CEdipus  is  told,  were  stories  which  already 
existed  in  tradition,  as  matters  of  popular 
belief  and  interest,  before  Shakespeare  and 
Sophocles  made  them  familiar  to  the  sympa- 
thy of  all  succeeding  generations  of  man- 
kind. 

This  story  of  the  Cenci  is  indeed  eminently 

'  The  Papal  Government  formerly  t"ok  the  most  ei- 
traordinary  precautions  against  tlie  publicity  of  facts 
whioli  offer  so  tragical  a  deiiionstratiou  of  its  own  wick- 
eflness  and  weakness ;  so  tliat  tlie  roiiimunication  of 
tiie  MS.  had  become,  until  very  lately,  a  matter  of 
some  difficulty. 


2IO 


THE   CENCI 


fearful  and  monstrous ;  anything  lika  a  dry 
exhibition  of  it  on  the  stage  would  be  insup- 
portable. The  peraon  who  would  treat  such  a 
■abject  must  increase  the  ideal  and  diminish 
the  actual  horror  of  the  events,  so  that  the 
pleasure  which  arises  from  the  poetry  which 
exists  in  these  tempestuous  sufferings  and 
eriraes  may  mitigate  the  pain  of  the  contem- 
plation of  the  moral  deformity  from  which 
they  spring.  There  must  also  be  nothing  at- 
tempted to  make  the  exhibition  subservient  to 
what  is  vulgarly  termed  a  moral  purpose.  The 
highest  moral  purpose  aimed  at  in  the  highest 
species  of  the  drama  is  the  teaching  the  hu- 
man heart,  through  its  sympathies  and  autipr/- 
thies,  the  knowledge  of  itself ;  in  proportion  to 
the  possession  of  which  knowledge  every  hu- 
man being  is  wise,  just,  sincere,  tolerant  and 
kind.  If  dogmas  can  do  more,  it  is  well :  but 
a  drama  is  uo  fit  place  for  the  enforcement  of 
them.  Undoubtedly  no  person  can  be  truly 
dishonored  by  the  act  of  another ;  and  the  fit 
return  to  make  to  the  most  enormous  injuries 
ia  kindness  and  forbearance  and  a  resolution  to 
convert  the  injurer  from  his  dark  passions  by 
peace  and  love.  Revenge,  retaliation,  atone- 
ment, are  pernicious  mistakes.  If  Beatrice 
had  thought  in  this  manner  she  would  have 
been  wiser  and  better ;  but  she  would  never 
have  been  a  tragic  character.  The  few  whom 
such  an  exhibition  would  have  interested  could 
never  have  been  sufficiently  interested  for  a 
dramatic  purpose,  from  the  want  of  finding 
sympathy  in  their  interest  among  the  mass 
who  surround  them.  It  is  in  the  restless  and 
anatomizing  casuistry  with  which  men  seek 
the  justification  of  Beatrice,  yet  feel  that  she 
has  done  what  needs  justification  ;  it  is  in  the 
superstitious  horror  with  which  they  contem- 
plate alike  her  wrongs  and  their  revenge,  — 
that  the  dramatic  character  of  what  she  did 
and  suffered,  consists. 

I  have  endeavored  as  nearly  as  possible  to 
represent  the  charactei-s  as  they  probably  were, 
and  have  sought  to  avoid  the  error  of  making 
them  actuated  by  my  own  conce])tions  of  right 
or  wrong,  false  or  true  :  thus  under  a  thin  veil 
converting  names  and  actions  of  the  sixteenth 
century  into  cold  impersonations  of  my  own 
mind.  They  are  represented  as  Catholics,  and 
as  Catholics  deeply  tinged  with  religion.  To 
a  Protestant  apprehension  there  will  appear 
something  unnatural  in  the  earnest  and  pcr- 
petnal  sentiment  of  the  relations  between  God 
and  men  which  pervade  the  tragedy  of  the 
Cenci.  It  will  especially  be  startled  at  the 
combination  of  an  undoubting  persuasion  of 
the  truth  of  the  popular  religion  with  a  cool 
and  determined  perseverance  in  enormous  guilt. 
But  religion  in  Italy  is  not,  as  in  Protestant 
countries,  a  cloak  to  be  worn  on  particular 


days ;  or  a  passport  which  those  who  du  not 
wish  to  be  railtid  at  carry  with  them  to  exhibit ; 
or  a  gloomy  passion  for  penetiuting  the  im- 
penetrable mysteries  of  our  being,  which  terri- 
fies its  possessor  at  the  darkness  of  the  abyss 
to  the  brink  of  which  it  has  conducted  liim. 
Religion  coexists,  as  it  were,  in  the  mind  of  an 
Italian  Catholic,  with  a  faith  in  that  of  which 
all  men  have  the  most  certain  knowledge.  It 
is  interwoven  with  the  whole  fabric  of  life.  It 
is  adoration,  faith,  submission,  penitence,  blind 
admiration  ;  not  a  rule  for  moral  conduct.  It 
has  no  necessary  connection  with  any  one  vir- 
tue. The  most  atrocious  villain  may  be  rigidly 
devout,  and  without  any  shock  to  established 
faith  confess  himself  to  be  so.  Religion  per- 
vades intensely  the  whole  frame  of  society,  and 
is,  according  to  the  temper  of  the  mind  which 
it  inhabits,  a  passion,  a  persuasion,  an  excuse, 
a  refuge  ;  never  a  check.  Cenci  himself  built 
a  chapel  in  the  court  of  liis  Palace,  and  dedi- 
cated it  to  St.  Thomas  the  Apostle,  and  estab- 
lished masses  for  the  peace  of  his  soul.  Thus 
in  the  first  scene  of  the  fourth  act  Lucretia's 
design  in  exposing  herself  to  the  consequences 
of  an  expostulation  with  Cenci  after  having 
administered  the  opiate  was  to  induce  him  by 
a  feigned  tale  to  confess  himself  before  death, 
this  being  esteemed  by  Catholics  as  essential 
to  salvation ;  and  she  only  relinquishes  her 
purpose  when  she  perceives  that  her  persever- 
ance would  expose  Beatrice  to  new  outrages. 

I  have  avoided  with  great  care  in  writing 
this  play  the  introduction  of  what  is  commonly 
called  mere  poetry,  and  I  imagine  there  will 
scarcely  be  found  a  detached  simile  or  a  single 
isolated  description,  unless  Beatrice's  descrip- 
tion of  the  chasm  appointed  for  her  father's 
murder  should  be  judged  to  be  of  that  nature.' 

In  a  dramatic  composition  the  imagery  and 
the  passion  should  interpenetrate  one  another, 
the  JFornier  being  reserved  simply  for  the  full 
development  and  illustration  of  the  latter. 
Imagination  is  as  the  immortal  God  which 
should  assume  flesh  for  the  redemption  of 
mortal  passion.  It  is  thus  that  the  most  re- 
mote and  the  most  familiar  imagery  may  alike 
be  fit  for  dramatic  purposes  when  employed  in 
the  illustration  of  strong  feeling,  which  raises 
what  is  low  and  levels  to  the  apprehension  that 
which  is  lofty,  casting  over  all  the  shadow  of 
its  own  greatness.  In  other  respects  I  have 
written  more  carelessly  ;  that  is,  without  an 
overfastidious  and  learned  choice  of  words. 
In  this  ri'S])ftct  I  entirely  agree  with  those 
modern  critics  who  assert  tliat  in  order  to 
move  men  to  true  sympathy  we  must  use  the 

1  An  Idea  in  tliis  sjwpcli  was  siipf^ested  by  a  moft 
miblime  paf>Kap;c  in  Kl  Purgnlnrio  ile  Snii  Ptifn'cio  of 
Calderon;  the  only  jilngiariHin  which  I  have  iuteiition- 
ally  committed  iu  ttie  whole  piece. 


ACT  I  :  SC.   I 


THE  CENCI 


familiar  language  of  men,  and  that  our  great 
ancestors  the  ancient  English  poets  are  the 
Arritei-s,  a  study  of  whom  might  incite  us  to  do 
that  for  our  own  age  which  they  have  done  for  ■ 
theirs.  But  it  must  be  the  real  language  of 
men  in  general  and  not  that  of  any  particular 
class  to  whose  society  the  writer  happans  to 
belong.  So  much  for  what  I  have  attempted  ; 
I  need  not  be  assured  that  success  is  a  very 
different  matter ;  particulariy  for  one  whose 
attention  has  but  newly  been  awakened  to  the 
study  of  dramatic  literature. 

I  endeavored  whilst  at  Rome  to  observe  such 
monuments  of  this  story  as  might  be  accessible 
to  a  stranger.  The  portrait  of  Beatrice  at  the 
Colonna  Palace  is  admirable  as  a  work  of  art ; 
it  was  taken  by  Guido  during  her  confinement 
in  prison.  But  it  is  most  interesting  as  a  just 
representation  of  one  of  the  loveliest  specimens 
of  the  workmanship  of  Nature.  There  is  a 
fixed  and  pale  composure  upon  the  features  ; 
she  seems  sad  and  stricken  down  in  spirit,  yet 
the  despair  thus  expressed  is  lightened  by  the 
patience  of  gentleuiss.  Her  head  is  bound 
with  folds  of  white  drapery  from  which  the 
yellow  strings  of  her  golden  hair  escape  and 
fall  about  her  neck.  The  moulding  of  her 
face  is  exquisitely  delicate ;  the  eyebrows  are 
distinct  and  arched ;  the  lips  have  that  perma- 
nent meaning  of  imagination  and  sensibility 
which  suffering  has  not  repressed  and  which  it 
seems  as  if  death  scarcely  could  extinguish. 
Her  forehead  is  large  and  clear  ;  her  eyes, 
which  we  are  told  were  remarkable  for  their 
vivacity,  are  swollen  with  weeping  and  lostre- 

THE    CENCI 

DRAMATIS  PERSONS 


CotWT  Francesco  Cenci.  Andrea,    Servant    to 

GiAcoMO,     I      . .    g  Cenci. 

Beknaedo,  (            oouB.  Nobles.         Judoes. 

Caudinal  Cakillo.  Guards.    Servants. 

Prince  Colonna.  Lucretia,      Wife      of 

Orsino,  a  Preltite.  Cenci  and    Stepmo- 
Savella,  the  Pope's  Legate.        tlier  of  his  children. 

OLIMPIO,      1      ^38333i^3      .  BEATRICE,    hiS    Daugh- 

MARZIO,       J      iiooaooiuo-  jgj._ 

The  Scene  lies  principally  in  Rome,  but  changes  dur- 
ing the  f  ouBth  Act  to  Pretrella,  a  castle  among  the 
Apuliau  Apennines. 

Time.    During  the  Poatificata  of  Clament  YJJL 

ACT   I 

Scene  I.  —  An  Apartment  in  the  Cenci  Palace. 
Enter   Count   Cenci  and  CABDiNAii  Ca- 


That  matter  of  the  murder  is  hushed  up 
If  yoa  conseut  to  yield  his  Holiness 


less,  but  beautifully  tender  and  serene.  In 
the  whole  mien  there  is  a  simplicity  and  dignity 
which,  united  with  her  exquisite  loveliness  and 
deep  sorrow,  are  inexpressibly  pathetic.  Bea- 
trice Cenci  appears  to  have  been  one  of  those 
rare  persons  in  whom  energy  and  gentleness 
dwell  together  without  destroying  one  another ; 
her  nature  was  simple  and  profound.  The 
crimes  and  miseries  in  which  she  was  an  actor 
and  a  sufferer  are  as  the  mask  and  the  mantle 
in  which  circumstances  clothed  her  for  her 
impersonation  on  the  scene  of  tlie  world. 

The  Cenci  Palace  is  of  gjeat  extent ;  and, 
though  in  part  modernized,  there  yet  remains 
a  vast  and  gloomy  pile  of  feudal  architecture 
in  the  same  state  as  during  the  dreadful  scenes 
which  are  the  subject  of  this  tragedy.  The 
Palace  is  situated  in  an  obscure  comer  of 
Rome,  near  the  quarter  of  the  Jews,  and  from 
the  upper  windows  you  see  the  immense  ruins 
of  Mount  Palatine  half  hidden  under  their 
profuse  overgrowth  of  trees.  There  is  a  court 
in  one  part  of  the  Palace  (perhaps  that  in 
which  Cenci  buUt  the  Chapel  to  St.  Thomas), 
supported  by  granite  columns  and  adorned  with 
antique  friezes  of  fine  workmanship,  and  built 
up,  according  to  the  ancient  Italian  fashion, 
with  balcony  over  balcony  of  openwork.  One 
of  the  gates  of  the  Palace  formed  of  immense 
stones  and  leading  through  a  passage,  dark 
and  lofty  and  opening  into  gloomy  subterra- 
nean chambers,  struck  me  particularly. 

Of  the  Castle  of  Petrella,  I  could  obtain  no 
further  information  than  that  which  is  to  be 
found  in  the  manuscript. 

Your  fief  that  lies  beyond  the  Pincian  gate. 
It  needed  all  my  interest  in  the  conclave 
To  bend  him  to  this  point ;  he  said  that  j'ou 
Bought  perilous  impunity  with  your  gold; 
That  crimes  like    yours  if  once  or  twice 

compounded 
Enriched  the  Church,  and  respited  from  hell 
An  erring  soul  which  might  repent  and  live; 
But  that  the  plory  and  the  interest  lo 

Of  the  high  throne  he  fills  little  consist 
With  making  it  a  daily  mart  of  guilt 
As  manifold  and  hideous  as  the  deeds 
Which   you   scarce   hide   from  men's  re- 
volted eyes. 

CENCI 

The  third  of  my  possessions  —  let  it  go  ! 
Ay,  I  once  heard  the  nephew  of  the  Pope 
Had  sent  his  architect  to  view  the  ground. 
Meaning  to  build  a  villa  on  my  vines 
The  next  time  I  compounded  with  his  uncle. 
I  little  thought  he  should  outwit  me  so  !  20 


212 


THE  CENCI 


ACT  I  :   SC,    I 


Henceforth  no  witness  —  not  the  lamp  — 

shall  see 
That  which  the  vassal  threatened  to  divulge, 
Whose  throat  is  choked  with  dust  for  his 

reward. 
The  deed    he  saw  could  not  have  rated 

higher 
Than  his  most  worthless  life  —  it  angers 

me  ! 
Respited    me    from    Hell !     So    may   the 

Devil 
Respite    their    souls    from    Heaven !     No 

doubt  Pope  Clement, 
And  his  most  charitable  nephews,  pray 
That  the  Apostle  Peter  and  the  saints 
Will   grant    for   their   sake    that    I    long 

enjoy  30 

Strength,  wealth,  and  pride,  and  lust,  and 

length  of  days 
Wherein  to  act  the  deeds  which  are  the 

stewards 
Of  their  revenue.  —  But  much  yet  remains 
To  which  they  show  no  title. 

CAMILLO 

Oh,  Count  Cenci ! 
So  much  that  thou  mightst  honorably  live 
And  reconcile  thyself  with  thine  own  heart 
And  with  thy  God  and  with  the  offended 

world. 
How  hideously  look  deeds  of  lust  and  blood 
Through  those  snow-white  and  venerable 

hairs  ! 
Your  children  should  be  sitting  round  you 

now  40 

But  that  you  fear  to  read  upon  their  looks 
The  shame  and  misery  you  have  written 

there. 
Where  is  your  wife  ?    Where  is  your  gentle 

daughter  ? 
Methinks  her  sweet  looks,  which  make  all 

tilings  else 
Beauteous  and  glad,  might  kill  the  fiend 

within  you. 
Why  is  she  barred  from  all  society 
But  her  own  strange  and   uncomplaining 

wrongs  ? 
Talk  with  me,  Count,  —  you  know  I  mean 

you  well. 
I  stood  beside  your  dark  and  fiery  youth, 
Watching  its  bold  and  bad  career,  as  men  50 
Watch   meteors,    but    it   vanished    not;    I 

marked 
Your  desperate  and  remorseless  manhood; 

DOW 


Do  I  behold  you  in  dishonored  age 
Charged    with     a    thousand    uurepented 

crimes. 
Yet  I  have  ever  hoped  you  would  amend. 
And  in  that  hope  have  saved  your  life  three 

times. 


For  which  Aldobrandino  owes  you  now 
My  fief  beyond  the  Pincian.     Cardinal, 
One  thing,  I  pray  you,  recollect  henceforth. 
And   so    we    shall   converse  with  less  re- 
straint. 60 
A  man  you  knew  spoke  of  my  wife  and 

daughter; 
He  was  accustomed  to  frequent  my  house ; 
So  the  next  day  his  wife  and  daughter  came 
And  asked  if  I  liad  seen  him;  and  I  smiled. 
I  think  they  never  saw  him  any  more. 

CAMILLO 

Thou  execrable  man,  beware  ! 

CENCI 

Of  thee  ? 
Nay,  this  is  idle.     We  should  know  each 

other. 
As  to  my  cliaracter  for  what  men  call  crime. 
Seeing  I  please  my  senses  as  I  list, 
And   vindicate    that    right  with   force    or 

guile,  70 

It  is  a  public  matter,  and  I  care  not 
If  I  discuss  it  with  you.     I  may  speak 
Alike  to  you  and  my  own  conscious  heart, 
For  you  give  out  that  you  have  half  re- 
formed me; 
Therefore    strong   vanity    will    keep    you 

silent. 
If   fear   should   not;   both  will,  I  do  not 

doubt. 
All  men  delight  in  sens\ial  luxury; 
All  men  enjoy  revenge,  and  most  exult 
Over  the  tortures  thef  can  never  feel, 
Flattering  their  secret  peace  with  others' 

pain.  '  80 

But  I  delight  in  nothing  else.     I  love 
Tlie  sight  of  agony,  and  the  sense  of  joy, 
When  tliis  shall  be  anotiier's  and  tliat  mine; 
And  I  have  no  remorse  and  little  fear, 
Which  are,   I  think,  the  checks  of  other 

men. 
Tliis  mood  has  grown  upon  me,  until  now 
Any  design  my  captious  fancy  makes 
The  picture  of   its   wish  —  and   it   forms 

none 


ACT   I  :   SC.    i 


THE  CENCI 


213 


But  such  as  men  like  you  would  start  to 

know  — 
Is  as  my  natural  food  and  rest  debarred  90 
Until  it  be  accomplished. 


CAMILLO 


Art  thou  not 


Most  miserable  ? 


CENCI 

Why  miserable  ? 
No.     I  am  what  your  theologians  call 
Hardened;  which  they  must  be  in  impu- 
dence. 
So  to  revile  a  man's  peculiar  taste. 
True,  I  was  happier  than  I  am,  while  yet 
Manhood    remained    to    act    the    thing    I 

thought,  — 
While  lust  was  sweeter  than  revenge;  and 

now 
Invention  palls.    Ay,  we  must  all  grow  old. 
And  but  that  there  remains  a  deed  to  act 
Whose  horror  might  make  sharp  an  appe- 
tite lOI 

Duller  than  mine  —  I  'd  do,  —  I  know  not 

what. 
When  I  was  young  I  thouglit  of  nothing 

else 
But  pleasure;  and  I  fed  on  honey  sweets. 
Men,   by   St.   Thomas  !    cannot   live   like 

bees,  — 
And  I  grew  tired;  yet,  till  I  killed  a  foe, 
And  heard  his  groans,  and  heard  his  chil- 
dren's groans. 
Knew   I    not   what    delight   was   else   on 

earth, — 
Which  now  delights  me  little.    I  the  rather 
Look  on  such  pangs  as  terror  ill  conceals  — 
The  dry,  fixed  eyeball,  the  pale,  quivering 

lip,  III 

Which  tell  me  that  the  spirit  weeps  within 
Tears   bitterer   than   the  bloody  sweat  of 

Christ. 
I  rarely  kill  the  body,  which  preserves, 
Like  a  strong  prison,  the  soul  within  my 

power. 
Wherein  I  feed  it  with  the  breath  of  fear 
For  hourly  pain. 

CAMILLO 

Hell's  most  abandoned  fiend 
Did  never,  in  the  drunkenness  of  guilt, 
Speak  to  his  heart  as  now  you  speak  to 

me. 
I  thank  my  God  that  I  believe  you  not.  120 


Ertter  AndreA 

AMDKEA 

My  Lord,  a  gentleman  from  Salamanca 
Would  speak  with  you. 


In  the  grand  saloon. 


Bid  him  attend  me 


[Exit  Andbea. 


CAMILLO 


Farewell; 'and  I  will  pray 
Almighty  God  that  thy  false,  impious  words 
Tempt  not  his  spirit  to  abandon  tliee. 

[Exit  Camillo. 


The  third  of  my  possessions  !     I  must  use 
Close    husbandry,  or   gold,  the  old  man's 

sword, 
Falls  from  my  withered  hand.  But  yester- 
day 
There  came  an  order  from  the  Pope  to  make 
Fourfold  provision  for  my  cursed  sons,  130 
Whom  I  had  sent  from  Rome  to  Salamanca, 
Hoping  some  accident  might  cut  them  ofp. 
And  meaning,  if  I  could,  to  starve  them 

there. 
I  pray  thee,  God,  send  some  quick  death 

upon  them  ! 
Bernardo  and  my  wife  could  not  be  worse 
If  dead   and  damned.     Then,  as  to  Bea- 
trice — 

[Looking  around  him  suspiciously. 
I  think  they  cannot  hear  me  at  that  door. 
What  if  they  should  ?    And  yet  I  need  not 

speak, 
Thougli  the  heart  triumphs  with  itself  in 
words.  139 

O  thou  most  silent  air,  that  shalt  not  hear 
What  now  I  think  !    Thou  pavement  which 

I  tread 
Towards  her  chamber,  —  let   your  echoes 

talk 
Of  my  imperious  step,  scorning  surprise, 
But  not  of  my  intent !  —  Andrea  ! 

Enter  Axdrea 

a>dkea 

My  Lord  ? 

CENCI 

Bid  Beatrice  attend  me  in  her  chamber 
This  evening:  —  no,  at  midnight  and  alone. 

[ExeunL 


214 


THE  CENCI 


ACT  I  ;   SC.    II 


Scene  II.  —  A  Garden  of  the  Cenct  Palace. 
Entet-  Beatkicb  and  OiibiKu,  as  in  conversa- 
tion. 

BEATKICB 

Pervert  not  truth, 
Orsino.     You  remember  where  we  lield 
Thiit  conversation;  nay,  we  see  the  spot 
Even  from  this  cypress;  two  long  years  are 

passed 
Since,  on  an  April  midnight,  underneath 
The  moonlight  ruins  of  Mount  Palatine, 
I  did  confess  to  you  my  secret  miud. 

ORSINO 

You  said  you  loved  me  then. 

BEATBICE 

You  are  a  priest. 
Speak  to  me  not  of  love. 

OBSINO 

I  may  obtain 
The  dispensation  of  the  Pope  to  marry,    lo 
Because  I  am  a  priest  do  you  believe 
Your  image,  as  the  hunter  some   struck 

deer. 
Follows  me  not  whether  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 

BEATRICE 

As  I  have  said,  speak  to  me  not  of  love; 
Had  you  a  dispensation,  I  have  not; 
Nor  will  I  leave  this  home  of  misery 
Whilst  my  poor  Bernard,  and  that  gentle 

lady 
To  whom   I  owe   life  and  these  virtuous 

thoughts. 
Must  suffer  what  I  still  have  strength  to 

share. 
Alas,  Orsino !     All  the  love  that  once      so 
I  felt  for  you  is  turned  to  bitter  pain. 
Ours  was  a  youthful  contract,  which  you 

first 
Broke   by  assuming   vows   no    Pope   will 

loose. 
And  thus  I  love  you  still,  but  holily, 
Even  as  a  sister  or  a  spirit  might; 
And  so  I  swear  a  cold  fidelity. 
And  it  is  well  perhaps  we  shall  not  marry. 
You  have  a  sly,  equivocating  vein 
That  suits  me  not.  —  Ah,  wretched  that  I 

am  ! 
Where  shall  I  turn  ?     Even  now  you  look 

on  me  30 

As  you  were  not  my  friend,  and  as  if  you 


Discovered  that  I   thought  so,  with  false 

smiles 
Making  my  true  suspicion  seem  your  wrong. 
Ah,  no,  forgive  me;  sorrow  makes  me  seem 
Sterner  than  else  my  nature   might  have 

been; 
I  have  a  weight  of  melancholy  thoughts. 
And  they  forebode,  —  but  what  can  they 

forebode 
Worse  than  I  now  endure  ? 


All  will  be  well 
Is  the  petition  yet  prepared  V     You  know 
My  zeal  for  all  you  wish,  sweet  Beatrice;  40 
Doubt  not  but  I  will  use  my  utmost  skill 
So  that  the  Pope  attend  to  your  complaint. 

BEATRICE 

Your  zeal  for  all  I  wish.     Ah  me,  you  are 

cold! 
Your  utmost  skill  —  speak  but  one  word  — 
(Aside)     Alas ! 
Weak  and  deserted  creature  that  I  am, 
Here  I  stand  bickering  with  my  only  friend  ! 

{To  Orsino) 
This   night   my  father  gives  a  sumptuous 

feast, 
Orsino;  he  has  heard  some  happy  news 
From  Salamanca,  from  my  brothers  there. 
And  with  this  outward  show  of  love  he 

mocks  50 

His  inward  hate.     'T  is  bold  hypocrisy, 
For  he  would  gladlier  celebrate  their  deaths. 
Which  I  have  heard  him  pray  for  on  his 

knees. 
Great  God  !  that  such  a  father  should  be 

mine  I 
But  there  is  mighty  preparation  made, 
And  all  our  kin,  the  Cenci,  will  be  there, 
And  all  the  chief  nobility  of  Rome. 
And  he  has  bidden  me  and  my  pale  mother 
Attire  ourselves  in  festival  array.  59 

Poor  lady  !  she  expects  some  happy  change 
In  his  dark  spirit  from  this  act;  1  none. 
At  supper  I  will  give  you  the  petition; 
Till  when  —  farewell. 

ORSINO 

Farewell. 

[Exit  Beatrice. 
I  know  the  Pope 
Will  ne'er  absolve  me  from  my  priestly  vow 
But  by  absolving  me  from  the  revenue 


ACT   I      SC.    Ill 


THE  CENCI 


2i: 


Of  many  a  wealthy  see;  and,  Beatrice, 
I  think  to  win  thee  at  an  easier  rate. 
Nor  shall  he  read  her  eloquent  petition. 
He  might  bestow  her  on  some  poor  relation 
Of  his  sixth  cousin,  as  he  did  her  sister,   70 
And  I  should  be  debarred  from  all  access. 
Then   as   to   what  she   suffers  from    her 

father, 
In  all  this  there  is  much  exaggeration. 
Old  men  are  testy,  and  will  have  their  way. 
A  man  may  stab  his  enemy,  or  his  vassal, 
And  live  a  free  life  as  to  wine  or  women. 
And  with  a  peevish  temper  may  return 
To  a  dull  home,  and  rate  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren; 
Daughters  and  wives  call  this  foul  tyranny. 
I  shall  be  well  content  if  on  my  conscience 
There  rest  no  heavier  sin  than  what  they 
suffer  81 

From  the  devices  of  ray  love  —  a  net 
From  which  she  shall  escape  not.     Yet  I 

fear 
Her  subtle  mind,  her  awe-inspiring  gaze. 
Whose   beams    anatomize    me,    nerve    by 

nerve. 
And  lay  me  bare,  and  make  me  blush  to 

see 
My  hidden  thoughts.  —  Ah,  no  !  a  friend- 
less girl 
Who  clings  to  me,  as  to  her  only  hope  I 
I  were  a  fool,  not  less  than  if  a  panther    8g 
Were  panic-stricken  by  the  antelope's  eye, 
If  she  escape  me. 

[Exit. 

Scene  III.  —  A  magnificent  Hall  in  Ike  Cenci 
Palace.  A  Banquet.  Enter  Cenci,  Lu- 
CBETiA,  Beatrice,  Orsino,  Camillo,  No- 

BIiES. 

CENCI 

Welcome,  my  friends  and  kinsmen;  wel- 
come ye. 

Princes  and  Cardinals,  pillars  of  the  church. 

Whose  presence  honors  our  festivity. 

I  have  too  long  lived  like  an  anchorite. 

And  in  my  absence  from  your  merry  meet- 
ings 

An  evil  word  is  gone  abroad  of  me; 

But  I  do  hope  that  you,  my  noble  friends, 

When  you  have  shared  the  entertainment 
here. 

And  heard  the  pious  cause  for  which  't  is 
given. 

And  we  have  pledged  a  health  or  two  to- 
gether, 10 


Will  think  me  flesh  and  blood  as  well  as 

you; 
Sinful  indeed,  for  Adam  made  all  so. 
But  tender-hearted,  meek  and  pitiful. 

FIRST   GUEST 

In  truth,  my  Lord,  you  seem  too  light  of 

heart. 
Too  sprightly  and  companionable  a  man, 
To  act  the  deeds  that  rumor  pins  on  you. 
[To  his  companion, 
I  never  saw  such  blithe  and  open  cheer 
In  any  eye ! 

SECOND  GUEST 

Some  most  desired  event, 
In  which  we  all  demand  a  common  joy, 
Has   brought   us   hither;    let   us   hear   it, 
Count.  20 


It  is  indeed  a  most  desired  event. 

If  when  a  parent  from  a  parent's  heart 

Lifts  from  this  earth  to  the  great  Father  of 

all 
A  prayer,  both  when  he  lays  him  down  to 

sleep, 
And  when  he  rises  up  from  dreaming  it; 
One  supplication,  one  desire,  one  hope, 
That  he  would  grant  a  wish  for  his  two 

sons, 
Even  all  that  he  demands  in  their  regard, 
And  suddenly  beyond  his  dearest  hope      29 
It  is  accomplished,  he  should  then  rejoice, 
And  call  his  friends  and  kinsmen  to  a  feast, 
And   task  their  love  to  grace  his  merri- 
ment, — 
Then  honor  me  thus  far,  for  I  am  he. 

BEATRICE  (to  LUCBETIa) 

Great  God  !  How  horrible  !  some  dreadful 

ill 
Must  have  befallen  my  brothers. 


LUCRETIA 


He  speaks  too  frankly. 


Fear  not,  child, 


BEATRICE 

Ah  !  My  blood  runs  cold. 
I   fear   that   wicked   laughter    round    his 

eye. 
Which  wrinkles  up  the  skin  even  to  the 

hair. 


ai6 


THE  CENCI 


ACT  I :  sc.  in 


CENCI 

Here  are  the  letters  brought  from  Sala- 
manca. 39 

Beatrice,  read  them  to  your  mother.    God  ! 

I  thank  thee  !  In  one  night  didst  thou 
perform. 

By  ways  inscrutable,  the  thing  I  sought. 

My  disobedient  and  rebellious  sons 

Are  dead  !  —  Why,  dead  1  —  What  means 
this  change  of  cheer  ? 

You  hear  me  not  —  I  tell  you  they  are 
dead; 

And  they  will  need  no  food  or  raiment 
more; 

The  tapers  that  did  light  them  the  dark 
way 

Are  their  last  cost.  The  Pope,  I  think, 
will  not 

Expect  I  should  maintain  them  in  their 
cofGus. 

Rejoice  with  me  —  my  heart  is  wondrous 
glad.  50 

BEATBICE   (liiiCRETiA  sinks,  half  fainting ; 
BEATBICE  supports  her) 

It  is  not  true  !  —  Dear  Lady,  pray  look  up. 

Had  it  been  true  —  there  is  a  God  in  Hea- 
ven— 

He  would  not  live  to  boast  of  such  a  boon. 

Unnatural  man,  thou  knowest  that  it  is 
false. 

CENCI 

Ay,  as  the  word  of  God;  whom  here  I  call 
To  witness  that  I  speak  the  sober  truth ; 
And  whose  most  favoring  providence  was 

shown 
Even  in  the  manner  of  their  deaths.     For 

Rocco 
Was  kneeling  at  the  mass,  with   sixteen 

others, 
When  the  cliurch  fell  and  crushed  him  to 

a  mummy;  60 

The  rest  escaped  imhurt.     Cristofano 
Was  stabbed  in  error  by  a  jeaU)iis  man. 
Whilst  she  he  loved  was  sleeping  with  his 

rival, 
All  ill  the  self-sanio  hour  of  the  same  night; 
Which  shows  that  Heaven  has  special  care 

of  me. 
I  beg  those  friends  who  love  me  that  they 

mark 
The  day  a  feast  upon  thfir  cnlendars. 
It  was  the  twenty- seventJi  of  December. 
Ay,  read  the  letters  if  you  doubt  my  oath. 


[The  assembly  appears  corf  used ;  several  oj 
the  guests  rise. 

FIEST   GUEST 

Oh,  horrible  !     I  will  depart. 

SECOND   GUEST 

And  I. 

THIRD    GUEST 

No,  stay ! 
I  do  believe  it  is  some  jest;  though,  faith  ! 
'T  is  mocking  us  somewhat  too  solemnly.  72 
I  think  his  son  has  married  the  Infanta, 
Or  found  a  mine  of  gold  in  El  Dorado. 
'Tis  but  to  seasou  some  such  news;  stay, 

stay  ! 
I  see  *t  is  only  raillery  by  his  smile. 

CENCI  (filling  a  bowl  of  wine,  and  lifting 
it  up) 

O  thou  bright  wine,  whose  purple  splendor 

leaps 
And  bubbles  gayly  in  this  golden  bowl 
Under  tlie  lamp-light,  as  my  spirits  do. 
To  hear  the  death  of  my  accursM  sons  I  80 
Could   I  believe  thou  wert  their  mingled 

blood, 
Then  would  I  taste  thee  like  a  sacrament, 
And  pledge  with  thee  the  mighty  Devil  in 

Hell, 
W^ho,  if  a  father's  curses,  as  men  say. 
Climb    with  swift  wings   after   their  chil- 
dren's souls. 
And  drag  them  from  the  very  throne  of 

Heaven, 
Now  triumphs  in  my  triumph  !  —  But  thou 

art 
Superfluous;  I  have  drunken  deep  of  joy. 
And  I  will  taste  no  other  wine  to-night. 
Here,  Andrea  !     Bear  the  bowl  around.    90 

A  GUEST  {rising) 

Thou  wretch  ! 
Will  none  among  this  noble  company 
Check  the  abandoned  villain  ? 

CAMIIXO 

For  Go<l's  sake. 
Let  me  dismiss  the  guests !     You  are  in- 
sane. 
Some  ill  will  come  of  this. 

SECOND   GUEST 

Seize,  silence  him  I 


ACT  I :  sc.  Ill 


THE  CENCI 


217 


I  will ! 


FIK8T   GUEST 
THIRD  GUEST 

And  I! 


CBNd  {addressing  those  who  rise  with  a  threat- 
ening gesture) 

Who  moves  ?     Who  speaks  ? 

[Turning  to  the  company. 
'T  is  notliiiig, 
Enjoy  yourselves.  —  Beware  !  for   my  re- 
venge 
Is  as  the  sealed  commission  of  a  king, 
That  kills,  and  none  dare  name  the  mur- 
derer. 
[The  Banquet  is  broken  tcp;  several  of  the 
Guests  are  departing. 

BEATKICE 

I  do  entreat  you,  go  not,  noble  guests;      99 
What  although  tyranny  and  impious  hate 
Stand  sheltered  by  a  father's  hoary  hair  ? 
What   if  't  is  he  who  clothed  us  in  these 

limbs 
Who  tortures  them,  and  triumphs  ?    Wliat, 

if  we, 
The  desolate  and  the  dead,  were  his  own 

ilesh, 
His  children  and  his  wife,  whom  he  is  bound 
To  love  and  shelter  ?     Shall  we  therefore 

find 
No  refuge  in  this  merciless  wide  world  ? 
Oh,  think  what   deep  wrongs   must   have 

blotted  out 
First  love,  then  reverence,  in  a  child's  prone 

mind. 
Till  it  thus  vanquish  shame  and  fear  !    Oh, 

think  !  1 10 

I  have  borne  much,  and  kissed  the  sacred 

hand 
Which  crushed  iis  to  the  earth,  and  thought 

its  stroke 
Was  perhaps  some  paternal  chastisement ! 
Have  excused    much,  doubted;   and  when 

no  doubt 
Remained,  have  sought  by  patience,  love 

and  tears 
To  soften  him;   and  when   this  could  not 

be, 
I  have  knelt  doyrn  through  the  long  sleep- 
less nights, 
And  lifted  up  to  Ood.  the  father  of  all, 
Passionate  prayers;   and  when  these  were 

not  heanl,  119 

I  have  still  borne,  —  until  I  meet  you  here. 


Princes  and  kinsmen,  at  this  hideous  feast 
Given  at   my  brothers'  deaths.     Two  yet 

remain ; 
His  wife  remains  and  I,  whom  if  ye  save 

not. 
Ye  may  soon  share  such  merriment  again 
As    fathers    make   over    their    children's 

graves. 
Oh  !    Prince   Colonna,  thou  art  our  near 

kinsman ; 
Cardinal,  thou  art  the  Pope's  chamberlain^ 
Camillo,  thou  art  chief  justiciary; 
Take  us  away  ! 

CEifCi  {he  la>  been  conversing  with  camilIjO 
during  the  first  part  of  beatkice's  speech  ; 
he  hears  the  conclusion,  and  now  advances) 

I  hope  my  good  friends  here 
Will   think  of    their  own  daughters  —  or 

perhaps  130 

Of  their  own  throats  —  before  they  lend  an 

ear 
To  this  wild  girl. 

BEATRICE  (not  noticing  the  words  of  cenci) 

Dare  no  one  look  on  me  ? 
None  answer  ?     Can  one  tyrant  overbear 
The  sense  of  many  best  and  wisest  men  ? 
Or  is  it  that  I  sue  not  in  some  form 
Of  scrupulous  law  that  ye  deny  my  suit  7 
Oh,  God  !    that    I   were   buried   with   my 

brothers  ! 
And   that   the    flowers    of   this   departed 

spring 
Were  fading  on  my  grave  !  and  that  my 

father 
Were  celebrating  now  one  feast  for  all !  140 

CAMILLO 

A  bitter  v/ish  for  one  so  young  and  gentle. 
Can  we  do  nothing  ?  — 

COLONNA 

Nothing  that  I  see 
Count  Cenci  were  a  dangerous  enemy; 
Yet  I  would  second  any  one. 

A  OARDIKAL 

And  I. 

CEKCI 

Retire  to  your  chamber,  insolent  girl ! 

BEATRICE 

Retire  thou,  impious  man  !    Ay,  hide  thyself 
Where  never  eye  can  look  upon  thee  more  I 


2l8 


THE  CENCI 


ACT  II  :   SC.    I 


Wouldst  thou  have  honor  and  obedience, 
Who  art  a  torturer  ?    Father,  never  dream. 
Though   thou   niayst    overbear   this   com- 
pany, ISO 
But  ill  must  come  of  ill.     Frown  not  on 

me  ! 
Haste,   hide    thyself,   lest   with   avenging 

looks 
My  brothers'  ghosts  should  himt  thee  from 

thy  seat ! 
Cover  thy  face  from  every  living  eye, 
And  start  if  thou  but  hear  a  huuiau  step; 
Seek  out  some  dark  and  silent  corner  — 

there 
Bow  thy  white  head  before  offended  God, 
And  we  will  kneel  around,  and  fervently 
Fray  that  be  pity  both  ourselves  and.  thee. 


My  friends,  I  do  lament  this  insane  girl  i6o 
Has  spoiled  the  mirth  of  our  festivity. 
Good  night,  farewell;  I  will  not  make  you 

longer 
Spectators  of  our  dull  domestic  quarrels. 
Another  time.  — 

[Exeunt  all  but  Cenci  and  Beatrice. 
My  brain  is  swimming  round. 
Give  me  a  bowl  of  wine  ! 

{To  Beatrice) 

Thou  painted  viper ! 
Beast  that  thou  art !    Fair  and  yet  terri- 
ble ! 
I  know  a  charm  shall  make  thee  meek  and 

tame, 
Kow  get  thee  from  my  sight ! 

[Exit  Beatrice. 

Here,  Andrea, 

Fill  up  this  goblet  with  Greek  wine.     I 

said 
I    would    not   drink   this   evening,   but    I 

must;  170 

For,  strange  to  say,  I  feel  my  spirits  fail 
With  thinking   what   I   have   decreed   to 

do. 

(Drinking  the  wine) 
Be  thou  the  resolution  of  quick  youth 
Within  my  veins,  and  manhood's  purpose 

stern, 
And  age's  firm,  cold,  subtle  villainy; 
As  if  thou  wert  indeed  my  children's  blood 
Which  I  did  thirst  to  drink  1     The  charm 

works  well. 
Xh  must  be  done;  it  shall  be  done,  I  swear  ! 

[Exit. 


ACT   II 

Scene  I.  —  An  Apartment  in  the  Cenci  Palace 
Enter  Lucrjitia  and  Bernardo. 

LUCRETIA 

Weep  not,  my  gentle  boy;  he  struck  but 

me. 
Who  have  borne  deeper  wrongs.    In  truth, 

if  he 
Had  killed  me,  he  had  done  a  kinder  deed. 

0  God  Almighty,  do  thou  look  upon  us. 
We  have  no  other  friend  but  only  thee  ! 
Yet  weep  not;    though  I  love  you  as  my 

own, 

1  am  not  your  true  mother. 

berkardo 

Oh,  more,  more 
Than  ever  mother  was  to  any  child, 
That  have  you  been  to  me  I     Had  he  not 

been 
My  father,  do  you   think  that  I  should 
weep  ?  10 

LCCRETIA 

Alas !  poor  boy,  what  else  couldst  thou  have 
done  ! 

Enter  Beatrice 

BEATRICE  {in  a  hurried  voice) 

Did  he  pass  this  way  ?   Have  you  seen  him, 

brother  ? 
Ah,  no  !  that  is  his  step  upon  the  stairs; 
'Tis  nearer  now;  his  hand  is  on  the  door; 
Mother,  if  I  to  thee  have  ever  been 
A  duteous   child,    now  save   me  !     Thou, 

great  God, 
Whose  image  upon  earth  a  father  is, 
Dost    thou    indeed    abandon    me  ?       He 

comes; 
The  door  is  opening  now;  I  see  his  face;  19 
He  frowns  on  others,  but  he  smiles  on  me, 
Even  as  he  did  after  the  feast  last  night. 

Enter  a  Servant 

Almighty  God,  how  merciful  thon  art ! 
'T  is  but  Orsino's   servant.  —  Well,  what 
news? 


My  master  bids  me  say  the  Holy  Father 
Has  sent  back  your  petition  thus  unopened. 
{Giving  apaperi 


ACT  II  :   SC.    I 


THE   CENCI 


219 


And  he  demands  at    wliat    hour  't  were 

secure 
To  visit  you  again  ? 

LUCRETIA 

At  the  Ave  Mary. 

[Exit  Servant. 

So,  daughter,  our  last  hope  has  failed. 
Ah  me, 

How  pale  you  look  !  you  tremble,  and  you 
stand 

Wrapped  in  some  fixed  and  fearful  medita- 
tion, 30 

As  if  one  thought  were  overstrong  for  you ; 

Your  eyes  have  a  chill  glare;  oh,  dearest 
child  ! 

Are  you  gone  mad  ?  If  not,  pray  speak  to 
me. 

BEATRICE 

You  see  I  am  not  mad;  I  speak  to  you. 

LtJCKETIA 

You  talked  of  something  that  your  father 

did 
After  that  dreadful   feast  ?     Could  it  be 

worse 
Than  when  he  smiled,  and  cried,  '  My  sons 

are  dead  ! ' 
And  every  one  looked  in  his  neighbor's  face 
To  see  if  others  were  as  white  as  he  ?        39 
At  the  first  word  he  spoke  I  felt  the  blood 
Rush  to  my  heart,  and  fell  into  a  trance; 
And  when  it  passed  I  sat  all   weak  and 

wild; 
Whilst  you  alone  stood  up,  and  with  strong 

words 
Checked  his  unnatural  pride;  and  I  could 

see 
The  devil  was  rebuked  that  lives  in  him. 
Until  this  hour  thus  you  have  ever  stood 
Between  us  and  your  father's  moody  wrath 
Like  a  protecting  presence ;  your  firm  mind 
Has  been  our  only  refuge  and  defence. 
What  can  have  thus  subdued  it  ?     What 

can  now  50 

Have  given  you  that  cold  melancholy  look. 
Succeeding  to  your  unaccustomed  fear  ? 

BEATRICE 

What  is  it  that  you  say  ?  I  was  just  think- 
ing 

'T  were  better  not  to  struggle  any  more. 

Men,  like  my  father,  have  been  dark  and 
bloody; 


Yet  never  —  oh  !  before  worse  comes  of  it, 
'T  were  wise  to  die ;  it  ends  in  that  at  last. 

LUCRETIA 

Oh,  talk  not  so,  dear  child !     Tell  me  at 

once 
What  did  your  father  do  or  say  to  you  ? 
He  stayed  not  after  that  accursed  feast    6a 
One  moment  in  your  chamber.  —  Speak  to 

me. 

BEBNAltDO 

Oh,  sister,  sister,  prithee,  speak  to  us  ! 

BEATRICE  {speaking  very  slowly,  with  a  forced 

calmness) 
It  was  one  word,  mother,  one  little  word; 
One  look,  one  smile. 

(Wildly) 

Oh  !  he  has  trampled  nie 

Under  bis  feet,  and  made  the  blood  stream 

down 
My  pallid  cheeks.     And  he  has  given  us 

all 
Ditch-water,  and  the  fever-stricken  flesh 
Of  buffaloes,  and  bade  us  eat  or  starve. 
And  we  have  eaten.     He  has  made  me  look 
On  my  beloved  Bernardo,  when  the  rust  7c 
Of  heavy  chains  has    gangrened  his  sweet 

limbs ; 
And   I   have   never    yet   despaired  —  but 

now ! 
What  would  I  say? 

(Recovering  herself) 

Ah,  no  !  't  is  nothing  new. 

The  sufferings  we  all  share  have  made  me 

wild; 
He   only   struck    and    cursed    me    as    he 

passed; 
He   said,  he   looked,  he   did,  — nothing  at 

all 
Beyond  his  wont,  yet  it  disordered  me. 
Alas  !  I  am  forgetful  of  my  duty; 
I  should  preserve  my  senses  for  your  sake. 

LUCRETIA 

Nay,    Beatrice;  have   courage,   my   sweet 

girl.  80 

If  any  one  despairs  it  should  be  I, 
Who  loved  him  once,  and  now  must  live 

with  him 
Till  God  in  pity  call  for  him  or  me. 
For  you  may,  like  your  sister,  find   some 

husband, 
And  smile,  years  hence,  with  children  round 

your  knees; 


220 


THE  CENCI 


ACT   II  :   SC.   I 


Whilst  I,  then  dead,  and  all  this  hideous 

coil, 
Shall  be  remembered  only  as  a  dream. 

BEATRICE 

Talk  not  to  me,  dear  Lady,  of  a  husband. 
Did  you  not  nurse  ine  when  my  mother 

died? 
Did  you  not  shield  me  and  that  dearest 

boy  ?  90 

And  had  we  any  other  friend  but  you 
In  infancy,  with  gentle  words  and  looks, 
To  win  our  father  not  to  murder  us  ? 
And  shall  I  now  desert  you  ?     May  the 

ghost 
Of  my  dead  mother  plead  against  my  soul, 
If  I  abandon  her  who  filled  the  place 
She  left,  with  more,  even,  than  a  mother's 

love  ! 

BERNARDO 

And  I  am  of  my  sister's  mind.     Indeed 

I  would  not  leave  you  in  this  wretched- 
ness, 

Even  though  the  Pope  shoidd  make  me 
free  to  live  too 

In  some  blithe  place,  like  others  of  my 
age, 

With  sports,  and  delicate  food,  and  the 
fresh  air. 

Oh,  never  tliink  that  I  will  leave  you,  mo- 
ther ! 

LUCRETIA 

My  dear,  dear  children  ! 

Enter  Cenci,  suddenly 

CENCI 

What !  Beatrice  here  ! 
Come  hither ! 

[She  shrinks  back,  and  covers  her  face. 

Nay,  hide  not  your  face,  't  is  fair; 
Look  up  !     Why,  yesternight  you  dared  to 

look 
With  disobedient  insolence  upon  me. 
Bending  a  stern  and  an  inquiring  brow 
On  what  I  meant;  whilst  1  then  sought  to 

hide 
That  which  I   came  to  tell  you  —  but  in 

vain.  1 10 

BEATRICE  {wildly  staggering  towards  the  door) 

Oh)  that  the  earth  would  gape  I  Hide  me, 
OGodI 


CENCI 

Then  it  was  I  whose  inarticulate  words 
Fell  from  my  lips,  and  who  with  tottering 

steps 
Fled  from  your  presence,  as  you  now  from 

mine. 
Stay,  I  command  you  !     From  this  day  and 

hour 
Never  again,  I  think,  with  fearless  eye, 
And  brow  superior,  and  unaltered  cheek. 
And  that  lip  made  for  tenderness  or  scorn, 
Shalt  thou   strike  dumb   the   meanest  of 

mankind; 
Me    least  of   all.     Now  get  thee  to  thy 

chamber!  120 

Thou   too,   loathed  image   of    thy  cursed 

mother, 

( To  Bernardo) 
Thy  milky,  meek  face  makes  me  sick  with 
hate  1 

[Exeunt  Beatrice  and  Bernardo. 
(Aside)     So  much  has  passed  between  us 

as  must  make 
Me   bold,    her    fearful.  —  'T  is   an   awful 

thing 
To  touch  such  mischief  as  I  now  conceive; 
So  men  sit  shivering  on  the  dewy  bank 
And  try  the  chill  stream  with  their  feet; 

once  in  — 
How  the  deliglited  spirit  pants  for  joy  1 

LDCRETXA  {advancing  timidly  towards  him) 

O  husband  !  pray  forgive  poor  Beatrice. 
She  meant  not  any  ill. 

CENCI 

Nor  you  perhaps  ? 
Nor  that  young  imp,  whom  you  have  tauglit 

by  rote  13 1 

Parricide  with  his  alphabet  ?  nor  Giaconio? 
Nor   those  two   most  unnatural  sons  who 

stirred 
Enmity  up  against  me  with  the  Pope  ? 
Whom  in  one  night  merciful  God  cut  off. 
Innocent   lambs!     They  thought  not  any 

You  were  not  here  conspiring  ?  j'ou  said 
nothing 

Of  how  I  might  be  dungeoned  as  a  mad- 
man; 

Or  be  condemned  to  death  for  some  offence. 

And  you  would  be  the  witnesses  ?  This 
failing,  14c 


ACT  II  :   SC.    II 


THE  CENCI 


221 


How  just  it  were  to  hire  assassins,  or 
Put  sudden  poison  in  my  evening  drink  ? 
Or  smother  me  when  overcome  by  wine  ? 
Seeing  we  had  no  other  judge  but  God, 
And  he  had  sentenced  me,  and  there  were 

none 
But  you  to  be  the  executionei-s 
Of  his  decree  enregistered  in  heaven  ? 
Oh,  no  !     Yon  said  not  this  ? 

LUCKETIA 

So  help  me  God, 

I  never  thought  the  things  you  charge  me 

witli !  149 

CENCI 

If  you  dare  to  speak  that  wicked  lie  again, 
I  '11  kill  you.     What  !  it  was  not  by  your 

counsel 
That   Beatrice    disturbed    the    feast    last 

night  ? 
You  did  not  hope  to  stir  some  enemies 
Against  me,  and  escape,  and  laugh  to  scorn 
What  every  nerve  of  you  now  trembles  at? 
You   judged   that   men  were  bolder  than 

they  are; 
Fevr  dare  to  stand  between  their  grave  and 


Look  not  so  dreadfully  !     By  my  salvation 
I  knew  not  aught  that  Beatrice  designed; 
Nor  do  I  think  she  designed  anything      160 
Until  she  heard  you  talk  of  her  dead  bro- 
thers. 

CENCI 

Blaspheming   liar !  you    tra    damned  for 

this  ! 
But  I  will  take   you  where  you  may  per- 
suade 
The  stones  you  tread  on  to  deliver  you; 
For  men  shall  there  be  none  but  those  who 

dare 
All   things  —  not    question    that   which  I 

command. 
On  Wednesday  next  I  shall  set  out;  you 

know 
That  savage  rock,  the  Castle  of  Petrella; 
'T  is  safely    walled,    and    moated    round 

about; 
Its  dungeons   under  ground  and  its  thick 

towers  170 

Never  told  tales ;  though  they  have  heard 

and  seen 


What   might   make   dumb   things   -speak. 

Why  do  you  linger  ? 
Make  speediest  preparation  for  the  jouiv 

ney  ! 

[Exit  LUCRETIA. 

The  all-beholding  sun  yet  shines ;  I  hear 

A  busy  stir  of  men  about  the  streets; 

I  see  the  bright  sky  through  the    window 

panes. 
It  is  a  garish,  broad,  and  peering  day; 
Loud,   light,   suspicious,   full  of  eyes  and 

ears; 
And  every  little  corner,  nook,  and  hole. 
Is  penetrated  with  the  insolent  light.        180 
Come,  darkness  !     Yet,  what  is  tlie  day  to 

me? 
And   wherefore    should  I  wish  for  night, 

who  do 
A  deed  which  shall  confound  both   night 

and  day  ? 
'T  is  she  shall  grope  through  a  bewildering 

mist 
Of  horror;  if  there  be  a  sun  in  heaven. 
She  shall  not  dare  to  look  upon  its  beams; 
Nor  feel  its  warmth.     Let  her,  then,  wish 

for  night; 
The  act  I  think  shall  soon  extinguish  all 
For  me;  I  bear  a  darker,  deadlier  gloom 
Than  the  earth's  shade,  or  interlunar  air, 
Or   constellations   quenched    in    murkiest 

cloud,  191 

In  which  I  walk  secure  and  nubeheld 
Towards  my  purpose.  —  Would  that  it  were 

done  ! 

[Exit. 

Scene  II.  —  A  Chamber  in  the  Vatican.    Enter 
Camillo  and  Giacomo,  in  conversation. 

CAMILLO 

There  is  an  obsolete  and  doubtful  law 
By  which  you  might  obtain  a  bare  provision 
Of  food  and  clothing. 

GIACOMO 

Nothing  more  ?     Alas  ! 
Bare  must  be  the  provision  which   strict 

law 
Awards,  and  aged  sullen  avarice  pays. 
Why  did  my  father  not  apprentice  me 
To  some  mechanic  trade  ?     I  should  have 

then 
Been  trained  in  no  highborn  necessities 
Which  I  could  meet  not  by  my  daily  toil. 
The  eldest  son  of  a  rich  nobleman  10 


THE  CENCI 


ACT   II  :    SC.    II 


Is  heir  to  all  bis  incapacities; 

He  has   wide  wants,  and  narrow  powers. 

If  you, 
Cardinal  Camillo,  were  reduced  at  once 
From  thrice-driven  beds  of  down,  and  deli- 
cate food. 
An  hundred  servants,  and  six  palaces, 
To   that   which    nature    doth   indeed    re- 
quire ?  — 

CAMILLO 

Nay,  there  is  reason  in  your  plea;  't  were 
hard. 


'T  is  hard  for  a  firm  man  to  bear ;  but  I 
Have  a  dear  wife,  a  lady  of  high  birth. 
Whose  dowry  in  ill  hour  I  lent  my  father, 
Without  a  bond  or  witness  to  the  deed;    21 
And  children,  who  inherit  her  fine  senses, 
The   fairest   creatures    in   this    breathing 

world ; 
And  she  and  they  reproach  me  not.     Cardi- 
nal, 
Do  you  not  think  the  Pope  will  interpose 
And  stretch  authority  beyond  the  law  ? 


Though  your  peculiar  case  is  hard,  I  know 
The  Pope  will  not  divert  the  course  of  law. 
After  that  impious  feast  the  other  night 
I  spoke  with  him,  and  urged  him  then  to 
check  30 

Your  father's  cruel  hand;  he  frowned  and 

said, 
*  Children  are  disobedient,  and  they  sting 
Their  fathers'  hearts  to  madness  and  de- 
spair. 
Requiting  years  of  care  with  contumely. 
I  pity  the  Count  Cenci  from  my  heart; 
His  outraged  love  perhaps  awakened  hate, 
And  tluis  he  is  exasperated  to  ill. 
In  the  great  war  between  the  old  and  young, 
I,  who  liave  white  hairs  and  a  tottering 

body. 
Will  keep  at  least  blameless  neutrality.'  40 

Enter  Orsino 
You,  my  good   lord   Orsiuo,  heard   those 
words. 

ORSINO 

What  words  ? 


Alas,  repeat  them  not  again  ! 
There  then  is  no  redress  for  me;  at  least 


None  but  that  which  I  may  achieve  myself, 
Since  I  atn  driven  to  the  brink.  —  But,  say, 
My  innocent  sister  and  my  only  brother 
Are  dying  underneath  my  father's  eye. 
The  memorable  torturers  of  this  land, 
Galeaz  Visconti,  Borgia,  Ezzelin, 
Never  inflicted  on  their  meanest  slave       50 
W^hat   these   endure;   shall   they  have   no 
protection  ? 

CAMILLO 

Why,  if  they  would  petition  to  the  Pope, 
I  see  not  how  he  could  refuse  it ;  yet 
He  holds  it  of  most  dangerous  example 
In  aught  to  weaken  the  paternal  power. 
Being,  as  't  were,  the  shadow  of  his  own. 
I  pray  you  now  excuse  me.     I  have  busi- 
ness 
That  will  not  bear  delay. 

[Exit  Camillo. 

GIACOMO 

But  you,  Orsino, 
Have  the  petition;  wherefore  not  present  it  ? 

OKSINO 

I  have  presented  it,  and  backed  it  with     60 
My  earnest  prayers  and  urgent  interest; 
It  was  returned  unanswered.     I  doubt  not 
But  that  the  strange  and  execrable  deeds 
Alleged  in  it  —  in  truth   thay  might  well 

baffle 
Any  belief  —  have  turned  the  Pope's  dis- 
pleasure 
Upon  the  accusers  from  the  criminal. 
So  I  should  guess  from  what  Camillo  said. 

GIACOMO 

My  friend,  that  palace-walking  devil,  Gold, 
Has  whispered  silence  to  His  Holiness; 
And  we  are  left,  as  scorpions  ringed  with 

fire.  70 

What  should  we  do  but  strike  ourselves  to 

death  ? 
For  he  who  is  our  murderoiis  persecutor 
Is  shielded  by  a  father's  holy  name. 
Or  I  would  — 

[Stops  abruptly. 

ORSINO 

What  ?     Fear  not  to  speak  your  thought. 

Words  are  but  holy  as  the  deeds  the}'  cover; 

A  priest  who  has  forsworn  the  God  he 
serves, 

A  judge  who  makes  Truth  weep  at  his  de- 
cree. 


ACT   II  :   SC.    II 


THE  CENCI 


223 


A  friend  who  should  weave  counsel,  as  I 

now, 
But  as  the  mantle  of  some  selfish  guile, 
A  father  who  is  all  a  tyrant  seems,  —       80 
Were  the  profauer  for  his  sacred  name. 


Ask  me  not  what    I  think;  the  unwilling 

brain 
Feigns  often  what  it  would  not;  and  we 

trust 
Imagination  with  such  fantasies 
As  the  tongue  dares  not  fashion  into  words — 
Which  have  no  words,  their  horror  makes 

them  dim 
To  the  mind's  eye.     My  heart  denies  itself 
To  think  what  you  demand. 


But  a  friend's  bosom 
Is  as  the  inmost  cave  of  our  own  mind. 
Where  we  sit  shut  from  the  wide  gaze  of 
day  90 

And  from  the  all-communicating  air. 
You  look  what  I  suspected  — 


Spare  me  now ! 
I  am  as  one  lost  in  a  midnight  wood, 
Who  dares  not  ask  some  harmless  passen- 
ger 
The  path  across  the  wilderness,  lest  he, 
As  my  thoughts  are,  should  be  —  a  mur- 
derer. 
I  know  you  are  my  friend,  and  all  I  dare 
Speak  to  my  soul  that  will  I  trust  with 

thee. 
But  now  my  heart  is  heavy,  and  would  take 
Lone   counsel    from   a  night   of    sleepless 
care.  100 

Pardon  me  that  I  say  farewell  —  farewell ! 
I  would  that  to  my  own  suspected  self 
I  could  address  a  word  so  full  9f  peace. 

OBSINO 

Farewell !  —  Be   your  thoughts  better  or 
more  bold. 

[Exit  GrACOMO. 
I  had  disposed  the  Cardinal  Camillo 
To  feed  his  hope  with  cold  encouragement. 
It  fortunately  serves  my  close  designs 
That  't  is  a  trick  of  this  same  family 
To  analyze  their  own  and  other  minds. 
Such  self-anatomy  shall  teach  the  will     no 


Dangerous     secrets;    for    it    tempts    our 

powers, 
Knowing  what  must  be  thought,  and  may 

be  done, 
Into  the  deptli  of  darkest  purposes. 
So  Cenci  fell  into  the  pit;  even  I, 
Since  Beatrice  unveiled  me  to  myself. 
And  made  me  shriuk  from  what  I  cannot 

shun. 
Show  a  poor  figure  to  my  own  esteem. 
To  which  I  grow  half  reconciled.     I  '11  do 
As  little  mischief  as  I  can;  that  thought 
Shall  fee  the  accuser  conscience. 

(After  a  pause) 

Now  what  harm 

If  Cenci    should   be  murdered? — Yet,  if 

murdered,  121 

Wherefore  by  me  ?     And  what  if  I  could 

take 
The  profit,  yet  omit  the  sin  and  peril 
In  such  an  action  ?     Of  all  earthly  things 
I   fear   a   man   whose  blows  outspeed  his 

words; 
And  such  is  Cenci;  and,  while  Cenci  lives, 
His  daughter's  dowry  were  a  secret  grave 
If  a  priest  wins  her.  —  O  fair  Beatrice  ! 
Would  that  I  loved  thee  not,  or,  loving 

thee. 
Could   but  despise  danger  and  g^ld  and 

all  130 

That  frowns    between    my   wish   and   its 

effect. 
Or  smiles  beyond  it!      There  is  no  escape; 
Her  bright  form  kneels  beside  me  at  the 

altar. 
And  follows  me  to  the  resort  of  men. 
And   fills   my    slumber    with    tumultuous 

dreams. 
So  when  I  wake  my  blood  seems   liquid 

fire; 
And  if  I  strike  my  damp  and  dizzy  head, 
My  hot  palm  scorches  it;  her  very  name. 
But  spoken  by  a  stranger,  makes  my  heart 
Sicken  and  pant;  and  thus  unprofitably  140 
I  clasp  the  phantom  of  unfelt  delights 
Till  weak  imagination  half  possesses 
The  self-created  shadow.     Yet  much  longer 
Will  I  not  nurse  this  life  of  feverous  hours. 
From  the  unravelled  hopes  of  Giacomo 
I  must  work  out  my  own  de;ir  purposes. 
I  see,  as  from  a  tower,  tlie  end  of  all: 
Her  father  dead;   her   brother  bound   to 

me 
By  a  dark  secret,  surer  than  the  grave ; 
Her  mother  scared  and  unexpostulating  150 


224 


THE  CENCI 


ACT  III  :  sc.   I 


From    the    dread    uiauner    of    her    wish 

achieved ; 
And  she  !  —  Once  more  take  courage,  my 

faint  heart; 
What  dares   a  friendless  maiden  matched 

with  thee  ? 
I  have  such  foresight  as  assures  success. 
Some  unbeheld  divinity  doth  ever, 
When  dread  events  are  near,  stir  up  men's 

minds 
To  black   suggestions;    and  he    prospers 

best. 
Not  who  becomes  the  instrument  of  ill, 
But  who  can  flatter  the  dark  spirit  that 

makes 
Its  empire  and  its  prey  of  other  hearts    i6o 
Till  it  become  his  slave  —  as  I  will  do. 

[Exit. 

ACT    III 

Scene  I.  —  An  Apartment  in  the  Cenci  Palace- 
LucRETiA  ;  to  her  enter  Beatrice. 

BEATRICE  {she   enters    staggering   and    speaks 
wildly) 

Reach  me  that  handkerchief !  —  My  brain 

is  hurt; 
My  eyes  are  full  of  blood;  just  wipe  them 

for  me  — 
I  see  but  indistinctly. 

LUCRETIA 

My  sweet  child, 
Yoti  have  no  wound;  't  is  only  a  cold  dew 
That  starts  from  your  dear  brow.  —  Alas, 

alas  ! 
What  has  befallen  ? 

BEATRICE 

How  comes  this  hair  undone  ? 
Its  wandering  strings  must  be  what  blind 

me  so, 
And  yet  I  tied  it  fast.  —  Oh,  horrible  ! 
The  pavement  sinks  under  my  feet !     The 

walls 
Spin    round  !     I    see    a    woman  weeping 

there,  lo 

And  standing  calm  and  motionless,  whilst  I 
Slide   giddily   as   the   world   reels.  —  My 

God! 
The  beautiful  blue  heaven  is  flecked  with 

blood ! 
The  sunshine  on  the  floor  is  black  I     The 

air 


Is   changed  to   vapors   such   as   the   dead 

breathe 
In    charnel-pits !      Pah !    I    am    choked  ! 

There  creeps 
A  clinging,  black,  contaminating  mist 
About  me  —  't  is  substantial,  heavy,  thick; 
I  cannot  pluck  it  from  me,  for  it  glues 
My  fingers  and  my  limbs  to  one  another,  20 
And  eats  into  my  sinews,  and  dissolves 
My  flesh  to  a  pollution,  poisoning 
The  subtle,  pure,  and  inmost  spirit  of  life  ! 
My  God  !    I  never  knew  what  the  mad  felt 
Before ;  for  I  am  mad  beyond  all  doubt  ! 

{More  wildly) 
No,  I  am  dead  !     These  putrefying  limbs 
Shut  round  and  sepulchre  the  panting  soul 
Which  would  burst  forth  into  the  wander- 
ing air  ! 

(A  pause) 

What  hideous  thought  was  that  I  had  even 

now  ?  29 

'Tis  gone;  and  yet  its  burden  remains  here 

O'er  these    dull  eyes  —  upon   this   weary 

heart  ! 

0  world  !  O  life  !  O  day!  O  misery  ! 

LUCRETIA 

What  ails  thee,  my  poor  child  ?     She  an- 
swers not. 
Her  spirit  apprehends  the  sense  of  pain, 
But  not  its  cause;  sufFering  has  dried  away 
The  source  from  which  it  sprung. 

BEATRICE  {frantically) 

Like  Parricide  — 
Misery  has  killed  its  father;  yet  its  father 
Never   like  mine  —  O    God  !    what   thing 
am  I? 

LUCRETIA 

My  dearest   child,   what  has   your  father 
done  ? 

BEATRICE  {doubtfully) 

Who  art  thou,   questioner  ?      I  have   no 

father.  40 

[Aside. 

She  is  the  madhouse  nurse  who  tends  on 

me, 
It  is  a  piteous  office. 

{To  LucRETiA,  in  a  slow,  subdued  voice) 
Do  you  know, 

1  thought  I  was  that  wretched  Beatrice 
Men  speak  of,  whom  her  father  sometimes 

bales 


ACT    III:    SC.    I 


THE   CENCI 


225 


From  hall  to  hall  by  the  eutaugled  hair; 
At  others,  pens  up  naked  iii  damp  cells 
Where  scaly  reptiles  crawl,  and  starves  her 

there 
Till  she  will  eat  strange  flesh.     This  woful 

story 
So  did  I  overact  iu  my  sick  dreams 
That  I  imagined  —  no,  it  cannot  be  !         50 
Horrible   things   have   been    in   this   wild 

world, 
Prodigious  mixtures,  and  confusions  strange 
Of  good  and  ill;  and  worse  have  been  con- 
ceived 
Than  ever  there  was  found  a  heart  to  do. 
But  never  fancy  imaged  such  a  deed 
As  — 

(Pauses,  suddenly  recollecting  herself) 
Who  art  thou  ?     Swear  to  me,  ere  I  die 
With  fearful  expectation,  that  indeed 
Thou  art  not  what  thou  seemest  —  Mother  ! 


LUCBETIA 

My  sweet  child,  know  you  — 


Oh! 


BEATBICE 


Yet  speak  it  not; 
For  then  if  this  be  truth,  that  other  too    60 
Must  be  a  truth,  a  firm  enduring  truth, 
Linked  with  each  lasting  circumstance  of 

life, 
Never  to  change,  never  to  pass  away. 
Why  so  it  is.     This  is  the  Cenci  Palace; 
Thou  art  Lucretia;  I  am  Beatrice. 
I  have  talked  some  wild  words,  but  will 

no  more. 
Mother,  come  near  me;  from  this  point  of 

time, 
I  am  — 

(Her  voice  dies  away  faintly) 


Alas  !  what  has  befallen  thee,  child  ? 
What  has  thy  father  done  ? 

BEATRICE 

What  have  I  done  ? 
Am  I  not  innocent  ?  Is  it  my  crime  70 
Thatonewith  wliite  hair  andimperious  brow. 
Who  tortured  me  from  my  forgotten  years 
As  parents  only  dare,  should  call  himself 
My  father,  yet  should  be  ! — Oh,  what  am  I? 
What   name,   what   place,   what    memory 

shall  be  mine  ? 
What  retrospects,  outliving  even  despair  ? 


LUCRETIA 

He  is  a  violent  tyrant,  surely,  child; 

We  know  that  death  alone  can  make  us 

free; 
His  death  or  ours.     But  what  can  he  have 

done 
Of  deadlier  outrage  or  worse  injury  ?       80 
Thou  art  unlike  thyself;  thine  eyes  shoot 

forth 
A  wandering  and  strange  spirit.     Speak  to 

me. 
Unlock  those  pallid  hands  whose  fingers 

twine 
With  one  another. 


'T  is  the  restless  life 
Tortured  within  them.     If  I  try  to  speak, 
I  shall  go  mad.     Ay,  something  must   be 

done ; 
What,  yet  I  know  not  —  something  which 

shall  make 
The  thing  that  I  have  suffered  but  a  shadow 
In  the  dread  lightning  which  avenges  it; 
Brief,  rapid,  irreversible,  destroying  90 

The  consequence  of  what  it  cannot  cure. 
Some  such  thing  is  to  be  endured  or  done; 
When  I  know  what,  I  shall  be  still  and 

calm. 
And  never  anything  will  move  me  more. 
But  now  !  —  0  blood,  which  art  my  father's 

blood. 
Circling  through  these  contaminated  veins, 
If  thou,  poured  forth  on  the  polluted  earth, 
Could   wash  away  the   crime  and  punish- 
ment 
By  which  I  suffer  —  no,  that  cannot  be  !  gg 
Many  might  doubt  there  were  a  God  above 
Who  sees  and  permits  evil,  and  so  die; 
That  faith  no  agony  shall  obscure  in  me. 

LUCRETIA 

It  must  indeed  have  been  some  bitter  wrong; 
Yet  what,  I  dare  not  guess.     Oh,  my  lost 

child, 
Hide  not  in  proud  impenetrable  grief 
Thy  sufferings  from  my  fear. 

BEATRICE 

I  hide  them  not. 
What  are  the  words  which  you  would  have 

me  speak  ? 
I,  who  can  feign  no  image  in  my  mind 
Of   that   which   has    transformed   me;    I, 

whose  thought 


226 


THE  CENCI 


ACT   III  :   SC.   I 


Is  like  a  ghost  shrouded  and  folded  up    no 
In  its  own  forniless  honor  —  of  all  words, 
That  minister  to  mortal  intercourse, 
Which  wouldst  thou  hear  ?  for  there   is 

uone  to  tell 
My  misery;  if  another  ever  knew 
Aught  like  to  it,  she  died  as  I  will  die, 
And  left  it,  as  I  must,  without  a  name. 
Death,  death  !  our  law  and  our  religion 

call  thee 
A  punishment  and  a  reward;  oh,  which 
Have  1  deserved  ? 

LUCRETIA 

The  peace  of  innocence, 
Till  in  your  season  you  be  called  to  heaven. 
Whate'er  you  may  have  suffered,  you  have 

done  121 

No  evil.     Death  must  be  the  punishment 
Of  crime,  or  the  reward  of  trampling  down 
The  thorns  vi^hich  God  has  strewed  upon 

the  path 
Which  leads  to  immortality. 

BEATRICE 

Ay,  death  — 
The  punishment  of   crime.     I  pray  thee, 

God, 
Let  me  not  be  bewildered  while  I  judge. 
If  I  must  live  day  after  day,  and  keep 
These  limbs,  the  unworthy  temple  of  thy 

spirit. 
As  a  foul  den  from  which  what  thou  abhor- 

rest  130 

May  mock  thee  unavenged  —  it  shall  not 

be! 
Self-murder  —  no,  that  might  be  no  escape. 
For  thy  decree  yawns  like  a  Hell  between 
Our   will   and   it.  —  Oh  !    in    tliis   mortal 

world 
There  is  no  vindication  and  no  law. 
Which  can  adjudge  and  execute  the  doom 
Of  that  through  which  I  suffer. 

Enttr  Orsino 
{She  approaches  him  solemnly) 

Welcome,  friend  ! 
I  have  to  tell  you  that,  aince  last  we  met, 
I   have    endured    a   wrong    so  great  and 

strange 
That   neither  life  nor  death  can  give  me 

rest.  140 

Ask  me  not  what  it  is,  for  there  are  deeds 
Which  have  no  form,  sufferings  which  have 

no  tongue. 


ORSINO 

And  what  is  he  who  has  thus  injured  you  ? 

BEATRICE 

The  man  they  call  my   father;  a  dread 


It  cannot  be  — 

BEATRICE 

What  it  can  be,  or  not, 
Forbear  to  think.     It  is,  and  it  has  been; 
Advise  me  how  it  shall  not  be  again. 
I  thought  to  die;  but  a  religious  awe 
Restrains   me,   and   the  dread   lest   death 
itself  t49 

Might  be  no  refuge  from  the  consciousness 
Of  what  is  yet  unexpiated.     Oh,  speak  I 

ORSINO 

Accuse  him  of  the  deed,  and  let  the  law 
Avenge  thee. 

BEATRICE 

Oh,  ice-hearted  counsellor  ! 
If  I  could  find  a  word  tiiat  might  make 

known 
The  crime  of  my  destroyer;  and  that  done. 
My  tongue  should  like  a  knife  tear  out  the 

secret 
Which  cankers  my  heart's  core;  ay,  lay  all 

bare. 
So  that  my  unpolluted  fame  should  be 
With  vilest  gossips  a  stale  mouthed  story; 
A  mock,  a  byword,  an  astonishment: —  160 
If  this  were  done,   which  never   shall  be 

done. 
Think  of  the  offender's  gold,  his  dreaded 

hate, 
And  the   strange  horror  of  the  accuser's 

tale, 
Baffling  belief,  and  overpowering  speech; 
Scarce  whispered,  unimaginable,  wrapped 
In   hideous  hints  —  Oh,   most  assured   re- 
dress ! 

OR8INO 
You  will  endure  it  then  ? 

BEATRICE 

Endure  !  — Orsino, 
It  seems  your  coimsel  is  small  profit. 

(Turns  from  him,  and  speaks  half  to  herself) 

Ay. 

All  must  be  suddenly  resolved  and  done. 


ACT   III  :    SC.    I 


THE   CENCI 


227 


What  is  this  uudistinguishable  mist  170 

Of  thoughts,  which  rise,  like  shadow  after 

shadow. 
Darkening  each  other  ? 

ORSINO 

Should  the  offender  live  ? 
Triumph  iu  his  misdeed  ?    and   make,  by 

use. 
His    crime,   whate'er    it    is,  dreadful    no 

doubt. 
Thine  element;  until  thou  mayest  become 
Utterly  lost;  subdued  even  to  the  hue 
Of  that  which  thou  permittest  ? 

BEATBiCE  (to  herself) 

Mighty  death  ! 
Thou  double-visaged  shadow  !  only  judge  ! 
RightfuUest  arbiter  ! 

(She  retires,  absorbed  in  thought) 

1.UCRETIA 

If  the  lightning 
Of  God  has  e'er  descended  to  avenge  — 

ORSINO 

Blaspheme  not  !  His  high  Providence 
commits  i8t 

Its  glory  on  this  earth  and  their  own 
wrongs 

Into  the  hands  of  men;  if  they  neglect 

To  punish  crime  — 

LUCKETIA 

But  if  one,  like  this  wretch, 
Should  mock  with  gold   opinion,   law  and 

power  ? 
If  there  be  no  appeal  to  that  which  makes 
The   guiltiest   tremble  ?   if,    because    our 

wrongs, 
For  that  they  are  unnatural,  strange  and 

monstrous, 
Exceed  all  measure  of  belief  ?     Oh,  God  ! 
If,  for  the  very  reasons  which  should  make 
Redress  most  swift  and  sure,  our  injurer 
triumphs  ?  igi 

And  we,  tlie    victims,   bear  worse  punish- 
ment 
Than  that  appointed  for  their  torturer  ? 

ORSINO 

Think  not 
But  that  there   is  redress  where    there  is 

wrong, 
So  we  be  bold  enough  to  seize  it. 


LUCRETIA 

How? 
If  there  were  any  way  to  make  all  sure, 
I  know  not  —  but  I  think  it  might  be  good 
To  — 


Why,  his  late  outrage  to  Beatrice  — 
For  it  is  such,  as  I  but  faintly  guess,  199 
As   makes   remorse  dishonor,   and   leaves 

her 
Only  one  duty,  how  she  may  avenge; 
You,  but  one  refuge  from  ills  ill  endured; 
Me,  but  one  counsel  — 

LUCRETIA 

For  we  cannot  hope 
That  aid,  op  retribution,  or  resource 
Will  arise  thence,  where  every  other  one 
Might  find  them  with  less  need. 

[Beatrice  advances. 

ORSINO 

Then  — 

BEATRICE 

Peace,  Orsino  ! 
And,  honored  Lady,  while  I  speak,  I  pray 
That  you  put  off,  as  garments  overworn, 
Forbearance  and  respect,  reniorse  and  fear. 
And  all  the  fit  restraints  of  daily  life,      210 
Which    have    been  borne  from   childhood, 

but  which  now 
Would  be  a  mockery  to  my  holier  plea. 
As  I  have  said,  I  have  endured  a  wrong, 
Which,  though  it  be  expressionless,  is  such 
As  asks  atonement,  both  for  what  is  passed. 
And  lest  I  be  reserved,  day  after  day. 
To  load  with  crimes  an  overburdened  soul, 
And  be  —  what  ye  can  dream  not.     1  have 

prayed 
To  God,  and  I  have   talked  with  my  own 

heart. 
And  have  unravelled  my  entangled  will,  220 
And   have  at  length  determined   what   is 

right. 
Art  thou   my  friend,   Orsino  ?     False   or 

true  ? 
Pledge  thy  salvation  ere  I  speak. 


I  swear 
To  dedicate  my  cunning,  and  my  strength, 
My  silence,  and  whatever  else  is  mine, 
To  thy  commands. 


228 


THE  CENCI 


ACT  III  :   SC.   I 


LUCRETIA 

You  think  we  should  devise 


His  death  ? 


BKATRICE 

And  execute  what  is  devised, 
And  suddenly.     We   must   be   brief    and 
bold. 

ORSINO 

And  yet  most  cautious. 

LCCRETIA 

For  the  jealous  laws 
Would  punish  us  with  death  aud  infamy  230 
For  that  which  it  became  themselves  to  do. 

BEATRICE 

Be  cautious  as  ye  may,  but  prompt.     Or- 

sino, 
What  are  the  means  ? 

ORSINO 

I  know  two  dull,  fierce  outlaws, 
Who  think  man's  spirit  as  a  worm's,  aud 

they 
Would  trample  out,  for  any  slight  caprice, 
The  meanest   or   the   noblest   life.      This 

mood 
Is  marketable  here  in  Rome.     They  sell 
What  we  now  want. 

LUCRETIA 

To-morrow,  before  dawn, 
Cenci  will  take  us  to  that  lonely  rock, 
Fetrella,  in  the  Apulian  Apennines.         240 
If  he  arrive  there  — 

BEATRICE 

He  must  not  arrive. 

OB8IKO 
Will    it  be   dark    before   you   reach   the 
tower? 

LUCRETIA 

The  sun  will  scarce  be  set. 

BEATRICE 

But  I  remember 
Two  miles  on  this  side  of  the  fort  the  road 
Crosses  a  deep  ravine;  't  is  rough  aud  nar- 
row. 
And  winds  with  short  tarns  down  the  pre- 
cipice; 


And  in  its  depth  there  is  a  mighty  rock, 
Which  has,  from  unimaginable  years. 
Sustained  itself  witli  terror  and  with  toil 
Over  a  gulf,  aud  with  the  agony  250 

With  which  it  clings  seems  slowly  coming 

down; 
Even  as  a  wretched  soul  hour  after  hour 
Clings   to   the  mass  of   life;  yet,  clinging, 

leans; 
And,  leaning,  makes  more  dark  the  dread 

abyss 
In  which  it  fears  to  fall;  beneath    this 

cwig 
Huge  as  despair,  as  if  in  weariness, 
The  melancholy  mountain  yawns;  below. 
You  hear  but  see  not  an  impettious  torrent 
Raging  among  the  caverns,  and  a  bridge 
Crosses  the  chasm;  and  high  above  there 

grow,  260 

With   intersecting    trunks,  from    crag    to 

crag, 
Cedars,  and  yews,  and  pines;  whose  tan- 
gled hair 
Is  matted  in  one  solid  roof  of  shade 
By  the  dark  ivy's  twine.     At  noonday  here 
'T  is  twilight,  and  at  sunset  blackest  night. 

ORSINO 

Before  you  reach  that  bridge  make  some 

excuse 
For  spurring  on  your  mules,  or  loitering 
Until  — 

BEATRICE 

What  sound  is  that  ? 

LUCRETIA 

Hark  !  No,  it  cannot  be  a  servant's  step; 
It  must  be  Cenci,  unexpectedly  270 

Returned  —  make  some  excuse   for  being 
here. 

BEATRICE  (to  ORSINO  OS  ske  goes  out) 

That  step    we  hear  approach  must  never 

pass 
The  bridge  of  which  we  spoke. 

[Exeunt  Lucretia  and  Beatrice. 

ORSINO 

What  shall  I  do  ? 
Cenci  must  find  me  here,  and  I  must  bear 
The  imperious  inquisition  of  his  looks 
As   to  what   brought    me   hither;  let  me 

mask 
Mine  own  in  sdme  inane  and  vacant  smile. 


ACT   III  :   SC.    I 


THE  CENCI 


229 


Enter  Giacomo,  in  a  hurried  manner 
How !  have   you   ventured   hither  ?   know 
you  then  278 

That  Ceuci  is  from  home  ? 

GIACOMO 

I  sought  him  here; 
And  now  must  wait  till  he  returns. 

ORSIKO 

Great  God  ! 
Weigh  you  the  danger  of  this  rashness  ? 

GIACOMO 

Ay! 
Does  my  destroyer  know  his  danger  ?  We 
Are    now   no  more,  as   once,  parent   and 

child, 
But  man  to  man;  the  oppressor  to  the  op- 
pressed, 
The  slanderer  to  the  slandered;  foe  to  foe. 
He    has    cast    Nature  off,  which   was  bis 

shield, 
And    Nature    casts    him   off,  who  is   her 

shame; 
And  I  spurn  both.     Is  it  a  father's  throat 
Which  I    will   shake,  and   say,  I   ask  not 

gold; 
I  ask  not  happy  years ;  nor  noemories       ago 
Of  tranquil  childhood;  nor  home-sheltered 

love; 
Though  all  these  hast  thou  torn  from  me, 

and  more; 
But  only  my  fair  fame;  only  one  hoard 
Of  peace,  which  I  thought  hidden  from  thy 

hate 
Under  the  penury  heaped  on  me  by  thee; 
Or  I  will  —  God  can  understand  and  pardon. 
Why  should  I  speak  with  man  ? 

OKSINO 

Be  calm,  dear  friend. 

GIACOMO 

Well,  I  will  calmly  tell  you  what  he  did. 
This  old  Francesco  Cenci,  as  you  know. 
Borrowed  the  dowry  of  my  wife  from  me. 
And  then  denied  the  loan;  and  left  me  so 
In  poverty,  the  which  I  sought  to  mend 
By  holding  a  poor  office  in  the  state.       303 
It  bad  been  promised  to  me,  and  already 
I  bought  new  clothing  for  my  ragged  babes. 
And  my  wife  smiled;  and  my  heart  knew 

repose ; 
When  Cenci's  intercession,  as  I  found, 


Conferred  this  office  on  a  wretch,  whom 

thus 
He  paid  foir  vilest  service.     I  returned 
With  this   ill  news,  and  we  sate  sad  to- 
gether 310 
Solacing  our  despondency  with  tears 
Of  such  affection  and  unbroken  faith 
As  temper  life's  worst  bitterness;  when  he, 
As  he  is  wont,  came  to  upbraid  and  curse, 
Mocking  our  poverty,  and  telling  us 
Such  was   God's   scourge   for  disobedient 

sons. 
And  then,  that  I  might  strike  him  dumb 

with  shame, 
I  spoke  of  my  wife's  dowry;  but  he  coined 
A  brief  yet  specious  tale,  how  I  had  wasted 
The  sum  in  secret  riot;  and  he  saw  320 

My  wife  was  touched,  and  he  went  smiling 

forth. 
And  when  I  knew  the  impression  he  had 

made, 
And  felt  my  wife  insult  with  silent  scorn 
My  ardent  truth,  and  look  averse  and  cold, 
I  went  forth  too;  but  soon  returned  again; 
Yet  not  so  soon  but  that  my  wife  had  taught 
My  children  her  harsh  thoughts,  and  they 

all  cried, 
'  Give  us  clothes,  father  !     Give  us  better 

food! 
What  you    in  one   night   squander   were 

enough 
For   months ! '     I   looked,   and    saw  that 

home  was  hell.  330 

And  to  that  hell  will  I  return  no  more. 
Until  mine  enemy  has  rendered  up 
Atonement,  or,  as  he  gave  life  to  me, 
I  will,  reversing  Nature's  law  — 

OKSINO 

Trust  me. 
The  compensation  which  thou  seekest  here 
Will  be  denied. 


Then  —  Are  you  not  my  friend  *? 
Did  you  not  hint  at  the  alternative. 
Upon  the  brink  of  which  you  see  I  stand. 
The  other  day  when  we  conversed  together  ? 
My   wrongs  were  then   less.     That  word, 

parricide,  340 

Although  I  am  resolved,  haunts  me  like 

fear. 

ORSINO 

It  must  be  fear  itself,  for  the  bare  word 
Is  hollow  mockery.     Mark  how  wisest  God 


23° 


THE  CENCI 


ACT  III  :  sc.   II 


Draws  to  oue  poiut  the  threads  of  a  just 

doom, 
So  sanctifjing  it;  what  yon  devise 
Is,  as  it  were,  accomplished. 


Is  he  dead  ? 

ORSINO 

His  grave  is  ready.     Know  that  since  we 

met 
Ceuci  has  done  an  outrage  to  his  daughter. 


What  outrage  ? 

ORSINO 

That  she  speaks  not,  but  yon  may 
Conceive  such  half  conjectures  as  I  do  350 
From   her  fixed  paleness,   and  the   lofty 

grief 
Of  her  stern  brow,  bent  on  the  idle  air, 
And  her  severe  unmoflulated  voice. 
Drowning  both  tenderness  and  dread;  and 

last 
From  this;  thatwhilst  lierstep-mother  and  I, 
Bewildered  in  our  liorror,  talked  together 
With   obscure   hints,   both   self-misunder- 

stootl. 
And  darkly  guessing,  stumbling,  in  our  talk, 
Over  the  truth  and  yet  to  its  revenge, 
She  interrupted  us,  and  with  a  look  360 

Which  told,  before  she  spoke  it,  he  must 

die  — 

GIACOHO 

It  is  enough.    My  doubts  are  well  appeased ; 
There  is  a  higher  reason  for  the  act 
Than  mine;  there   is  a  holier  judge  than 

me, 
A  more  unblamed  avenger.     Beatrice, 
Who  in  the  gentleness  of  thy  sweet  youth 
Hast  never  trodden  on  a  worm,  or  bruised 
A  living  flower,  but  thou  hast  pitied  it 
With  needless  tears  !  fair  sister,  thon  in 

whom 
Men  wondered  how  such  loveliness  and  wis- 
dom 370 
Did  not  destroy  each  other !  is  there  made 
Ravage  of  thee  ?  O  heart,  I  ask  no  more 
Justification  !  Shall  I  wait,  Orsiuo, 
Till  he  return,  and  stab  him  at  the  door  ? 

ORBING 

Not  so;  some  accident  miglit  interpose 
To  rescue  him  from  what  is  now  most  sure; 


And  you  are  unprovided  where  to  fly. 
How  to  excuse  or  to  conceal.     Nay,  listen; 
All  is  contrived;  success  is  so  assured 
That  — 

Enter  Beatrice 

BEATRICE 

'T  is  my  brother's  voice  !     You  know  me 
not  ?  380 

GIACOMO 

Mj  sister,  mj  lost  sister  ! 

BEATRICE 

Lost  indeed  1 
I  see  Orsino  has  talked  with  you,  and 
That  you  conjecture  things  too  horrible 
To  speak,  yet  far  less  than  the  truth.     Now 

stay  not. 
He   might  return;  yet    kiss    me;  I  shall 

know 
That  then  thou  hast  consented  to  his  death. 
Farewell,  farewell  !     Let  piety  to  God, 
Brotherly  love,  justice  and  clemencj', 
And  all  things  that  make  tender  hardest 

hearts. 
Make  thine  bard,  brother.     Answer  not  — 

farewell.  390 

[Exeunt  severally. 

Scene  II.  —  A  mean  Apartment  in  Giacomo's 
House.    GiACOMO  alone. 

GIACOMO 

*T  is  midnight,  and  Orsino  comes  not  yet. 

{Thunder,  and  the  sound  0/ a  storm) 
What  !  can  the  everlasting  elements 
Feel  with   a  worm   like  man  ?     If  so,  the 

shaft 
Of  mercy-wingfed  lightning  would  not  fall 
On  stones  and  trees.    My  wife  and  children 

sleep; 
They  are  now  living  in  unmeaning  dreams; 
But  I   must   wake,  still  doubting  if  that 

deed 
Be  just  which  was  most  necessary.     Oh, 
Thou  unreplenished  lamp,   whose   narrow 

fire  9 

Is  shaken  by  the  wind,  and  on  whose  edge 
Devouring   darkness    hovers !    thou  small 

flame, 
Which,  as  a  dying  pulse  rises  and  falls. 
Still   flickerest   up    and   down,  how   very 

soon. 
Did  I  not  feed  thee,  wouldst  thou  fail  and  be 


ACT   III  :   SC.    II 


THE  CENCI 


231 


As  thou  hadst  never  been  !     So  wastes  and 

sinks 
f^veu  now,  perhaps,  the  life  tiiat  kindled 

n)ine; 
But  that  no  power  can  fill  with  vital  oil,  — 
That  broken  lamp  of  flesh.     Ha  I  't  is  the 

blood 
Which  fed  these  veins  that  ebbs  till  all  is 

cold ; 
It  is  the   form  that  moulded   mine  that 

sinks  20 

Into  the  white  and  yellow  spasms  of  death; 
It  is  the  sonl  by  which  mine  was  arrayed 
In   God's   immortal     likeness   which   now 

stands 
Naked  before  Heaven's  judgment-seat  ! 

(A  bell  strikes) 

One  !  Two  ! 

The  hours  crawl  on;  and,  when  my  hairs 

are  white. 
My  son  will  then  perhaps  be  waiting  thus. 
Tortured   between  just  hate  and  vain  re- 
morse; 
Chiding  the  tardy  messenger  of  news 
Like  those  which  I  expect.     I  almost  wish 
He  be  not  dead,  although  my  wrongs  are 

great;  30 

Yet  —  't  is  Orsino's  step. 

Enter  Orsino 

Speak  ! 

OKSINO 

I  am  come 
To  say  he  has  escaped. 

GIACOMO 

Escaped ! 

OKSINO 

And  safe 
Within  Petrella.     He  passed  by  the  spot 
Appointed  for  the  deed  an  hour  too  soon. 

GIACOMO 

Are  we  the  fools  of  such  contingencies  ? 
And  do  we  waste  in  blind  misgivings  thus 
The  hours   when   we  should   act?      Then 

wind  and  thunder, 
Which  seemed  to  howl   his   knell,  is   the 

loiid  laiighter 
With  wiiich  Heaven  mocks  our  weakness  ! 

I  henceforth 
Will  ne'er   repent   of  aught  designed  or 

done,  40 

But  my  repentance. 


OKSINO 

See,  the  lamp  is  out. 

GIACOMO 

If  no  remorse  is  ours  when  the  dim  air 
Has  drunk  this  innocent  flame,  why  should 

we  quail 
When  Ceuci's  life,  that  light  by  which  ill 

spirits 
See  the  worst  deeds  they  prompt,  shall  sink 

forever  ? 
No,  I  am  hardened. 

OKSINO 

Why,  what  need  of  this  ? 
Who  feared  the  pale  intrusion  of  remorse 
In  a  just  deed  ?     Although  our  first  plan 

failed. 
Doubt  not  but  he  will  soon  be  laid  to  rest. 
But  light  the  lamp;  let  us  not  talk  i'  the 

dark.  50 

GIACOMO  (lighting  the  lamp) 
And  yet,  once  quenched,  I  cannot  thus  re- 
lume 
My   father's   life;    do   you   not   think   his 

ghost 
Might  plead  that  argument  with  God  ? 

OKSINO 

Once  gone, 

You  cannot  now  recall  your  sister's  peace; 

Your  own  extinguished  years  of  youth  and 
hope; 

Nor  your  wife's  bitter  words;  nor  all  the 
taunts 

Which,  from  the  prosperous,  weak  misfor- 
tune takes; 

Nor  your  dead  mother;  nor  — 

GIACOMO 

Oh,  speak  no  more  ! 
I  am  resolved,  although  this  very  hand 
Must  quench  the  life  that  animated  it.      60 

OKSINO 

There   is   no  need  of   that.     Listen;  you 

know 
Olimpio,  the  castellan  of  Petrella 
In   old    Colonna's    time;  him  whom   your 

father 
Degraded  from  his  post  ?     And  Marzio, 
That  desperate  wretch,  whom  he  deprived 

last  year 
Of  a  reward  of  blood,  well  earned  and  due  ? 


232 


THE  CENCI 


ACT   IV  :  SC.   I 


GIACOMO 

I  knew  Olimpio ;  and  they  say  he  hated 
Old  Ceuci  so,  that  in  his  silent  rage 
His  lips  grew  white  only  to  see  him  pass. 
Of  Alarzio  1  know  nothing. 

OBSINO 

Marzio's  hate 
Matches  Oliinpio's.     I  have  sent  these  men, 
But  in  your  name,  and  as  at  your  request, 
To  talk  with  Beatrice  and  Lucretia.  73 


Only  to  talk  ? 

ORSINO 

The  moments  which  even  now 
Pass  onward  to  to-morrow's  midnight  hour 
May  memorize  their  flight  with  death;  ere 

then 
They  must  have  talked,  and  may  perhaps 

have  done, 
And  made  an  end. 

GIACOMO 

Listen  !     What  sound  is  that  ? 


The    house-dog    moans,    and    the    beams 
crack;  nought  else. 


It  is  my  wife  complaining  in  her  sleep;     80 

I  doubt  not  she  is  saying  bitter  things 

Of   me;  and   all    my   children   round   her 

dreaming 
That  I  deny  them  sustenance. 

ORSINO 

Whilst  he 
Who  truly  took  it  from  them,  and  who 

mis 

Their   hungry  rest    with    bitterness,  now 

sleeps 
Lapped  in  bad  pleasures,  and  triumphantly 
Mocks  thee  in  visions  of  successful  hate 
Too  like  the  truth  of  day. 

GIACOMO 

If  e'er  he  wakes 
Again,  I  will  not  trust  to  hireling  hands  — 

ORSINO 

Why,  that  were   well.     I  must  be   gone; 
good  night !  90 

When  next  we  meet,  may  all  be  done  1 


And  all 
Forgotten  !     Oh,  that  I  had  never  been  ! 

[Exeunt. 

ACT   IV 

SCETNE  I.  —  An  Apartment  in  the  Castle  of  Pe- 
trella.     Enter  Cenci. 


She  comes  not;  yet  I  left  her  even  now 

Vanquished  and  faint.  She  knows  the 
penalty 

Of  her  delay;  yet  what  if  threats  are  vain? 

Am  I  not  now  within  Petrella's  moat  ? 

Or  fear  I  still  the  eyes  and  ears  of  Kome  ? 

Might  I  not  drag  her  by  the  golden  hair  ? 

Stamp  on  her  ?  keep  her  sleepless  till  her 
brain 

Be  overworn  ?  tame  her  with  chains  and 
famine  ? 

Less  would  suffice.  Yet  so  to  leave  un- 
done 

What  I  most  seek  !  No,  't  is  her  stubborn 
will,  10 

Which,  by  its  own  consent,  shall  stoop  as 
low 

As  that  which  drags  it  down. 

Enter  Lucretia 

Thou  loathed  wretch  ! 
Hide   thee   from   my   abhorrence;  fly,  be- 
gone ! 
Yet  stay  !     Bid  Beatrice  come  hither. 


Oh, 
Husband  !  I  pray,  for  thine  own  wretched 

sake. 
Heed  what  thou  dost.     A  man  who  walks 

like  thee 
Through  crimes,  and  through   the  danger 

of  his  crimes, 
Each    hour    may    stumble  o'er  a  sudden 

grave. 
And  tliou  art  old;  thy  hairs  are  hoarj-  gray; 
As  thou  wouldst  save  thyself  from  death 

and  hell,  20 

Pity  thy  daughter;  give  her  to  some  friend 
In  marriage;  so  that  she  may  tempt  thee 

not 
To  hatred,   or  worse   thoughts,  if  worse 

there  be. 


ACT   IV  :   SC.   I 


THE  CENCI 


233 


CEKCI 

What !  like  her  sister,  who   has   found  a 

home 
To  mock  my  hate  from  with  prosperity  ? 
Strange   ruin  shall   destroy  both  her  and 

thee, 
And  all  that  yet  remain.     My  death  may 

be 
Rapid,  her  destiny  outspeeds  it.     Go, 
Bid  her  come  hither,  and  before  my  mood 
Be  changed,  lest  I  should  drag  her  by  the 

hair.  30 

LnCRETIA 

She  sent  me  to  thee,  husband.  At  thy  pre- 
sence 

She  fell,  as  thou  dost  know,  into  a  trance; 

And  in  that  trance  she  heard  a  voice  which 
said, 

'  Cenci  must  die  !  Let  him  confess  him- 
self ! 

Even  now  the  accusing  Angel  waits  to 
hear 

If  God,  to  punish  his  enormous  crimes, 

Harden  his  dying  heart  ! ' 

CENCI 

Why  —  such  things  are. 

No  doubt  divine  revealings  may  be  made. 

'T  is  plain  I  have  been  favored  from  above, 

For  when  I  cursed  my  sons,  they  died.  — 
Ay  —  so.  40 

As  to  the  right  or  wrong,  that  's  talk.  Re- 
pentance ? 

Repentance  is  an  easy  moment's  work, 

And  more  depends  on  God  than  me.  Well 
—  well  — 

I  must  give  up  the  greater  point,  which  was 

To  poison  and  corrupt  her  soul. 

(A pause;  Lucrktia  approaches  anxiously, 
and  then  shrinks  back  as  he  speaks) 

One,  two; 
Ay  —  Rocco  and  Cristofano  my  cnrse 
Strangled;  and  Giacomo,  I  think,  will  find 
Life  a  worse  Hell  than  that  beyond  the 

grave; 
Beatrice  shall,  if  there  be  skill  in  hate,      49 
Die  in  despair,  blaspheming;  to  Bernardo, 
He  is  so  innocent,  I  will  bequeathe 
The  memory  of  these  deeds,  and  make  his 

youth 
The  sepulchre  of  hope,  where  evil  thoughts 
Shall  grow  like  weeds  on  a  neglected  tomb. 
When  all  is  done,  out  in  the  wide  Cam- 

pagna 


I  will  pile  up  my  silver  and  my  gold; 
My  costly  robes,  paintings,  and  tapestries; 
My   parchments,   and   all   records   of  my 

wealth; 
And  make  a  bonfire  in  my  joy,  and  leave 
Of  my  possessions  nothing  but  ray  name;  60 
Which  shall  be  an  inheritance  to  strip 
Its  wearer  bare  as  infamy.     That  done, 
My  soul,  which  is  a  scourge,  will  I  resign 
Into  the  hands  of  Him  who  wielded  it; 
Be  it  for  its  own  punishment  or  theirs, 
He  will  not  ask  it  of  me  till  the  lash 
Be  broken  in  its  last  and  deepest  wound ; 
Until  its  hate  be  all  inflicted.     Yet, 
Lest  death  outspeed  my  purpose,  let  me 

make  69 

Short  work  and  sure. 

[Going. 

LUCEETIA  {stops  Mm) 

Oh,  stay  !  it  was  a  feint; 
She  had  no  vision,  and  she  heard  no  voice. 
I  said  it  but  to  awe  thee. 


That  is  well. 
Vile  palterer  with  the  sacred  truth  of  God, 
Be  thy  soul  choked  with  that  blaspheming 

lie! 
For  Beatrice  worse  terrors  are  in  store 
To  bend  her  to  my  will. 

1.UCRETIA 

Oh,  to  what  will  ? 
What  cruel  sufferings  more  than  she  has 

known 
Canst  thou  inflict  ? 


Andrea  !  go,  call  my  dangbter 
And  if  she  comes  not,  tell  her  that  I  come. 

{To  Lucretia) 
What  sufferings  ?     I  will  drag  her,  step  by 

step,  8c 

Through  infamies  unheard  of  among  men; 
She  shall  stand  shelterless   in  the  broad 

noon 
Of  public  scorn,  for  acts  blazoned  abroad. 
One  among  which  shall  be  —  what  ?  canst 

thou  guess  ? 
She  shall  become  (for  what  she  most  abhors 
Shall  have  a  fascination  to  entrap 
Her  loathing  will)  to  her  own  conscious  self 
All  she  appears  to  others;  and  when  dead, 
'  As  she  shall  die  unsh  rived  and  unforgiven. 


*34 


THE  CENCI 


ACT  IV  :  SC.   I 


A  rebel  to  her  father  and  her  God,  go 

Her   corpse    shall   be    abandoned    to   the 

hounds; 
Her  name  shall  be  the  terror  of  the  earth; 
Her  spirit  shall  approach   the    throne   of 

God 
Plague-spotted   with  my  curses.      I   will 

make 
Body  and  soul  a  monstrous  lump  of  ruin. 

Enter  Andhea 

ANDREA 

The  Lady  Beatrice  — 

CENCI 

Speak,  pale  slave  !  what 
Said  she  ? 

AKDREA 

My  Lord,  't  was   what  she  looked;  she 
said, 
•  Go  tell  my  father  that  I  see  the  gulf 
Of  Hell  between  us  two,  which  he   may 
pass;  99 

I  will  not.' 

[Exit  Andrea. 

CENCI 

Go  thou  quick,  Lucretia, 
Tell  her  to  come ;  yet  let  her  understand 
Her  coming  is  consent;  and  say,  moreover. 
That  if  she  come  not  I  will  curse  her. 

[Exit  Lucretia. 

Ha! 
With  what  but  with  a  father's  curse  doth 

God 
Panic-strike  armfed  victory,  and  make  pale 
Cities   in  their  prosperity  ?     The  world's 

Father 
Must  grant  a  parent's  prayer  against  his 

child, 
Be  he  who  asks  even  what  men  call  me. 
Will    not   the    deaths    of    her    rebellious 

brothers 
Awe  her  before  I  speak  ?  for  I  on  them  no 
Did  imprecate  quick  ruin,  and  it  came. 

Enter  Lucretia 
Well;  what  ?    Speak,  wretch  ! 

lucretia 

She  said,  '  I  cannot  come; 
Go  tell  my  father  that  I  see  a  torrent 
Of  his  own  blood  raging  between  us.' 


CENCI  (kneeling) 

God, 
Hear  me !     If  this  most  specious  mass  oi 

flesh. 
Which  thou  hast  made  my  daughter;  this 

my  blood. 
This  particle  of  my  divided  being; 
Or  rather,  this  my  bane  and  my  disease. 
Whose  sight  infects  and  poisons  me;  this; 

devil. 
Which  sprung  from  me  as  from  a  hell,  was 

meant  12c 

To  aught  good  use;  if  her  bright  loveliness 
Was  kindled  to  illumine  this  dark  world; 
If,  nursed  by  thy  selectest  dew  of  love. 
Such  virtues  blossom  in  her  as  should  make 
The  peace  of  life,  I  pray  thee  for  my  sake. 
As  thou  the  common  God  and  Father  art 
Of  her,  and  me,  and  all ;  reverse  that  doom  ! 
Earth,  in  the  name  of  God,  let  her  food  be 
Poison,  until  she  be  encrusted  round 
With  leprous  stains  !     Heaven,  rain  upon 

her  head  13a 

The  blistering  drops   of   the   Maremma's 

dew 
Till  she  be  speckled  like  a  toad;  parch  up 
Those  love-enkindled  lips,  warp  tliose  fine 

limbs 
To  loathed  lameness  !     All-beholding  sun, 
Strike  in  thine  envy  those  life-darting  eyes 
With  thine  own  blinding  beams  ! 

LUCRETIA 

Peace,  peace ! 
For  thine  own  sake  unsay  those  dreadful 

words. 
When  high  God  grants,  he  punishes  such 

prayers.  138 

CENCI  (leaping  up,  and  throwing  his  right  hand 
towards  Heaven) 

He  does  his  will,  I  mine  !    This  in  addition, 
That  if  she  have  a  child  — 

LUCRETIA 

Horrible  thought  \ 

CENCI 

That  if  she  ever  have  a  child  —  and  thoa, 
Quick  Nature  !  I  adjure  thee  by  thy  God, 
That  thou  be  fruitful  in  her,  and  increase 
And  multiply,  fulfilling  his  command, 
And  my  deep  imprecation  !  —  may  it  be 
A  hideous  likeness  of  herself;  that  as 
From  a  distorting  mirror  she  may  see 


ACT   IV  :   SC.    II 


THE   CENCI 


235 


Her  image  mixed  with  what  she  most  ab- 
hors, 

Smiling  upon  her  from  her  nursing  breast  ! 

And  that  the  child  may  from  its  infancy 

Grow,  day  by  day,  more  wicked  and  de- 
formed, 151 

Turning  her  mother's  love  to  misery  ! 

And  that  both  she  and  it  may  live  until 

It  shall  repay  her  care  and  pain  with  hate. 

Or  what  may  else  be  more  unnatural; 

So  he  may  hunt  her  through  the  clamorous 
scoffs 

Of  the  loud  world  to  a  dishonored  grave  ! 

Shall  I  revoke  this  curse  ?  Go,  bid  her 
come. 

Before  my  words  are  chronicled  in  heaven. 

[Exit  LUCRETIA. 

I  do  not  feel  as  if  I  were  a  man,  160 

But  like  a  fiend  appointed  to  chastise 
The  offences  of  some  unremenibered  world. 
My  blood  is  rnnningupand  down  my  veins; 
A  fearful  pleasure  makes  it  prick  and  tin- 
gle; 
I  feel  a  giddy  sickness  of  strange  awe ; 
My  heart  is  beating  with  an  expectation 
Of  horrid  joy. 

Enter  LuCRETiA 
What  ?     Speak  ! 

liUCRETIA 

She  bids  thee  curse; 
And  if  thy  curses,  as  they  cannot  do, 
Could  kill  her  soul  — 


She  would  not  come.     'T  is  well, 
I  can  do  both;  first  take  what  I  demand, 
And     then    extort     concession.     To     thy 

chamber !  171 

Fly  ere  I  spurn  thee;  and  beware  this  night 
That  thou  cross  not  my  footsteps.    It  were 

safer 
To  come  between  the  tiger  and  his  prey. 

[Exit  LrCRETIA. 

It  must  be  late ;  mine  eyes  grow  weary  dim 
With  unaccustomed  heaviness  of  sleep. 
Conscience  !  O  thou  most  insolent  of  lies  ! 
They  say  that  sleep,  that  healing  dew  of 

heaven. 
Steeps  not  in  balm  the  foldings  of  the  brain 
Which  thinks  thee  an  impostor.     I  will  go. 
First  to  belie  thee  with  an  hour  of  rest,  181 
Which  will  be  deep  and  calm,  I  feel;  and 

then  — 


O  multitudinous  Hell,  the  fiends  will  shake 
Thine  arches  with  the  laughter  of  their  joy  ! 
There  shall  be  lamentation  heard  in  Hea- 
ven 
As  o'er  an  angel  fallen ;  and  upon  Earth 
All  good  shall   droop  and  sicken,  and   ill 

things 
Shall,  with  a  spirit  of  unnatural  life, 
Stir  and  be  quickened  —  even  as  I  am  now. 

[Exit. 

Scene  II.  —  Be/ore  the  Castle  of  Petrella. 
Enter  Eeatbice  and  LccRETiA  above  on  the 
ramparts. 

BEATRICE 

They  come  not  yet. 

LUCRETIA 

'T  is  scarce  midnight. 

BEATRICE 

How  slow 
Behind   the  course  of   thought,  even  sick    « 

with  speed, 
Lags  leaden-footed  Time  ! 

LUCRETIA 

The  minutes  pass. 
If  he  should  wake  before  the  deed  is  done  ? 

BEATRICE 

O  mother  !  he  must  never  wake  again. 
What  thou  hast  said  persuades  me  that  our 

act 
Will  but  dislodge  a  spirit  of  deep  hell 
Out  of  a  human  form. 

LUCRETIA 

'Tis  true  he  spoke 
Of  death  and  judgment  with  strange  con- 
fidence 
For  one  so  wicked;  as  a  man  believing     10 
In  God,  yet  recking  not  of  good  or  ill. 
And  yet  to  die  without  confession  !  — 

BEATRICE 

Oh  ! 

Believe  that  Heaven  is  merciful  and  just, 
And  will  not  add  our  dread  necessity 
To  the  amount  of  his  offences. 

Enter  Olimpio  and  Mabzio  below 


They  come. 


See, 


236 


THE  CENCI 


ACT   IV  :   SC.    Ill 


BEATRICE 

Which  God  extinguish !     But    ye  are  re- 

All mortal  things  must  hasten  thus 

solved  ? 

To  their  dark  end.     Let  us  go  down. 

Ye  know  it  is  a  high  and  holy  deed  ? 

[Exeunt  Lccketia  and  BEAXRiCB/rom  above. 

OLIMPIO 

OLIMPIO 

We  are  resolved. 

How  feel  you  to  this  work  ? 

MARZIO 

MABZIO 

As  to  the  how  this  act 

As  one  who  thinks 

Be  warranted,  it  rests  with  you. 

A  thousand  crowns  excellent  market  price 

For  an  old  murderer's  life.     Your  cheeks 

BEATRICE 

are  pale.                                            20 

Well,  follow  ! 

OLIMPIO 

OLIMPIO 

It  is  the  white  reflection  of  your  own, 

Hush  !  Hark  !  what  noise  is  that  ? 

Which  you  call  pale. 

MARZIO 

MARZIO 

Ha  !  some  one  comes  ! 

Is  that  their  natural  hue  ? 

BEATRICE 

OLIMPIO 

Ye   conscience-stricken    cravens,  rock    to 

Or  't  is  my  hate,  and  the  deferred  desire 

rest 
Your  baby  hearts.     It  is  the  iron  gate,     40 
Which    ye    left    open,    swinging    to    the 

To  wreak  it,  which  extinguishes  their  blood. 

MARZIO 

wind. 

You  are  inclined  then  to  this  business  ? 

That  enters  whistling  as  in  scorn.     Come, 
follow  ! 

OLIMPIO 

And  be  your  steps  like  mine,  light,  quick 

Ay, 

If  one  should  bribe  me  with  a  thousand 

and  bold. 

[Exeunt. 

crowns 

To  kill   a   serpent  which  had  stung  my 

Scene    III.  —  An   Apartment    in  the   Castle. 

child, 

Enter  Beatrice  and  Lucretia. 

I  could  not  be  more  willing. 

LUCRETIA 

Enter  Beatrice  and  Lucretia  Mow 

They  are  about  it  now. 

Noble  ladies  I 

BEATRICE 

BEATRICE 

Nay,  it  is  done. 

Are  ye  resolved  ? 

LUCRETIA 

OLIMPIO 

I  have  not  beard  him  groan. 

Is  he  asleep  ? 

BEATRICE 

MARZIO 

Is  all 

He  will  not  gproan. 

Quiet? 

LUCRETIA 

LUCBETLA 

What  sound  is  that  ? 

I  mixed  an  opiate  with  his  driak; 

BEATRICE 

He  sleeps  so  soundly  — 

List !  't  is  the  tread  of  feel 

BEATRICE 

About  his  bed. 

That  his  death  will  be 

LUCRETIA 

But  as  a  change  of  sin-chastising  dreams,  32 

My  God  ! 

A  dark  continuance  of  the  bell  within  him, 

If  he  be  now  a  cold,  stiff  corpse  — 

ACT  IV  :   SC.    Ill 


THE  CENCI 


237 


BEATMCE 

Oh,  fear  not 
What  may  be  done,   but  what  is  left   un- 
done; 
The  act  seals  all. 

Erder  Olimpio  and  Marzio 
Is  it  accomplished  ? 


What? 


Did  you  not  call  ? 


BEATRICE 

When  ? 

OLIMPIO 

Now. 

BEATRICE 

I  ask  if  all  is  over  ? 

OLIMPIO 

We  dare  not  kill  an  old  and  sleeping  man; 
His  thin  gray  hair,  his  stern  and  reverent 

brow,  10 

His  veinfed   hands  crossed  on  his  heaving 

breast, 
And  the  calm  innocent  sleep  in  which  he 

lay. 
Quelled  me.     Indeed,  indeed,  I  cannot  do 

it. 

MARZIO 

But  I  was  bolder;  for  I  chid  Olimpio, 
And  bade  him  bear  his  wrongs  to  his  own 

grave, 
And  leave  me  the  reward.     And  now  my 

knife 
Touched  the  loose  wrinkled  throat,  when 

the  old  man 
Stirred  in  his  sleep,  and  said,  '  God  !  hear, 

oh,  hear 
A  father's  curse  !     What,  art  thou  not  our 

father  ?  ' 
And  then  he  laughed.     I  knew  it  was  the 

ghost  20 

Of  my  dead  father  speaking  through  his 

lips, 
And  could  not  kill  him. 

BEATRICE 

Miserable  slaves  ! 
Where,  if  ye  dare  not  kill  a  sleeping  man, 
Found  ye  the  boldness  to  return  to  me 


With  such  a  deed  undone  ?     Base  palter- 
ers  ! 

Cowards  and    traitors  !     Why,  the    very 
conscience 

Which    ye  would  sell  for  gold  and  for  re- 
venge 

Is  an  equivocation;  it  sleeps  over 

A  thousand  daily  acts  disgracing  men; 

And  when  a  deed,  where  mercy  insults  hea- 
ven —  30 

Why  do  I  talk  ? 

{Snatching  a  dagger  from  one  of  them,  and 
raising  it) 

Hadst  thou  a  tongue  to  say, 

She  murdered  her  own  father,  I  must  do 
it! 

But  never  dream  ye  shall  outlive  him  long  I 

OLIMPIO 

Stop,  for  God's  sake  ! 

MARZIO 

I  wiU  go  back  and  kill  him. 

OLIMPIO 

Give  me  the  weapon,  we  must  do  thy  will. 

BEATRICE 

Take  it !     Depart !     Return  ! 

[JExeunt  Olimpio  and  Marzio. 

How  pale  thou  art  ! 

We   do   but  that  which  't  were  a  deadly 

crime 
To  leave  undone. 

LUCRETIA 

Would  it  were  done  ! 

BEATRICE 

Even  whilst 
That  doubt  is  passing  through  your  mind, 

the  world 
Is  conscious  of  a  change.     Darkness  and 

hell  40 

Have  swallowed  up  the  vapor  they  sent 

forth 
To  blacken   the  sweet  light  of  life.     My 

breath 
Comes,  methinks,  lighter,  and  the  jellied 

blood 
Runs  freely  through  my  veins.     Hark  ! 


Enter  Olimpio  and  Mabzio 

OLIMPIO 


He  is — ■ 
Dead! 


»3* 


THE  CENCI 


ACT   IV:   SC.    IV 


MARZIO 

We  strangled  him,  that  there  might  be  no 

blood ; 
And  then  we  threw  his  heavy  corpse  i'  the 

garden 
Under  the  balcony;  'twill  seem  it  fell. 

BKATRlCE  (giving  them  a  bag  of  coin) 
Here  take  this  gold  and  hasten  to  your 

homes. 
And,  Marzio,  because  thou  wast  only  awed 
By  that  which  made  me  tremble,  wear  thou 

this  !  50 

(Clothes  him  in  a  rich  mantle) 
It  was  the  mantle  which  my  grandfather 
Wore  in  his  high  prosperity,  and  men 
Envied  his  state;  so  may  they  envy  thine. 
Thou  wert  a  weapon  in  the  hand  of  God 
To  a  just  use.   Live  long  and  thrive  !   And, 

mark. 
If  thou  hast  crimes,  repent;  this  deed  is 

none. 

(A  horn  is  sounded) 

LUCRETIA 

Hark,  't  is   the  castle   horn :  my   God  !  it 

sounds 
Like  the  last  trump. 

BEATRICB 

Some  tedious  guest  is  coming. 

LUCRETIA 

Tlie  drawbridge  is  let  down;  there  is  a 
tramp 

Of  horses  in  the  court;  fly,  hide  your- 
selves !  60 
[Exeunt  Climpio  and  Marzio. 

BEATRICE 

Let  118  retire  to  counterfeit  deep  rest; 
I  scarcely  need  to  coimterfeit  it  now; 
The  spirit  which   doth  reign  within  these 

limbs 
Seems  strangely  undisturbed.    I  could  even 

sleep 
Fearless  and  calm ;  all  ill  is  surely  past. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene  IV.  —  Another  Apartment  inthe  Castle. 
Enter  on  one  side  the  Legate  Savella,  intro- 
duced by  a  Servant,  and  on  the  other  LucBE- 
tia  and  Bernardo. 

BAVEH.A 

Lady,  my  duty  to  his  Holiness 

Be  my  excuse  that  thus  unseasonably 


I  break   upon  your  rest.     I   must  speak 

with 
Count  Cenci;  doth  he  sleep  ? 

LUCRETIA  (in  a  hurried  and  confused  manner) 
I  think  he  sleeps; 
Yet,    wake    him    not,  I    pray,  spare    me 

awhile. 
He  is  a  wicked  and  a  wrathful  man ; 
Should   he  be  roused  out  of  his  sleep  to- 
night. 
Which  is,  I  know,  a  hell  of  angry  dreams. 
It   were    not    well;    indeed  it   were    not 

well. 
Wait  till  day  break. 

(Aside)     Oh,  I  am  deadly  sick  ! 

SAVELLA 

I  grieve  thus  to  distress  you,  but  the 
Count  I I 

Must  answer  charges  of  the  gravest  im- 
port. 

And  suddenly;  such  my  commission  is. 

LUCRETIA  (with  increased  agitation) 
I  dare  not  rouse   him,  I  know  none    who 

dare; 
'Twere    perilous;    you    might    as    safely 

waken 
A  serpent,  or  a  corpse  in  which  some  fiend 
Were  laid  to  sleep. 

SATELLA 

Lady,  ray  moments  here 
Are  counted.     I  must  rouse  him  from  his 
sleep,  18 

Since  none  else  dare. 

LUCRETIA  (aside) 

Oh,  terror  !  oh,  despair  I 

(To  Bernardo) 
Bernardo,  conduct  you  the  Lord  Legate  to 
Your  father's  cliamber, 

[ExeurU  Savella  and  Bernardo. 

Enter  Beatrice 

BEATRICE 

'T  is  a  messenger 
Come  to  arrest  the  culprit  who  now  stands 
Before  the  throne  of  unappealable  God. 
Both   Earth  and  Heaven,  consenting  arbi- 
ters, 
Acquit  our  deed. 


ACT   IV  :    SC.    IV 


THE  CENCI 


239 


LUCRETIA 

Oh,  agony  of  fear  ! 
Would  that  he  yet  might  live  !     Even  now 

I  heard 
The   Legate's   followers   whisper  as   they 

passed 
They  had  a  warrant  for  his  instant  death. 
All  was  prepared  by  unforbidden  means, 
Which  we  must  pay  so  dearly,  having  done. 
Even  now   they  search  the  tower,  and  find 

the  body;  31 

Now   they   suspect   the   truth;    now   they 

consult 
Before  they  come  to  tax  us  with  the  fact. 
Oh,  horrible,  't  is  all  discovered  ! 

BEATRICE 

Mother, 
What  is  done  wisely  is  done  well.  Be  bold 
As  thou  art  just.  'T  is  like  a  truant  child, 
To  fear  that  others  know  what  thou  hast 

done, 
Even  from  thine  own  strong  consciousness, 

and  thus 
Write  on  unsteady  eyes  and  altered  cheeks 
All  thou  wouldst  hide.     Be  faithful  to  thy- 
self, 40 
And  fear  no  other  witness  but  thy  fear. 
For  if,  as  cannot  be,  some  circumstance 
Should  rise  in  accusation,  we  can  blind 
Suspicion  with  such  cheap  astonishment, 
Or  overbear  it  with  such  guiltless  pride, 
As  murderers  cannot  feign.     The  deed  is 

done. 
And  what  may  follow  now  regards  not  me. 
I  am  as  universal  as  the  light; 
Free  as  the  earth-surrounding  air;  as  firm 
As   the  world's   centre.     Consequence,    to 
me, .  .  ,  50 

Is  as  the  wind  which  strikes  the  solid  rock. 
But  shakes  it  not. 

{A  cry  within  and  tumxdt) 

VOICES 

Murder  !  Murder  !  Murder  ! 
Enter  Bernardo  and  Savella 

SAVBLLA  (to  his  followers) 
Go,   search    the   castle    round;  sound   the 

alarm ; 
Look  to  the  gates,  that  none  escape  ! 


What  now  ? 


BERKAKDO 

I   know  not   what  to  say  —  my  father 's 
dead. 

BEATRICE 

How,  dead  !  he  only  sleeps;  you  mistake, 

brother. 
His  sleep  is  very  calm,  very  like  death; 
'T  is  wonderful  how  well  a  tyrant  sleeps. 
He  is  not  dead  ? 

BERNARDO 

Dead;  murdered! 

LUCRETIA  (with  extreme  agitation) 

Oh,  no,  no  ! 

He   is   not   murdered,  though  he  may  be 

dead ;  60 

I  have  alone  the  keys  of  those  apartments. 


Ha  !  is  it  so  ? 

BEATRICE 

My  Lord,  I  pray  excuse  us; 
We  will  retire ;  my  mother  is  not  well ; 
She  seems  quite  overcome  with  this  strange 
horror. 

[Exeunt  Lucretia  and  Beatrice. 

SAVELLA 

Can  you  suspect  who  may  have  murdered 
him? 

BERNARDO 

I  know  not  what  to  think. 


Can  yon  name  any 
Who  had  an  interest  in  his  death  ? 

BERNARDO 

Alas! 
I  can  name  none  who  had  not,  and  those 

most 
Who  most  lament  that  such  a  deed  is  done; 
My  mother,  and  my  sister,  and  myself.     70 


'T  is  strange  !  There  were  clear  marks  of 
violence. 

I  found  the  old  man's  body  in  the  moon- 
light, 

Hanging  beneath  the  window  of  his  cham- 
ber 

Among  the  branches  of  a  pine;  he  could 
not 


240 


THE  CENCI 


ACT   IV  :   SC.    IV 


Have  fallen   there,  for  all   his  limbs   lay 

heaped 
And  effortless ;  't  is  true  there  was  no  blood. 
Favor    me,   sir  —  it    much    imports   your 

house 
That  all  should  be  made  clear  —  to  tell  the 

ladies 
That  I  request  their  presence. 

[Exit  Bernakdo. 

Enter  Guards,  bringing  in  Marzio 

GUARD 

We  have  one. 

OFFICER 

My  Lord,  we  found  this  ruffian  and  another 
Lurking   among   the   rocks;    there    is   no 

doubt  81 

But  that  they  are  the  murderers  of  Count 

Cenci; 
Each  had  a  bag  of  coin;  this  fellow  wore 
A  gold-inwoven  robe,  which,  shining  bright 
Under  the  dark  rocks  to  the  glimmering 

moon, 
Betrayed  them  to  our  notice;  the  other  fell 
Desperately  fighting. 

8AVELLA 

What  does  he  confess  ? 

OFFICER 

He  keeps  firm  silence ;  but  these  lines  found 
on  him  88 

May  speak. 

SAVEIiLA 

Their  language  is  at  least  sincere. 
{Beads) 

*'  To  THE  Lady  Beatrice. 
That  the  atonement  of  what  my  nature 
sickens  to  conjecture  may  soon  arrive,  I 
send  thee,  at  thy  brother's  desire,  those 
who  will  speak  and  do  more  than  I  dare 
write. 

Thy  devoted  servant, 

Orsino." 

Enter  Lucretia,  Beatrice,  and  Bernardo 
Knowest  thou  this  writing,  lady  ? 


BEATRICE 


BAYELLA 


No. 


Nor  thou  ? 


lucretia  {her  conduct  throughout   the  scene   is 

marked  by  extreme  agitation) 
Where  was   it  found  ?     What  is  it  ?     It 

should  be 
Orsino's  hand  !     It  speaks  of  that  strange 

horror 
Which   never    yet    found    utterance,    but 

which  made 
Between  that  hapless  child  and  her  dead 

father 
A  gulf  of  obscure  hatred. 

savella 

Is  it  so,  loo 

Is  it  true.  Lady,  that  thj'  father  did 
Such  outrages  as  to  awaken  in  thee 
Uufilial  hate  ? 

beatkice 
Not  hate,  't  was  more  than  hate ; 
This  is  most  true,  vet  wherefore  question 
me? 

8AVELLA 

There  is  a  deed  demanding  question  done; 
Thou  hast  a  secret  which  will  answer  not. 

BEATRICE 

What  sayest  ?     My  Lord,  your  words  are 
bold  and  rash. 

SAVELLA 

I  do  arrest  all  present  in  the  name 
Of    the   Pope's   Holiness.     You   must    to 
Rome.  log 

LUCRETIA 

Oh,  not  to  Rome  !  indeed  we  are  not  guilty. 

BEATRICE 

Guilty  !    who  dares   talk  of  guilt  ?     My 

Lord, 
I  am  more  innocent  of  parricide 
Than   is   a  child  born    fatherless.     Dear 

mother, 
Your  gentleness  and  patience  are  no  shield 
For    this    keen-judging   world,   this   two- 
edged  lie. 
Which  seems,  but  is  not.     What  I  will  hu- 
man laws. 
Rather  will  ye  who  are  their  ministers. 
Bar  all  access  to  retribution  first. 
And  then,  when  Heaven  doth  interpose  to  do 
What  ye  neglect,  arming  familiar  things  120 
To  the  redress  of  an  unwonted  crime, 
Make  ye  the  victims  who  demanded  it 


ACT   IV:    SC.    IV 


THE  CENCI 


241 


Culprits?  'Tis  ye  are  culprits!  That 
poor  wretch 

Who  stands  so  pale,  and  trembling,  and 
amazed, 

If  it  be  true  he  murdered  Cenci,  was 

A  sword  in  the  right  hand  of  justest  God. 

Wherefore  should  1  have  wielded  it  ?  un- 
less 

The  crimes  which  mortal  tongue  dare  never 
name  128 

God  therefore  scruples  to  avenge. 


That  you  desired  his  death  ? 


You  own 


BEATRICE 

It  would  have  been 
A  crime  no  less  than  his,  if  for  one  moment 
That  fierce  desire  had  faded  in  my  heart. 
'Tis   true   I  did   believe,   and  hope,  and 

pray, 
Ay,  I  even   knew  —  for  God  is  wise  and 

just  — 
That  some  strange  sudden  death  hung  over 

him. 
'Tis  true  that  this  did  happen,  and  most 

true 
There  was  no  other  rest  for  me  on  earth. 
No  other  hope  in  Heaven.     Now  what  of 

this? 


Strange  thoughts  beget  strange  deeds;  and 
here  are  both;  139 

I  judge  thee  not. 


And  yet,  if  you  arrest  me. 
You  are  the  judge  and  executioner 
Of  that  which  is  the  life  of  life ;  the  breath 
Of  accusation  kills  an  innocent  name. 
And  leaves  for  lame  acquittal  the  poor  life 
Which  is  a  mask  without  it.     'T  is  most 

false 
Tliat  I  am  guilty  of  foul  parricide; 
Although  I  must  rejoice,  for  justest  cause, 
That   other   hands  have  sent  my  father's 

soul 
To  ask  the  mercy  he  denied  to  me.  149 

Now  leave  us  free;  stain  not  a  noble  house 
With  vague  surmises  of  rejected  crime; 
Add  to  our  sufferings  and  j'our  own  neglect 
No  heavier  sum ;  let  them  have  been  enough ; 
Leave  us  the  wreck  we  have. 


I  dare  not.  Lady. 
I   pray  that  you  prepare  yourselves  for 

Rome. 
There  the  Pope's  further  pleasure  will  be 

known, 

LUCBETIA 

Oh,  not  to  Rome  !  Oh,  take  us  not  to  Rome  ! 

BEATRICE 

Why  not  to  Rome,  dear  mother  ?    There 

as  here 
Our  innocence  is  as  an  armM  heel  159 

To  trample  accusation.     God  is  there, 
As  here,  and  with  his  shadow  ever  clothes 
The  innocent,  the  injured,  and  the  weak; 
And  such  are  we.     Cheer  up,  dear  Lady  ! 

lean 
On  me;  collect  your  wandering  thoughts. 

My  Lord, 
As  soon  as  you  have  taken  some  refresh- 
ment, 
And  had  all  such  examinations  made 
Upon  the  spot  as  may  be  necessary 
To  the  full  understanding  of  this  matter. 
We  shall  be  ready.   Mother,  will  you  come  ? 

LtrCRETIA 

Ha  !  they  will  bind  us  to  the  rack,  and 
wrest  170 

Self-accusation  from  our  agony  ! 

Will  Giacomo  be  there  ?  Orsino  ?  Marzio  ? 

All  present;  all  confronted;  all  demanding 

Each   from   the   other's   countenance    the 
thing 

Which  is  in  every  heart !     Oh,  misery  ! 

(She  faints,  and  is  borne  out) 

SAVELLA 

She  faints;  an  ill  appearance  this. 

BEATRICE 

My  Lord, 
She  knows  not  yet  the  uses  of  the  world. 
She  fears  that  power  is  as  a  beast  which 

grasps 
And  loosens  not;  a  snake  whose  look  trans- 
mutes 179 
All  things  to  guilt  which  is  its  nutriment. 
She  cannot  know  how  well  the  supine  slaves 
Of  blind  authority  read  the  truth  of  things 
When  written  on  a  brow  of  giiilelessness; 
She  sees  not  yet  triumphant  Innocence 
Stand  at  the  judgment-seat  of  mortal  man, 


242 


THE  CENCI 


ACT   V  :   SC.    I 


A  judge  and  an  accuser  of  the  wrong 
Which  drags  it  there.     Prepare  yourself, 

my  Lord. 
Our  suite  will  join  yours  in  the  court  below. 

lExeunt. 

ACT    V 

ScEKE  I.  —  An  Apartment  in  Orsino's  Palace. 
Enter  Oksino  and  Giacomo. 


Do  evil  deeds  thus  quickly  come  to  end  ? 
Oh,  that  the  vain  remorse  which  must  chas- 
tise 
Crimes  done  had  but  as  loud  a  voice  to  warn 
As  its  keen  sting  is  mortal  to  avenge  ! 
Oh,  that  tlie  hour  when  present  had  cast  off 
T lie  mantle  of  its  myster}-,  and  shown 
The  ghastly  form  with  which  it  now  returns 
When  its  scared  game  is  roused,  cheering 

the  hounds 
Of  conscience  to  their  prey  !     Alas,  alas  ! 
It  was  a  wicked  thought,  a  piteous  deed,   lo 
To  kill  an  old  and  hoary-headed  father. 

OBSINO 

It  has  turned  out  imluckily,  in  truth. 


To  violate  the  sacred  doors  of  sleep; 
To  cheat  kind  nature  of  the  placid  death 
Which  she  prepares  for  overwearied  age; 
To  drag  from  Heaven  an  unrepentant  soul. 
Which  might  have  quenched  in  reconciling 

prayers 
A  life  of  burning  crimes  — 


J.  urged  you  to  the  deed. 


You  cannot  say 


OIACOHO 

Oh,  had  I  never 

Found  in  thy  smooth  and  ready  counte- 
nance 20 

The  mirror  of  my  darkest  thoughts;  hadst 
thou 

Never  with  hints  and  questions  made  me 
look 

Upon  the  monster  of  my  thought,  until 

It  grew  familiar  to  desire  — 

ORSINO 

*T  is  thus 
Men  cast  the  blame  of  their  unprosperous 
acts 


Upon  the  abettors  of  their  own  resolve ; 
Or  anything  but  their  weak,  guilty  selves. 
And  yet,  confess  the  truth,  it  is  the  peril 
In  which  you  stand  that  gives  you  this  pale 

sickness 
Of  penitence;  confess  't  is  fear  disguised  30 
From  its  own  shame  that  takes  the  mantle 

now 
Of  thin  remorse.     What  if  we  yet  were 

safe? 


How  can  that  be  ?     Already  Beatrice, 
Lucretia  and  the  murderer  are  in  prison. 
I  doubt  not  officers  are,  whilst  we  speak, 
Sent  to  arrest  us. 

OKStNO 

I  have  all  prepared 
For  instant  flight.     We  can  escape  even 

now. 
So  we  take  fleet  occasion  by  the  hair. 

GIACOMO 

Rather  expire  in  tortures,  as  I  may. 
What !    will    you    cast    by    self-accusing 

flight  40 

Assured  conviction  upon  Beatrice  ? 
She  who  alone,  in  this  unnatural  work 
Stands  like  God's  angel  ministered  upon 
By     fiends  ;    avenging    such    a    nameless 

wrong 
As  turns  black  parricide  to  piety; 
Whilst  we  for   basest  ends  —  I  fear,  Or- 

sino. 
While  I  consider  all  yonr  words  and  looks, 
Comparing  them  with  your  proposal  now, 
That  you  umst  be  a  villain.     For  what  end 
Could    you    engage  '  iu    such    a    perilous 

crime,  50 

Training  me  on  with  hints,  and  signs,  and 

smiles. 
Even  to  this   gulf  ?     Thou  art  no   liar  ? 

No, 
Thou  art  a  lie  !     Traitor  and  murderer  ! 
Coward  and  slave  !     But  no  —  defend  thy- 
self; 

(Drawing) 
Let  the  sword  speak  what  the  indignant 

tongue 
Disdains  to  brand  thee  with. 

ORSINO 

Put  up  your  weapon. 
Is  it  the  desperation  of  your  fear 


ACT  v:   SC.    II 


THE  CENCI 


243 


Makes  you  thus  rash  and  sudden  with  a 

friend, 
Now  ruined   for  your  sake  ?     If    honest 

anger 
Have  moved  you,  know,  that  what  I  just 

proposed  60 

Was  but  to  try  you.     As  for  me,  I  think 
Thankless  affection  led  me  to  this  point, 
From  which,  if  my  firm  temper  could  re- 
pent, 
I   cannot  now  recede.      Even   whilst  we 

speak. 
The  ministers  of  justice  wait  below; 
They  grant  me  these  brief  moments.   Now, 

if  you 
Have  any  word  of  melancholy  comfort 
To  speak  to  your  pale  wife,  't  were  best  to 

pass 
Out  at  the  postern,  and  avoid  them  so. 

GIACOMO 

0  generous  friend  !  how  canst  thou  pardon 

me  ?  70 

Would  that  my  life  could  purchase  thine  ! 

ORSINO 

That  wish 
Now  comes  a  day  too  late.     Haste;  fare 

thee  well ! 
Hear'st  thou  not  steps  along  the  corridor  ? 
[Exit  GiAcOMO. 

1  'm  sorry  for  it ;  but  the  guards  are  wait- 

ing 
At  his  own  gate,  and  such  was  my  contriv- 
ance 
That   I  might  rid   me  both   of   him  and 

them. 
I  thought  to  act  a  solemn  comedy 
Upon  the  painted  scene  of  this  new  world. 
And  to  attain  my  own  peculiar  ends 
By  some  such  plot  of  mingled  good  and 

ill  80 

As  others  weave  ;  bnt  there  arose  a  Power 
Which  grasped  and  snapped  the  threads  of 

my  device. 
And  turned  it  to  a  net  of  ruin  —  Ha  ! 

(A  shout  is  heard) 
Is  that  my  name  I  hear  proclaimed  abroad  ? 
But  I  will  pass,  wrapped  in  a  vile  disguise, 
Rags  on  my  back  and  a  false  innocence 
Upon   my  face,  through   the  misdeeming 

crowd, 
Which  judges  by  what  seems.     'T  is  easy 

then, 
For  a  new  name  and  for  a  country  new, 


And  a  new  life  fashioned  on  old  desires,  90 
To  change  the  honors  of  abandoned  Rome. 
And   these   must   be    the   masks   of    that 

within, 
Which   must  remain  unaltered.  —  Oh,    I 

fear 
That  what  is  past  will  never  let  me  rest ! 
Why,    when   none   else    is   conscious,   but 

myself. 
Of  my  misdeeds,  should  my  own  heart's 

contempt 
Trouble  me  ?     Have  I  not  the  power  to 

fly     ■ 

My    own    reproaches?      Shall  I  be   the 
slave 

Of  —  what  ?      A   word  ?  which   those   of 
this  false  world 

Employ    against    each    other,   not    them- 
selves, 100 

As  men  wear  daggers  not  for  self-offence. 

But  if  I  am  mistaken,  where  shall  I 

Find  the  disguise  to  hide  me  from  myself. 

As  now  I  skulk  from  every  other  eye  ? 

[Exit. 

Scene  II.  —  A  Hall  of  Justice.  CAinLLO, 
Judges,  etc.,  are  discovered  seated;  Mabzio 
is  led  in. 

FIRST  JOBGE 

Accused,  do  you  persist  in  your  denial  ? 
I  ask  yon,  are  you  innocent,  or  guilty? 
I  demand  who  were  the  participators 
In   your   offence.     Speak   truth,   and   the 
whole  truth. 

MARZIO 

My  God  !     I  did  not  kill  him;  I  know  no- 
thing; 
Olimpio  sold  the  robe  to  me  from  which 
You  would  infer  my  guilt. 

SECOKD  JUDGE 

Away  with  him  ! 

FIRST  JUDGE 

Dare   you,   with   lips   yet  white  from  the 

rack's  kiss. 
Speak  false  ?     Is  it  so  soft  a  questioner     9 
That  you  would  bandy  lover's  talk  with  it. 
Till  it  wind  out  your  life  and  soul  ?  Away  ! 

MARZIO 

Spare  me  !     Oh,  spare  !     I  will  confess. 

FIRST  JUDGE 

Then  speak- 


244 


THE  CENCI 


ACT  V  :   SC.    II 


MABZIO 

I  strangled  him  in  bis  sleep. 

FIB8T  JUDGE 

Who  urged  you  to  it  ? 

MAKZIO 

His   own  son  Giacomo  and  the  young  pre- 
late 
Orsino  sent  me  to  Petrella;  there 
The  ladies  Beatrice  and  Lucretia 
Tempted    me   with    a    thousand   crowns, 

and  I 
And  my  companion  forthwith   murdered 
him.  i8 

Now  let  me  die. 

FIRST  JUDGE 

This  sounds  as  bad  as  truth. 
Guards,  there,  lead  forth  the  prisoners. 

Enter  Lucketia,  BEATmcE,    and    Giacomo, 
guarded 

Look  upon  this  man; 
When  did  you  see  him  last  ? 

BEATBICE 

We  never  saw  him. 

MARZIO 

You  know  me  too  well,  Lady  Beatrice. 

BEATmCE 

I  know  thee  I  how  ?  where  ?  when  ? 

MABZIO 

You  know  't  was  I 
Whom   you   did   urge   with  menaces    and 

bribes 
To  kill  your  father.     When  the  thing  was 

done, 
You  clothed  me  in  a  robe  of  woven  gold, 
And  bade  nie  thrive;  how  I  have  thriven, 

you  see. 
You,  my  Lord  Giacomo,  Lady  Lucretia, 
You  know  that  what  I  speak  is  true. 

[Beatrice    advances    towards  him ;    he 
covers  his  face.,  and  shrinks  back. 

Oh,  dart 
The  terrible  resentment  of  those  eyes  30 
On  the  dead  earth  !     Turn  them  away  from 

me  ! 
They  wwmd;   'twas    torture    forced    the 

truth.     My  Lords, 
Having  said  this,  let  me  be  led  to  death. 


BEATRICE 

Poor  wretch,  I  pity  thee;  yet  stay  awhile. 

CAMILLO 

Guards,  lead  him  not  away. 

BEATRICE 

Cardinal  Camillo, 
You  have  a  good  repute  for  gentleness 
And  wisdom;  can  it  be  that  you  sit  here 
To  countenance  a  wicked  farce  like  this  ? 
When  some  obscure  and  trembling  slave  is 

dragged 
From    sufferings    which   might  shake   the 

sternest  heart  40 

And  bade  to  answer,  not  as  he  believes, 
But  as  those  may  suspect  or  do  desire 
Whose  questions  thence  suggest  their  own 

reply; 
And   that   in   peril   of   such   hideous   tor 

ments 
As  merciful  God  spares  even  the  damned. 

Speak  now 
The  thing  you  surely  know,  which  is,  that 

If   your   fine   frame    were  stretched  upon 

that  wheel, 
And  you  were  told,  '  Confess  that  you  did 

poison 
Your   little   nephew;  that  fair   blue-eyed 

child 
Who  was   the   lodestar  of  your  life; '  and 

though  50 

All  see,  since  his  most  swift  and  piteous 

death. 
That  day  and  night,  and  heaven  and  earth, 

and  time, 
And  all   the   things   hoped  for    or    done 

therein. 
Are  changed  to  you,  through  your  exceed- 
ing grief. 
Yet  you  would  say,  '  I  confess  anything,' 
And  beg  from  your  tormentors,   like  that 

slave. 
The  refuge  of  dishonorable  death. 
I  pray  thee,  Cardinal,  that  thou  assert 
My  innocence. 

CAMILLO  (jnuch  moved) 

What  shall  we  think,  my  Lords  ? 

Shame  on  these  tears  !    I  thought  the  heart 

was  frozen  60 

Which  is  their  fountain.     I  would  pledge 

my  soul 
That  she  is  guiltless. 


ACT   V  :    SC.    II 


THE  CENCI 


245 


JUDGE 

Yet  she  must  be  tortured. 

CAMILLO 

I  would  as  soon  have  tortured  mine  own 

nephew 
(If  he  now  lived,  he  would  be  just  her  age; 
His  hair,  too,  was  her  color,  and  his  eyes 
Like  hers   in   shape,  but   blue  and  not   so 

deep) 
As  that  most  perfect  image  of  God's  love 
That  ever  came  sorrowing  upon  the  earth. 
She  is  as  pure  as  speechless  infancy  1 

JXTDGB 

Well,   be   her  purity    on  your  head,   my 
Lord,  70 

If  you  forbid  the  rack.     His  Holiness 
Enjoined  us  to  pursue  this  monstrous  crime 
By  the  severest  forms  of  law;  nay,  even 
To  stretch  a  point  against  the  criminals. 
The  prisoners  stand  accused  of  parricide 
Upon  such  evidence  as  justifies 
Torture. 

BEATRICE 

What  evidence  ?     This  man's  ? 


JUDGE 


Even  so. 


BEATRICE  (to  MARZIO) 

Come  near.    And  who  art  thou,  thus  chosen 

forth 
Out  of  the  multitude  of  living  men, 
To  kill  the  innocent  ? 

MARZIO 

I  am  Marzio,  80 

Thy  father's  vassal. 

BEATRICE 

Fix  thine  eyes  on  mine; 
Answer  to  what  I  ask. 

{Turning  to  the  Judges) 
I  prithee  mark 
His  countenance;  unlike  bold  calumny. 
Which  sometimes  dares  not  speak  the  thing 

it  looks. 
He  dares  not  look  the  thing  he  speaks,  but 

bends 
His  gaze  on  the  blind  earth. 

{To  Marzio) 

What !  wilt  thou  say 
That  I  did  murder  mj  own  father  ? 


Oh! 
Spare   me  !     My   brain  swims  round  —  I 

cannot  speak  — 
It  was  that  horrid  torture  forced  the  truth. 
Take  me  aw^ay  I     Let  her  not  look  on  me  ! 
I  am  a  guilty  miserable  wretch  !  gi 

I  have  said  all  1  know,  now,  let  me  die ! 

BEATRICE 

My  Lords,  if  by  my  nature  I  had  been 
So   stern  as   to   have   planned   the   crime 

alleged, 
Which  your  suspicions  dictate  to  this  slave 
And   the   rack  makes   him   utter,  do  you 

think 
I  should  have  left  this  two-edged  instru- 
ment 
Of   my   misdeed;    this  man,   this   bloody 

knife, 
With  my  own  name  engraven  on  the  heft, 
Lying  unsheathed  amid  a  world  of  foes, 
For  my  own  death  ?  that  with  such  horri- 
ble need  loi 
For  deepest  silence  I  should  have  neglected 
So  trivial  a  precaution  as  the  making 
His  tomb  the  keeper  of  a  secret  written 
On  a  thief's  memory  ?     What  is  his  poor 

life? 
What  are  a  thousand  lives  ?     A  parricide 
Had  trampled  them  like  dust;  and  see,  he 
lives  I 

{Turning  to  Mabzio) 
And  thou  — 

MARZIO 

Oh,  spare  me  !  Speak  to  me  no  more  ! 
That  stern  yet  piteous  look,  those  solemn 
tones,  109 

Wound  worse  than  torture, 

{To  the  Judges) 

I  have  told  it  all; 
For  pity's  sake  lead  me  away  to  death. 

CAMrLLO 

Guards,  lead  him  nearer  the  Lady  Bea- 
trice; 

He  shrinks  from  her  regard  like  autumn's 
leaf 

From  the  keen  breath  of  the  serenes';  north. 

BEATRICE 

O  thou  who  tremblest  on  the  giddy  verge 
Of  life  and  death,  pause  ere  thou  answerest 
me: 


246 


THE  CENCr 


ACT  V  :   SC.   II 


So  mayst  thou  answer  God  with  less  dis- 
may. 
What  evil  have  we  done  thee  ?     I,  alas  ! 
Have   lived  but  on  this  earth  a  few  sad 
years,  1 19 

And  so  iny  lot  was  ordered  that  a  father 
First  turned  the  moments  of  awakening  life 
To   drops,   each   poisoning   youth's   sweet 

hope;  and  then 
Stabbed  with  one  blow  my  everlasting  soul, 
And  uiy  untainted  fame;  and  even  that 

peace 
Which  sleeps  within  the  core  of  the  heart's 

heart. 
But  the  wound  was  not  mortal;  so  my  hate 
Became  the  only  worship  I  could  lift 
To  our  great  Father,  who  in  pity  and  love 
Aimed  thee,  as  thou  dost  say,  to  cut  hiu?. 
off;-  129 

And  thus  his  wrong  becomes  my  accusa- 
tion. 
And  art  thou  the  accuser  ?  If  thou  hopest 
Mercy  in  heav'cn  show  justice  upon  earth; 
Worse  than  a  bloody  hand  is  a  hard  heart 
If  thou  hast  done  murders,  made  thy  life's 

path 
Over  the  trampled  laws  of  God  and  man, 
Rush  not  before  thy  Judge,  and  say:  *  My 

Maker, 
I  have  done  this  and  more;  for  there  was 

one 
W^ho  was  most  pure  and  innocent  on  earth; 
And  because  she  endured  what  never  any, 
Guilty  or  innocent,  endured  before,  140 

Because  her  wrongs  could  not  be  told,  nor 

thoughts 
Because  thy  hand  at  length  did  rescue  her, 
I  with   my  words  killed  her  and  all   her 

kin.' 
Think,  I  adjure  you,  what  it  is  to  slay 
The  reverence  living  in  the  minds  of  men 
Towards  our  ancient   house  and   stainless 

fame  ! 
Think  what  it  is  to  strangle  infant  pity, 
Cradled  in  the  belief  of  guileless  looks. 
Till  it  become  a  crime  to  suffer.     Think 
What  't  is  to  blot  with  infamy  and  blood 
All  that  which  shows  like  innocence,  and 
is —  ■  151 

Hear  me,  great  God  I  —  I  swear,  most  in- 
nocent; 
So  that  the  world  lose  all  discrimination 
Between   the   sly,   fierce,   wild   regard   of 

guilt, 
And  that  which  now  compels  thee  to  reply 


To  what  I  ask:  Am  I,  or  am  I  not 
A  parricide  ? 


MAKZIO 

Thou  art  not ! 


What  is  this  ? 

MAKZIO 

I  here  declare  those  whom  I  did  accuse 
Are  innocent.     'T  is  I  alone  am  guilty.    159 

JUDGE 

Drag  him  away  to  torments;  let  them  be 
Subtle   and   long  drawn  out,  to  tear  the 

folds 
Of  the  heart's  inmost  cell.     Unbind  him 

not 
Till  he  confess. 

MAKZIO 

Torture  me  as  ye  will; 
A  keener  pang  has  wrung  a  higher  truth 
From  my  last  breath.     She  is  most  inno- 
cent ! 
Bloodhounds,  not  men,  glut  yourselves  well 

with  me  ! 
I  will  not  give  you  that  fine  piece  of  nature 
To  reud  and  ruin. 

[Exit  Mabzio,  guarded. 

CAMILLO 

What  say  ye  now,  my  Lords  ? 

JUDOB 

Let   tortures   strain   the   truth   till    it   be 
white  169 

As  snow  thrice-sifted  by  the  frozen  wind. 

CAMILLO 

Yet  stained  with  blood. 

JUDGE    (to   BEATKICE) 

Know  you  this  paper,  Lady  ? 

BEATRICE 

Entrap  me  not  with  questions^    Who  stands 

here 
As  my  accuser?     Ha  !  wilt  thou  be  he, 
VVlio   art   my  judge  ?      Accuser,   witness, 

judge. 
What,  all  in  one  ?     Here  is  Orsino's  name; 
Where  is  Orsino  ?    Let  Iiis  eye  meet  mine. 
What  means  this  scrawl  ?     Alas  !  ye  know 

not  what. 


ACT  V  :  SC.   Ill 


THE  CENCI 


247 


And  therefore  on  the  chance  that  it  may  be 
Some  evil,  will  ye  kill  us  ? 


Enter  an  Officer 

OFFICEB 


Marzio  's  dead. 


JUDGE 


What  did  he  say  ? 


OFFICER 

Nothing.     As  soon  as  we 
Had  bound  him  on  the  wheel,  he  smiled  on 
us,  181 

As  one  who  baffles  a  deep  adversary; 
And  holding  his  breath  died. 

JUDGE 

There  remains  nothing 
But  to  apply  the  question  to  those  prisoners 
Who  yet  remain  stubborn. 

CAMILLO 

I  overrule 
Further  proceedings,  and  in  the  behalf 
Of  these  most  innocent  and  noble  persons 
Will  use  my  interest  with  the  Holy  Father. 

JUDGE 

Let  the    Pope's  pleasure   then   be    done. 

Meanwhile 
Conduct   these   culprits  each   to   separate 

cells;  190 

And  be  the  engines  ready;  for  this  night, 
If  the  Pope's  resolution  be  as  grave. 
Pious,  and   just   as   ouce,  I  '11   wring   the 

truth 
Out  of  those  nerves  and  sinews,  groan  by 

groan. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene  III.  —  The  Cell  of  a  Prison.  Beatrice 
is  discovered  asleep  on  a  couch. 

Enter  Bernardo 

BERNARDO 

How  gently  slumber  rests  upon  her  face. 
Like  the  last  thoughts  of  some  day  sweetly 

spent. 
Closing  in  night  and  dreams,  and  so  pro- 
longed. 
After  such  torments  as  she  bore  last  night. 
How  light  and  soft  her  breathing  comes. 
Ay  me ! 


Methinks  that  I  shall  never  sleep  again. 
But  I  must  shake  the  heavenly  dew  of  rest 
From   this    sweet    folded    flower,   thus  — 

wake,  awake  ! 
What,  sister,  canst  thou  sleep  ? 

BSATRICE  (awaking) 

I  was  just  dreaming 
That    we    were    all    in    Paradise.     Thou 
knowest  10 

This  cell  seems  like  a  kind  of  Paradise 
After  our  father's  presence. 

BERNARDO 

Dear,  dear  sister, 
Would  that  thy  dream  were  not  a  dream  t 

Oh,  God, 
How  shall  I  tell  ? 

BEATRICE 

What  wouldst  thou  tell,  sweet  brother  ? 

BERNARDO 

Look  not  so  calm  and  happy,  or  even  whilst 
I  stand  considering  what  I  have  to  say, 
My  heart  will  break. 

BEATRICE 

See  now,  thou  mak'st  me  weep; 
How  verv  friendless  thou  wouldst  be,  dear 

child, 
If  I  were  dead.     Say  what  thou  hast  to 

say. 

BERNARDO 

They  have  confessed;  they  could  endure  no 
more  20 

The  tortures  — 

BEATRICE 

Ha  !  what  was  there  to  confess  ? 
They  must  have  told  some  weak  and  wicked 

lie 
To  flatter  their  tormentors.     Have   they 

said 
That  they  were  guilty  ?    O  white  innocence, 
That  thou  shouldst  wear  the  mask  of  guilt 

to  hide 
Thine  awful  and  serenest  countenance 
From  those  who  know  thee  not ! 

Enter  Judge,  with  Lucretia  and  Giacomo, 
guarded 

Ignoble  hearts  ! 
For  some  brief  spasms  of  pain,  which  are 
at  least 


243 


THE  CENCI 


ACT  V  :   SC.    Ill 


As  mortal  as  the  limbs  through  which  they 

pass, 
Are  centuries   of    high   splendor  laid  in 

dust  ?  30 

And  that  eternal  honor,  which  should  live 
Sunlike,  above  the  reek  of  mortal  fame, 
Changed    to  a   mockery   and   a   byword  ? 

What ! 
Will  you    give    up    these   bodies    to    be 

dragged 
At  horses'  heels,  so  that  our  hair  should 

sweep 
The   footsteps  of  the  vain  and  senseless 

crowd. 
Who,  that  they  may  make  our  calamity 
Their   worship    and   their   spectacle,    will 

leave 
The  churches  and  tlie  theatres  as  void 
As    their   own    hearts  ?     Shall    the    light 

multitude  40 

Fling,  at  their  choice,  cnrses  or  faded  pity. 
Sad  funeral  flowers  to  deck  a  living  corpse, 
Upon  us  as  we  pass  to  pass  away. 
And  leave  —  what  memory  of  our  having 

been  ? 
Infamy,  blood,  terror,  despair  ?     O  thou 
Who  wert  a  mother  to  the  parentless, 
Kill  not  thy  child  !  let  not  her  wrongs  kill 

thee! 
Brother,  lie  down  with  me  upon  the  rack. 
And  let  us  each  be  silent  as  a  corpse; 
It  soon  will  be  as  soft  as  any  grave.  50 

'T  is  but  the  falsehood  it  can  wring  from 

fear 
Makes  the  rack  cruel. 

GIACOMO 

They  will  tear  the  truth 
Even  from  thee  at  last,  those  cruel  pains; 
For  pity's  sake  say  thou  art  guilty  now. 


Oh,  speak  the  truth !     Let  us  all  quickly 

die; 
And  after  death,  God   is  our  judge,  not 

they; 
He  will  have  mercy  on  us. 

BEBKARDO 

If  indeed 
It  can  be  true,  say  so,  dear  sister  mine;    58 
And  then   the    Pope   will    surely  pardon 

yon, 
And  all  be  well. 


Confess,  or  I  will  warp 
Your  limbs  with  such  keen  tortures  — 

BEATBICB 

Tortures !  Turn 
The  rack  henceforth  into  a  spinning-wheel  ! 
Torture  your  dog,  that  he  may  tell  when 

last 
He  lapped  the  blood  his  master  shed  — 

not  me  ! 
My  pangs  are  of  the  mind,  and  of  the  heart, 
And  of  the  soul;  ay,  of  the  inmost  soul. 
Which  weeps  within  tears  as  of  burning 

To  see,  in  this  ill  world  where  none  are 

true. 
My  kindred  false  to  their  deserted  selves; 
And  with  considering  all  the  wretched  life 
Which  I  have  lived,  and  its  now  wretched 

end;  71 

And  the  small   justice  shown   by  Heaven 

and  Earth 
To  me  or  mine;  and  what  a  tyrant  thou 

art. 
And  what  slaves  these;  and  what  a  world 

we  make. 
The  oppressor  and   the   oppressed  —  such 

pangs  compel 
My  answer.     What  is  it  thou  wouldst  with 

me? 

JUDGB 

Art  thou  not  guilty  of  thy  father's  death  ? 


Or  wilt  thou  rather  tax  high-judging  God 
That  he  permitted  such  an  act  as  that 
Which  I  have  suffered,  and  which  he  be- 
held; 80 
Made  it  unutterable,  and  took  from  it 
All  refuge,  all  revenge,  all  consequence. 
But  that  which  thou  hast  called  my  father's 

death  ? 
Which  is  or  is  not  what  men  call  a  crime, 
W^hich  either  I  have  done,  or  have  not  done; 
Say  what  ye  will.     I  shall  deny  no  more. 
If  ye  desire  it  thus,  thus  let  it  be. 
And  so  an  end  of  all.     Now  do  your  will; 
No  other  pains  shall  force  another  word. 

JUDGE 

She  is  convicted,  but  has  not  confessed.    90 
Be  it  enough.     Until  their  final  sentence 


ACT   V  :    SC.    IV 


THE   CENCI 


249 


Let  none  have  converse  with  them. 

young  Lord, 
Linger  not  here  ! 


You, 


BEATKICK 

Oil,  tear  him  not  away  I 

JUDGE 

Guards  I  do  your  duty. 

BERNARDO  {embracing  Beatrice) 

Oh  !  would  ye  divide 
Body  from  soul  ? 

OrFICER 

Tliat  is  the  headsman's  business. 
[Exeunt  all  but  LrcRETiA,  Beatrice,  and 

GlACOMb. 

OL\COMO 

Have  I  confessed  ?     Is  it  all  over  now  ? 
No  hope  !  no  refuge  !     O   weak,   wicked 

tongue, 
Which  hast  destroyed  me,  would  that  thou 

hadst  been 
Cut   out   and    thrown    to    dogs  first !     To 

have  killed 
My   father   first,   and   then   betrayed   my 

sister  —  100 

Ay,  thee  !  the  one  thing  innocent  and  pure 
In    this    black,    guilty    world  —  to    that 

which  I 
So   well  deserve  !      My   wife  !    my  little 

ones  I 
Destitute,  helpless;  and  I  —  Father  !  God  ! 
Canst  thou  forgive  even  the  unforgiving, 
When  their  full  hearts  break  thus,  thus  ? 
{Covers  his  face  and  weeps) 

LirCRETIA 

O  my  child  ! 
To  what  a  dreadful  end  are  we  all  come  ! 
,  Why  did  I  yield  ?  Why  did  I  not  sustain 
Those  torments  ?  Oh,  that  I  were  all  dis- 
solved 
Into  these  fast  and  imavailing  tears,  no 
Which  flow  and  feel  not  ! 

BEATRICE 

What  't  was  weak  to  do, 
'Tis  weaker  to  lament,  once  being  done; 
Take   cheer !      The   God   who    knew   my 

wrong,  and  made 
Our  speedy  act  the  angel  of  his  wrath. 
Seems,  and  bnt  seems,  to  have  abandoned 

us. 


Let  us  not  think  that  we  shall  die  for  this. 
Brother,  sit  near  me;  give  me  your  firm 

hand, 
You  had  a  manly  heart.     Bear  up  !  bear 

up  ! 
O  dearest  Lady,  put  your  gentle  head 
Upon  my  lap,  and  try  to  sleep  awhile;     120 
Your  eyes  look  pale,  hollow,  and  overworn. 
With  heaviness  of  watching  and  slow  grief. 
Come,  I   will  sing  you   soma  low,  sleepy 

tune. 
Not  cheerful,  nor  yet  sad;  some  dull  old 

thing. 
Some  outworn  and  unused  monotony, 
Such  as  our  country  gossips  sing  and  spin, 
Till   they   almost    forget   they   live.     Lie 

down  — 
So,  that  will  do.     Have  I  forgot  the  words  ? 
Faith  I  they  are  sadder  than  I  thought  they 


False  friend,  wilt  thou  smile  or  weep  130 
When  my  life  is  laid  asleep  ? 
Little  cares  for  a  smile  or  a  tear. 
The  clay-cold  corpse  upon  the  bier  f 

Farewell  !     Heigh-ho  ! 

What  is  this  whispers  low  ? 
There  is  a  snake  in  thy  smile,  my  dear; 
And  bitter  poison  within  thy  tear. 

Sweet  sleep  !  were  death  like  to  thee, 
Or  if  thou  couldst  mortal  be, 
I  would  close  these  eyes  of  pain ;  140 

When  to  wake  ?     Never  again. 

O  World  !  farewell ! 

Listen  to  the  passing  bell ! 
It  says,  thou  and  I  must  part. 
With  a  light  and  a  heavy  heart. 

{The  scene  closes) 

Scene  IV.  —  A   Hall  of  the    Prison.    Enter 
Camillo  and  Bernardo. 
f 

CAMILLO 

The  Pope  is  stem;  not  to  be  moved  ot 
bent. 

He  looked  as  calm  and  keen  as  is  the  en- 
gine 

Which  tortures  and  which  kills,  exempt  it- 
self 

From  aught  that  it  inflicts;  a  marble  form, 

A  rite,  a  law,  a  custom;  not  a  man. 

He  frowned,  as  if  to  frown  had  been  the 
trick 


2SO 


THE   CENCI 


ACT  v:  SC.   IV 


Of  his  machinery,  on  the  advocates 
Presenting  the  defences,  which  he  tore 
And  threw  behind,  muttering  with  hoarse, 

harsh  voice  — 
'Which  among  ye  defended  their  old  fa- 
ther lO 
Killed   in   his   sleep  ? '  then  to  another  — 

'  Thou 
Dost  this  in  virtue  of  thy  place;  't  is  well.' 
He   turned   to  me  then,  looking  depreca- 
tion. 
And  said  these  three  words,  coldly  —  '  They 
must  die.' 

BERNARDO 

And  yet  you  left  him  not  ? 

CAHILLO 

I  urged  him  still; 
Pleading,   as   I  could  guess,  the   devilish 

wrong 
Which  prompted  your  unnatural  parent's 

death. 
And  he  replied  —  '  Paolo  Santa  Croce 
Murdered  liis  mother  yester  evening. 
And  he  is  fled.     Parricide  grows  so  rife,  20 
That  soon,  for  some  just  cause  no  doubt, 

the  young 
Will  strangle  us  all,  dozing  in  our  chairs. 
Authority,  and  power,  and  hoary  hair 
Are  grown  crimes  capital.     You  are   my 

nephew, 
You  come  to  ask  their  pardon ;  stay  a  mo- 
ment; 
Here  is  their  sentence;  never  see  me  more 
Till,  to  the  letter,  it  be  all  fulfilled.' 

BERNARDO 

Oh,  God,  not  so  !     I  did  believe  indeed 
That  all  you  said  was   but  sad  prepara- 
tion 
For  happy  news.     Oh,  there  are  words  and 

looks  30 

To  bend   the  sternest  purpose !     Once   I 

knew  them. 
Now  I  forget  them  at  my  dearest  need. 
What   think  you  if  I   seek  him  out,  and 

bathe 
His   feet   and  robe   with   hot   and    bitter 

tears  ? 
Importune   him  with  prayers,  vexing  his 

brain 
With  my  perpetual  cries,  until  in  rage 
He  strike  me  with  his  pastoral  cross,  and 

trample 


Upon  my  prostrate  head,  so  that  my  blood 
May  stain  the  senseless  dust  on  which  he 
treads,  jg 

And  remorse  waken  mercy  ?     I  will  do  it  ! 
Oh,  wait  till  I  return  ! 

[Bushes  out. 


Alas,  poor  boy  ! 
A  wreck-devoted  seaman  thus  might  pray 
To  the  deaf  sea. 

Enter  Lucretia,    Beatrice,  and   Giacomo, 
guarded 

BEATRICE 

I  hardly  dare  to  fear 
That  thou  bring'st  other  ne'ws  than  a  just 
pardon. 

CAMILLO 

May  God  in  heaven  be  less  inexorable 

To  the  Pope's  prayers  than  he  has  been  to 

mine. 
Here  is  the  sentence  and  the  warrant. 


BEATRICE  {wildly) 


Oh, 


My  God  I  Can  it  be  possible  I  have 
To  die  so  suddenly  ?  so  young  to  go 
Under  the  obscure,   cold,  rotting,  wormy 

ground !  50 

To  be  nailed  down  into  a  narrow  place; 
To  see  no  more  sweet  sunshine;  hear   no 

more 
Blithe    voice   of    living   thing;    muse   not 

again 
Upon  famih'ar  thoughts,  sad,  yet  thus  lost! 
How  fearful!  to  be  nothing  !     Or  to  be  — 
What  ?     Oil,  where  am   I  ?     Let  me  not 

go  mad  ! 
Sweet    Heaven,    forgive    weak    thoughts  ! 

If  there  should  be 
No  God,  no  Heaven,  no  Earth  in  the  void 

world  — 
The  wide,  gray,  larapless,  deep,  unpeopled 

world ! 
If  all  things  then  should  be  —  my  father's 

spirit,  60 

His  eye,  his  voice,   his  touch  surrounding 

me; 
The  atmosphere  and  breath  of  my  dead 

life! 
If  sometimes,  as  a  shape  more  like  him- 
self. 
Even  the  form  which  tortured  me  on  earth, 


ACT   V  :   SC.    IV 


THE   CENCI 


251 


Masked  in   gray   hairs  and  wrinkles,   he 

should  come, 
And  wind  me  in  his  hellish  arras,  and  fix 
His   eyes   on   mine,    and   drag   me  down, 

down,  down  ! 
For  was  he  not  alone  omnipotent 
On  Earth,  and  ever  present  ?    even  though 

dead,  69 

Does  not  his  spirit  live  in  all  that  breathe. 
And  work  for  me  and  mine  still  the  same 

ruin. 
Scorn,  pain,  despair  ?     Who  ever  yet  re- 
turned 
To  teach  the  laws   of  death's  untrodden 

realm  ? 
Unjust  perhaps   as   those    which  drive  us 

now. 
Oh,  whither,  whither  ? 


Trust  in  God's  sweet  love, 
The  tender  promises  of  Christ;  ere  night, 
Think  we  shall  be  in  Paradise. 

BEATRICE 

'T  is  past ! 
Whatever  comes,  my   heart  shall  siuk  no 

more. 
And   yet,   I    know   not   why,  your   words 

strike  chill; 
How   tedious,   false,    and    cold   seem    all 

things !     I  80 

Have    met    with   much    injustice   in   this 

world ; 
No  difference  has  been  made  by  God  or 

man,  , 

Or  any  power  moulding  my  wretched  lot, 
'Twixt  good  or  evil,  as  regarded  me. 
I  am  cut  off  from  the  only  world  I  know, 
From  light,  and  life,  and  love,  in  youth's 

sweet  prime. 
You  do  well  telling  me  to  trust  in  God ; 
I  hope  I  do  trust  in  him.     In  whom  else 
Can   any   trust  ?      And   yet   my   heart   is 

cold. 

(During  the  latter  speeches  Giacomo  has  re- 
tired conversing  roith  Camillo,  who  now 
goes  out ;  Giacomo  advances) 

GIACOMO 

Know  you  not,  mother  —  sister,  know  you 
not  ?  90 

Bernardo  even  now  is  gone  to  implore 
The  Pope  to  grant  our  pardon. 


LUCKETIA 

Child,  perhftps 
It  will  be  granted.  We  may  all  then  live 
To  make  these  woes  a  tale  for  distant  years. 
Oh,    what   a  thought !     It   gushes   to  my 

heart 
Like  the  warm  blood. 

BEATRICE 

Yet  both  will  soon  be  cold. 
Oh,  trample  out  that  thought  !    Worse  than 

despair. 
Worse  than  the  bitterness  of  death,  is  hope; 
It  is  the  only  ill  which  can  find  place        99 
Upon  the  giddy,  sharp,  and  narrow  hour 
Tottering  beneath  us.    Plead  with  the  swift 

frost 
That  it  should  spare  the  eldest  flower  of 

spring ; 
Plead   with    awakening    earthquake,   o'er 

whose  couch 
Even  now  a  city  stands,  strong,  fair,  and 

free; 
Now  stench  and  blackness  yawn,  like  death. 

Oh,  plead 
With  famine,  or  wind-walking  pestilence. 
Blind  lightning,  or  the  deaf  sea,  not  with 

man  — 
Cruel,    cold,    formal    man;    righteous    in 

words. 
In  deeds  a  Cain.    No,  mother,  we  must  die; 
Since  such  is  the  reward  of  innocent  lives. 
Such  the  alleviation  of  worst  wrongs.      m 
And  whilst  our  murderers  live,  and  hard, 

cold  men. 
Smiling  and  slow,  walk  through  a  world  of 

tears 
To  death  as  to  life's  sleep ;  't  were  just  the 

grave 
Were  some  strange  joy  for  us.     Come,  ob- 
scure Death, 
And  wind  me  in  thine  all-embracing  arms  ! 
Like  a  fond  mother  hide  me  in  thy  bosom. 
And  rock  me  to  the  sleep  from  which  none 

wake. 
Live  ye,  who  live,  subject  to  one  another 
As  we  were  once,  who  now  — 

Bbbnardo  rushes  in 

BERNARDO 

Oh,  horrible  ! 
That   tears,  that  looks,  that  hope  poured 
forth  in  prayer,  121 

Even  till  the  heart  is  vacant  and  despairs, 


252 


THE  MASK  OF  ANARCHY 


Should  all  be  vain  !    The  ministers  of  death 
Are  waiting  round  the  doors.     I  thought  I 

saw 
Blood  on  the  face  of  one  —  what  if  't  were 

fancy  ? 
Soon  the  heart's  blood  of  all  I  love  on  earth 
Will  sprinkle  him,  and  he  will  wipe  it  off 
As  if  't  were  only  rain.     O  life  !  O  world  ! 
Cover  me  !  let  me  be  no  more  !     To  see 
That  perfect  mirror  of  pure  innocence     130 
Wherein   I   gazed,  and  grew  happy   and 

good. 
Shivered  to  dust !     To  see  thee,  Beatrice, 
Who  made  all  lovely  thou  didst  look  upon  — 
Thee,  light  of  life  —  dead,  dark  !  while  I 

say,  sister. 
To  hear  I  have  no  sister;  and  thou,  mother, 
Whose  love  was  as  a  bond  to  all  our  loves  — 
Dead  !  the  sweet  bond  broken  ! 

Enter  Camillo  and  Guards 

They  come  !     Let  me 
Kiss  those  warm  lips  before  their  crimson 

leaves 
Are   blighted  —  white  —  cold.     Say   fare- 
well, before 
Death  chokes  that  gentle  voice  !     Oh,  let 
me  hear  140 

You  speak ! 

BEATRICE 

Farewell,  my  tender  brother.     Think 
Of  our  sad  fate  with  gentleness,  as  now; 
And  let  mild,  pitying  thoughts  lighten  for 

thee 
Thy  sorrow's  load.     Err  not  in  harsh  de- 
spair, 


But  tears  and  patience.     One  thing  more, 

my  child; 
For  thine  own  sake  be  constant  to  the  love 
Thou  bearest  us;  and  to  the  faith  that  I, 
Though   wrapped    in   a   strange  cloud   of 

crime  and  shame. 
Lived    ever    holy    and    unstained.      And 

though 
111  tongues  shall  wound  me,  and  our  com- 
mon name  150 
Be  as  a  mark  stamped  on  thine  innocent 

brow 
For  men  to  point  at  as  they  pass,  do  thou 
Forbear,  and  never  think  a  thought  unkind 
Of  those  who  perhaps  love  thee  in   their 

graves. 
So  may  est  thou  die  as  I  do;  fear  and  pain 
Being     subdued.     Farewell !      Farewell  I 

Farewell ! 

BERNARDO 

I  cannot  say  farewell ! 

CAMIIXO 

O  Lady  Beatrice  ! 

BKATRICiS 

Give  yourself  no  unnecessary  pain. 

My  dear  Lord  Cardinal.     Here,  mother, 

tie 
My  girdle  for  me,  and  bind  up  this  hair  160 
In  any  simple  knot;  ay,  that  does  well. 
And  yours   I   see  is  coming  down.     How 

often 
Have  we  done  this  for  one  another;  now 
We  shall  not  do  it  any  more.     My  Lord, 
W^e   are   quite   ready.     Well  —  't  is   very 

well. 


THE   MASK   OF   ANARCHY 


WRITTEN  ON   THE  OCCASION   OF  THE  MASSACRE  AT  MANCHESTER 


TT^c  Mask  of  Anarchy  was  composed  in  the 
fall  of  1819,  soon  after  the  Manchester  riot  of 
that  summer.  The  Manchester  or  '  Peterloo 
Massacre,'  as  it  was  called,  was  occasioned 
by  an  attempt  to  hold  a  mass  raeetinpr  on 
August  9,  1819,  at  St.  Peter's  Field,  Man- 
chester, in  behalf  of  parliamentary  reform. 
It  was  declared  illegal  and  forbidden  by  the 
ma^strates,  and  was  in  consequence  post- 
poned. It  was  held  August  Ifi.  and  attended 
by  several  thousands.  The  chief  constable 
was  ordered  to  arrest  the  ringleaders,  and  in 
particular  the  chairman,  Henry  Hunt,  an  agi- 
tator uncomiected  with  Leigh  Hunt.    He  asked 


military  aid,  and  went  accompanied  by  forty 
cavalrymen ;  on  the  failure  of  the  officer  and 
his  escort  to  penetrate  the  crowd  which  sur- 
rounded them,  ordere  were  given  three  hun- 
dred hussars  to  disperse  the  people ;  in  the 
charge  six  persons  were  killed,  twenty  or 
thirty  received  sabre  wounds,  and  fifty  or  more 
were  injured  in  other  ways.  Eldon  was  Lord 
High  Chancellor,  Sidmouth,  Home  Secretary, 
and  Castlereagh,  Foreign  Secretary ;  the  gov- 
ernment supported  the  authorities  and  publicly 
approved  their  conduct.  News  of  these  events 
reached  Shelley  while  still  residing  at  the  Villa 
Valsovano,  near  Leghorn,  and   employed   in 


THE   MASK   OF  ANARCHY 


253 


revisino^  The  Cenci,  and  '  roused  in  him,'  says 
Mrs.  Shelley,  '  violent  emotions  of  indignation 
and  compassion.'  The  nature  of  these  emo- 
tions is  shown  in  the  letter  he  wrote  to  Oilier, 
from  whom  he  heard  of  the  affair :  '  The  same 
Jay  that  your  letter  came,  came  the  news 
of  the  Manchester  work,  and  the  torrent  of  my 
indignation  has  not  yet  done  boiling  in  my 
veins.  I  wait  anxiously  to  hear  how  the  coun- 
try will  express  its  sense  of  this  bloody,  mur- 
derous oppression  of  its  destroyers.  ''  Some- 
thing must  be  done.  What,  yet  I  know  not."' 
In  a  similar  vein  he  addressed  Peacock,  who 
had  forwarded  newspaper  accounts :  '  Many 
thanks  for  your  attention  in  sending  the  papers 
which  contain  the  terrible  and  important  news 
of  Manchester.  These  are,  as  it  were,  the  dis- 
tant thunders  of  the  terrible  storm  which  is 
approaching.  The  tyrants  here,  as  in  the 
French  Revolution,  have  first  shed  blood. 
May  their  execrable  lessons  not  be  learned 
•with  equal  docility !  I  still  think  there  will 
be  no  coming  to  close  quarters  until  financial 
affairs  bring  the  oppressors  and  the  oppressed 
together.  Pray  let  me  have  the  earliest  politi- 
cal news  which  you  consider  of  importance  at 
this  crbis.' 


Shelley  sent  the  poem  to  Leigh  Hunt  to  be 
published  in  The  Examiner,  but  it  did  not  ap- 
pear. He  wrote  to  Hunt  on  the  subject  in 
November. 

'  You  do  not  tell  me  whether  you  have  re- 
ceived my  lines  on  the  Manchester  affair.  They 
are  of  the  exoteric  species,  and  are  meant,  not 
for  the  Indicator,  but  the  Examiner.  .  .  .  'i  he 
great  thing  to  do  is  to  hold  the  balance  be- 
tween popular  impatience  and  tyrannical  ob- 
stinacy ;  to  inculcate  with  fervor  both  the 
right  of  resistance  and  the  duty  of  forbearance. 
You  know  my  principles  incite  me  to  take  all 
the  good  I  can  get  in  politics,  forever  aspiring 
to  something  more.  I  am  one  of  those  whom 
nothing  will  fully  satisfy,  but  who  are  ready 
to  be  partially  satisfied  by  all  that  is  practi- 
cable.    We  shall  see.' 

The  poem  was  at  last  issued,  under  Hunt's 
editorship,  in  1832.  He  assigns,  in  liis  preface, 
as  the  reason  for  his  failure  to  publish  it  when 
it  was  written,  his  own  belief  that  '  the  public 
at  large  had  not  become  sufficiently  discern- 
ing to  do  justice  to  the  sincerity  and  kind- 
heartedness  of  his  spirit,  that  walked  in  the 
flaming  robe  of  verse.' 


As  I  lay  asleep  in  Italy, 
There  came  a  voice  from  over  the  sea, 
And  with  great  power  it  forth  led  me 
To  walk  iu  the  visions  of  Poesy. 


I  met  Murder  on  the  way  — 
He  had  a  mask  like  Castlereagh; 
Very  smooth  he  looked,  yet  grim; 
Seven  bloodhounds  followed  him. 


All  were  fat;  and  well  they  might 

Be  in  admirable  plight, 

For  one  by  one,  and  two  by  two, 

He  tossed  tliem  human  hearts  to  chew. 

Which  from  his  wide  cloak  he  drew. 

IV 

Next  came  Frand,  and  he  had  on. 
Like  Eldon,  an  ermined  gown; 
His  big  tears,  for  he  wept  well, 
Turned  to  mill-stones  as  they  fell; 


And  the  little  children,  who 

Round  his  feet  played  to  and  fro, 

Thinking  every  tear  a  gem. 

Had  their  brains  knocked  out  by  them. 


VI 


Clothed  with  the  Bible  as  -with  light, 
And  the  shadows  of  the  night, 
Like  Sid  mouth,  next  Hj'pocrisy 
On  a  crocodile  rode  by. 


And  many  more  Destructions  played 
In  this  ghastly  masquerade. 
All  disguised,  even  to  the  eyes, 
Like  bishops,  lawyers,  peers  or  spies. 

VIII 

Last  came  Anarchy;  he  rode 

On  a  white  horse  splashed  with  blood: 

He  was  pale  even  to  the  lips. 

Like  Death  in  the  Apocalypse. 

IX 

And  he  wore  a  kingly  crown ; 

Li  his  grasp  a  sceptre  shone; 

On  his  brow  this  mark  I  saw  — 

'  I  AM  God,  and  King,  and  Law  I ' 


With  a  pace  stately  and  fast. 
Over  English  land  he  passed, 
Trampling  to  a  mire  of  blood 
The  adoring  multitude. 


254 


THE  MASK  OF  ANARCHY 


And  a  mighty  troop  around 

With  their  trampling  shook  the  ground, 

Waving  each  a  bloody  sword 

For  the  service  of  their  Lord. 


And,  with  glorious  triumph,  they 
Rode  through  Kngland,  proud  and  gay, 
Drunk  as  with  intoxication 
Of  the  wine  of  desolatiou. 

XIII 
O'er  fields  and  towns,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Passed  that  Pageant  swift  and  free, 
Tearing  up,  and  trampling  down, 
Till  they  came  to  Loudon  towu, 

XIV 

And  each  dweller,  panic-stricken. 
Felt  his  heart  with  terror  sicken, 
Hearing  tlie  tempestuous  cry 
Of  the  triumph  of  Anarchy. 

XV 

For  with  pomp  to  meet  him  came, 
Clothed  in  arms  like  blood  and  flame, 
The  hired  murderers  who  did  sing, 

*  Thou  art  God,  and  Law,  and  King. 

XVI 

*  We  have  waited,  weak  and  lone. 
For  thy  coming,  Mighty  One  ! 

Our  purses  are   empty,   our  swords    are 

cold, 
Give  us  glory,  and  blood,  and  gold.' 

XVII 

Lawyers  and  priests,  a  motley  crowd. 
To  the  earth  their  pale  brows  bowed ; 
Like  a  bad  prayer  not  over  loud. 
Whispering  — '  Thou  art  Law  and  God  ! ' 

XVIII 

Then  all  cried  with  one  accord, 

*  Thou  art  King,  and  God,  and  Lord; 
Anarchy,  to  thee  we  bow. 

Be  thy  name  made  holy  now  ! ' 

XIX 
And  Anarchy,  the  Skeleton, 
Bowed  and  grinned  to  every  one. 
As  well  as  if  his  education 
Had  cost  ten  millions  to  the  nation. 


For  he  knew  the  palaces 
Of  our  kings  were  rightly  his; 
His  the  sceptre,  crown,  and  globe, 
And  the  gold-inwoven  robe. 

XXI 
So  he  sent  his  slaves  before 
To  seize  upon  the  Bank  and  Tower, 
And  was  proceeding  with  intent 
To  meet  his  pensioned  parliament. 


When  one  fled  past,  a  maniac  maid; 
And  her  name  was  Hope,  she  said; 
But  she  looked  more  like  Despair, 
And  she  cried  out  in  the  air: 

XXIII 
'  My  father  Time  is  weak  and  gray 
With  waiting  for  a  better  day; 
See  how  idiot-like  he  stands. 
Fumbling  with  his  palsied  hands  J 

XXIV 
'  He  has  had  child  after  child. 
And  the  dust  of  death  is  piled 
Over  every  one  but  me. 
Misery  !  oh,  misery  I  ' 


Then  she  lay  down  in  the  street, 
Right  before  the  horses'  feet. 
Expecting  with  a  patient  eye 
Murder,  Fraud,  and  Anarchy; 

XXVI 

When  between  her  and  her  foes 
A  mist,  a  light,  an  image  rose, — 
Small  at  first,  and  weak,  and  frail. 
Like  the  vapor  of  a  vale; 


Till  as  clouds  grow  on  the  blast. 
Like  tower-crowned  giants  striding  fast 
And  glare  with  lightnings  as  they  fly. 
And  speak  in  thunder  to  the  sky, 

XXVIII 

It  grew  —  a  Shape  arrayed  in  mail 
Brighter  than  the  viper's  scale. 
And  upborne  on  wings  whose  grain 
1  Was  as  the  light  of  sunny  rain. 


THE  MASK  OF  ANARCHY 


255 


XXIX 


On  its  helm,  seen  far  away, 

A  planet,  like  the  Morning's,  lay; 

And  those  plumes  its  light  rained  through, 

Like  a  shower  of  crimson  dew. 

XXX 

With  step  as  soft  as  wind  it  passed 
O'er  the  heads  of  men  —  so  fast 
That  they  knew  the  presence  there, 
And  looked  —  but  all  was  empty  air. 

XXXI 

As  flowers  beneath  May's  footstep  waken. 
As    stars    from    Night's    loose    hair  are 

shaken, 
As  waves  arise  when  loud  winds  call, 
Thoughts  sprung  where'er  that  step  did  fall. 


And  the  prostrate  multitude 
Looked  —  and  ankle-deep  in  blood, 
Hope,  that  maiden  most  serene. 
Was  walking  with  a  quiet  mien; 

XXXIII 

And  Anarchy,  the  ghastly  birth, 

Lay  dead  earth  upon  the  earth ; 

The  Horse  of  Death,  tameless  as  wind 

Fled,  and  with  his  hoofs  did  grind 

To  dust  the  murderers  thronged  behind. 

XXXIV 

A  rushing  light  of  clouds  and  splendor, 
A  sense,  awakening  and  yet  tender. 
Was  heard  and  felt  —  and  at  its  close 
These  words  of  joy  and  fear  arose, 


As  if  their  own  indignant  earth, 
Which  gave  the  sons  of  England  birth. 
Had  felt  their  blood  upon  her  brow. 
And  shuddering  with  a  mother's  throe 

XXXVI 
Had  turned  every  drop  of  blood. 
By  which  her  face  had  been  bedewed. 
To  an  accent  unwithstood. 
As  if  her  heart  cried  out  aloud: 

XXXVII 

'  Men  of  England,  heirs  of  glory, 
Heroes  of  unwritten  story, 
Nurslings  of  one  mighty  Mother, 
Hopes  of  her,  and  one  another: 


XXXVIII 

•  Rise  like  lions  after  slumber, 
In  unvanquishable  number; 
Shake  your  chains  to  earth  like  dew 
Which  in  sleep  had  fallen  on  you  — 
Ye  are  many,  they  are  few. 

XXXIX 

'  What  is  Freedom  ?  —  Ye  can  tell 
That  which  Slavery  is  too  well, 
For  its  very  name  has  grown 
To  an  echo  of  your  own. 

XL 

<  'T  is  to  work,  and  have  such  pay 
As  just  keeps  life  from  day  to  day 
In  your  limbs,  as  in  a  cell. 
For  the  tyrants'  use  to  dwell, 


*  So  that  ye  for  them  are  made 

Loom,  and  plough,  and  sword,  and  spade* 
With  or  without  your  own  will  bent 
To  their  defence  and  nourishment. 

XLII 

'  'T  is  to  see  your  children  weak 
With  their  mothers  pine  and  peak, 
When  the  winter  winds  are  bleak  — 
They  are  dying  whilst  I  speak. 

XLIII 

'  'T  is  to  hunger  for  such  diet, 
As  the  rich  man  in  his  riot 
Casts  to  the  fat  dogs  that  lie 
Surfeiting  beneath  his  eye. 

XLIV 

*  'T  is  to  let  the  Ghost  of  Gold 
Take  from  toil  a  thousand-fold 
More  than  e'er  its  substance  could 
In  the  tyrannies  of  old  ; 

XLV 

*  Paper  coin  —  that  forgery 
Of  the  title  deeds  which  ye 
Hold  to  something  of  the  worth 
Of  the  inheritance  of  Earth. 

XLVI 

*  'T  is  to  be  a  slave  in  soul. 
And  to  hold  no  strong  control 
Over  your  own  will,  but  be 
All  that  others  make  of  ye. 


256 


THE  MASK  OF  ANARCHY 


XLVII 

LVI 

*  And  at  length  when  ye  complain 
With  a  murmur  weak  and  vain, 
*T  is  to  see  the  Tyrant's  crew 
Ride  over  your  wives  and  you  — 
Blood  is  on  the  grass  like  dew  ! 

*  Thou  art  clothes,  and  fire,  and  food. 
For  the  trampled  multitude; 
No  —  in  countries  that  are  free 
Such  starvation  cannot  be 
As  in  England  now  we  see. 

XL  VIII 

LVII 

*  Then  it  is  to  feel  revenge, 

Fiercely  thirsting  to  exchange 

Blood  for  hiood  —  and  wrong  for  wrong  : 

Do  not  thus  when  ye  are  strong  ! 

'  To  the  rich  thou  art  a  check; 
When  his  foot  is  on  the  neck 
Of  his  victim,  thou  dost  make 
That  he  treads  upon  a  snake. 

XLIX 

LVIII 

*  Birds  find  rest  in  narrow  nest, 
When  weary  of  their  winged  quest, 
Beasts  find  fare  in  woody  lair, 
When  storm  and  snow  are  in  the  air. 

'  Thou  art  Justice  —  ne'er  for  gold 
May  thy  righteous  laws  be  sold, 
As  laws  are  in  England ;  thou 
Shield'st  alike  both  high  and  low. 

L 
*  Horses,  oxen,  have  a  home, 
When  from  daily  toil  they  come  ; 
Household  dogs,  when  the  wind  roars, 
Find  a  home  within  warm  doors. 

LIX 

'  Thou  art  Wisdom  —  freemen  never 
Dream  that  God  will  damn  forever 
All  who  think  those  things  untrue 
Of  which  priests  make  such  ado. 

LI 

•  Asses,  swine,  have  litter  spread, 
And  with  fitting  food  are  fed  ; 
All  things  have  a  home  but  one  — 
Thou,  0  Englishman,  hast  none  ! 

LX 

*  Thon  art  Peace  —  never  by  thee 
Would  blood  and  treasure  wasted  be, 
As  tyrants  wasted  them,  when  all 
Leagued  to  quench  thy  flame  in  Gaul. 

LII 

LXI 

*This  is  Slavery;  savage  men, 
Or  wild  beasts  within  a  den. 
Would  endure  not  as  ye  do  — 
But  such  ills  they  never  knew. 

'  What  if  English  toil  and  blood 
Was  poured  forth,  even  as  a  flood  ? 
It  availed,  0  Liberty  ! 
To  dim,  but  not  extinguish  thee. 

LIII 

LXII 

'What  art   thou,   Freedom?      Oh,  could 

slaves 
Answer  from  their  living  graves 
This  demand,  tyrants  would  flee 
Like  a  dream's  dim  imagery. 

*  Thou  art  Love  —  the  rich  have  Llssed 
Thy  feet,  and,  like  him  following  Christ, 
Give  their  substance  to  the  free 
And  through  the  rough  wot-ld  follow  thee; 

LXIII 

LIV 

*  Thon  art  not,  as  injpostors  say, 
A  shadow  soon  to  pass  away 
A  superstition  and  a  name 
Echoing  from  the  cave  of  Fame. 

'  Or  turn  their  wealth  to  arms,  and  ma^e 

War  for  thy  beloved  sake 

On  wealth   and   war  and    fraud,   whence 

they 
Drew  the  power  which  is  their  prey. 

LV 

LXIV 

*  For  the  laborer  thou  art  bread 
And  a  comely  table  spread. 
From  his  daily  labor  come 
In  a  neat  and  happy  home. 

'  Science,  Poetry  and  Thought 
Are  thy  lamps;  they  make  the  lot 
Of  the  dwellers  in  a  cot 
Such  they  curse  their  maker  not. 

THE  MASK  OF  ANARCHY 


257 


LXV 


*  Spirit,  Patience,  Gentleness, 

All  that  can  adorn  and  bless. 

Art  thou  —  let  deeds,  not  words,  express 

Thine  exceeding  loveliness. 


LXVI 


'  Let  a  great  Assembly  be 

Of  the  fearless  and  the  free 

On  some  spot  of  English  ground, 

Where  the  plains  stretch  wide  around. 

LXVII 

*  Let  the  blue  sky  overhead. 
The  green  earth  on  which  ye  tread, 
All  that  must  eternal  be, 
Witness  the  solemnity. 

LXVIII 

'  From  the  corners  uttermost 
Of  the  bounds  of  English  coast; 
From  every  hut,  village  and  town. 
Where  those,  who  live  and  suffer,  moan 
For  others'  misery  or  their  own; 

LXIX 
'  From  the  workhouse  and  the  prison, 
Where  pale  as  corpses  newly  risen, 
Women,  children,  young  and  old, 
Groan  for  pain,  and  weep  for  cold; 


'  From  the  haunts  of  daily  life. 
Where  is  waged  the  daily  strife 
With  common  wants  and  common  cares. 
Which  sows  the  human  heart  with  tares; 


'  Lastly,  from  the  palaces 
Where  the  murmur  of  distress 
Echoes,  like  the  distant  sound 
Of  a  wind  alive,  around 

Lxxn 
'  Those  prison-halls  of  wealth  and  fashion, 
Where  some  few  feel  such  compassion 
For  those  wlio  groan,  and  toil,  and  wail, 
As  must  make  their  brethren  pale;  — 


*  Ye  who  suffer  woes  untold, 
Or  to  feel  or  to  behold 
Your  lost  country  bought  and  sold 
With  a  price  of  blood  and  gold: 


LXXIV 


'  Let  a  vast  assembly  be, 

And  with  great  solemnity 

Declare  with  measured  words  that  ye 

Are,  as  God  has  made  ye,  free  ! 


LXXV 


•  Be  your  strong  and  simple  words 
Keen  to  wound  as  sharpened  swords; 
And  wide  as  targes  let  them  be. 
With  their  shade  to  cover  ye. 


'  Let  the  tyrants  pour  around 
With  a  quick  and  startling  sound. 
Like  the  loosening  of  a  sea, 
Troops  of  armed  emblazonry. 

LXXVII 

'  Let  the  charged  artillery  drive 
Till  the  dead  air  seems  alive 
With  the  clash  of  clanging  wheels 
And  the  tramp  of  horses'  heels. 


•  Let  the  fixfed  bayonet 
Gleam  with  sharp  desire  to  wet 
Its  bright  point  in  English  blood, 
Lookingr  keen  as  one  for  food. 


*  Let  the  horsemen's  scimitars 
Wheel  and  flash,  like  sphereless  stars 
Thirsting  to  eclipse  their  burning 

Li  a  sea  of  death  and  mourning. 

LXXX 

*  Stand  ye  calm  and  resolute, 
Like  a  forest  close  and  mute. 

With  folded  arms,  and  looks  which  are 
Weapons  of  unvanquished  war. 

LXXXI 

*  And  let  Panic,  who  outspeeds 
The  career  of  armfed  steeds. 
Pass,  a  disregarded  shade, 
Through  your  phalanx  undismayed. 


'  Let  the  laws  of  your  own  land, 
Good  or  ill,  between  ye  stand. 
Hand  to  hand,  and  foot  to  foot, 
Arbiters  of  the  dispute:  — 


*58 


PETER  BELL  THE  THIRD 


LXXXIII 

♦  The  old  laws  of  England  —  they 
Whose  reverend  heads  with  age  are  gray, 
Children  of  a  wiser  day; 
And  whose  solemn  voice  must  be 
Thine  own  echo  —  Liberty  ! 

LXXXIV 

'  On  those  who  first  should  violate 
Such  sacred  heralds  in  their  state 
Rest  the  blood  that  must  ensue; 
And  it  will  not  rest  ou  you. 


'And  if  then  the  tyrants  dare, 
Let  them  ride  among  you  there, 
Slash,  and  stab,  and  maim,  and  hew; 
What  they  like,  that  let  them  do. 

LXXXVI 

♦  With  folded  arms  and  steady  eyes, 
And  little  fear,  and  less  surprise, 
Look  upon  them  as  they  slay, 
Till  their  rage  has  died  away. 


*  Then  they  will  return  with  shame 
To  the  place  from  which  they  came; 
And  the  blood  thus  shed  will  speak 
In  hot  blushes  on  their  cheek. 


LXXXVIII 
'  Every  woman  in  the  land 
Will  point  at  them  as  they  stand; 
They  will  hardly  dare  to  greet 
Their  acquaintance  in  the  street. 

LXXXIX 

*  And  the  bold  true  warriors, 
Wlio  have  hugged  Danger  in  wars. 
Will  turn  to  tliose  who  would  be  free, 
Ashamed  of  such  base  company. 

XC 

*  And  that  slaughter  to  the  Nation 
Shall  steam  up  like  inspiration. 
Eloquent,  oracular; 

A  volcano  heard  afar. 

XCI 

*  And  these  words  shall  then  become 
Like  oppression's  thundered  doom, 
Ringing  through  each  heart  and  braiu, 
Heard  again  —  again  —  again  I 

XCII 
'  Rise  like  lions  after  slumber 
In  unvanquishable  number  ! 
Shake  your  chains  to  earth,  like  dew 
Which  in  sleep  had  fallen  on  you  — 
Ye  are  many,  they  are  few  1 ' 


PETER   BELL   THE   THIRD 

BY  MICHING   MALLECHO,  ESQ. 

Is  it  a  party  in  a  parlor, 

Crammed  just  as  they  on  earth  were  crammed, 
Some  sipping  punch  —  some  sipping  tea  ; 
But,  as  you  by  their  faces  see, 

All  silent,  aud  all damned  1 

Peter  Bell.,  by  W.  Wordsworth. 

Ophelia. —  What  means  this,  my  lord? 

Hamlet.  —  Marry,  this  is  Miching  Mallecho;  it  means  mischief. 

SllAKBSPEARB. 


Feter  Bell  the  Third  was  sugfjested  by  some 
reviews,  in  The  Examiner,  of  Wordsworth's 
Peter  Hell  and  of  John  Hamilton  Reynolds's 
satire  on  Wordswortli  of  the  same  title.  They 
amu-sed  Shelley,  and  he  wrote  the  present  poem 
in  that  vein  of  fun  which  seldom  appeared 
in  his  verse,  though  it  was  a  characteristic 
trait  of  his  private  life.  '  I  tJiink  Peter  not 
bad  in  his  way,'  wrote  Shelley  to  Oilier.  '  but 
perhaps  no  one  will  believe  in  anything  in  the 
shape  of  a  joke  from  me.'    Shelley's  satire  ia 


meant  pleasantly  enough,  as  his  admiration  for 
Wordsworth's  poetic  powers  is  evident  in  many 
waj-a,  and  he  was  careful  to  change  the  name 
Emma  to  Betty,  having  inadvertently  used  the 
former,  — '  Emma,  I  recollect,  is  the  real  name 
of  the  sister  of  a  great  poet  who  might  he  nii-s- 
taken  for  Peter.''  Mrs.  Shelley  in  her  note 
states  the  case  frankly  and  fairly : 

'  A  ciitique  on  Wordsworth's  Peter  Bell 
reached  us  at  Leghorn,  which  amused  Shelley 
exceedingly  and  suggested  this  poem.     1  need 


PETER  BELL  THE  THIRD 


259 


scarcely  observe  that  nothings  personal  to  the 
Autlior  of  Peter  Bell  is  intended  in  this  poem. 
No  man  ever  admired  Wordsworth's  poetry 
more ;  —  he  read  it  perpetually,  and  taught 
others  to  appreciate  its  beauties.  This  poem 
is,  like  all  others  written  by  Shelley,  ideal. 
He  conceived  the  idealism  of  a  poet  —  a  man 
of  lofty  and  creative  genius  —  quitting  the 
glorious  calling  of  discovering  and  announcing 
the  beautiful  and  good,  to  support  and  proiia- 
gate  ignorant  prejudices  and  pernicious  errors ; 
imparting  to  the  unenlightened,  not  that  ardor 
for  truth  and  spirit  of  toleration  which  Shelley 
looked  on  as  the  sources  of  the  moral  improve- 
ment and  happiness  of  mankind  ;  but  false  and 
injurious  opinions,  that  evil  was  good,  and  that 
ignorance  and  force  were  the  best  allies  of 
purity  and  virtue.  His  idea  was  that  a  man 
gifted  even  as  transcendently  as  the  Author 
of  Peter  Bell,  with  the  highest  qualities  of 
genius,  must,  if  he  fostered  such  errors,  be  in- 
fected with  dulness.  This  poem  was  written, 
as  a  warning  —  not  as  a  narration  of  the  real- 
ity. He  was  unacquainted  personally  with 
Wordsworth  or  with  Coleridge  (to  whom  he 
alludes  in  the  fifth  part  of  the  poem),  and 
therefore,  I  repeat,  his  poem  is  purely  ide.al ; 
—  it  contains  something  of  criticism  on  the 
compositions  of  these  great  poets,  but  nothing 
injurious  to  the  men  themselves. 

'  No  poem  contains  more  of  Shelley's  peculiar 
views,  with  regard  to  the  errors  into  which 
many  of  the  wisest  have  fallen,  and  of  the  per- 
nicious effects  of  certain  opinions  on  society. 
Much  of  it  is  beautifully  written  —  and  though, 
like  the  burlesque  drama  of  Swellfoot,  it  must 
be  looked  on  as  a  plaything,  it  has  so  much 
merit  and  poetry  —  so  much  of  himself  in  it, 
that  it  cannot  fail  to  interest  greatly,  and  by 
right  belongs  to  the  world  for  whose  instruc- 
tion and  benefit  it  was  written.' 

Shelley's  own  account  of  the  burlesque  is 
given  in  a  letter  to  Hunt : 

'  Now,  I  only  send  you  a  very  heroic  poem, 
which  I  wish  you  to  give  to  Oilier,  and  desire 
him  to  print  and  publish  immediately,  you 
being  kind  enough  to  take  upon  yourself  the 
correction  of  the  press  —  not.  however,  with  my 
name  ;  and  you  nmst  tell  Oilier  that  the  author 
is  to  be  kept  a  secret,  and  that  I  confide  in  him 
for  this  object  as  I  would  confide  in  a  physician 
or  lawyer,  or  any  other  man  whose  professional 
situation  renders  the  betraying  of  what  is  en- 
trusted a  dishonor.  My  motive  in  this  is  solely 
not  to  prejudge  myself  in  the  present  moment, 
as  I  have  only  expended  a  few  days  in  this 
party  squib,  and,  of  course,  taken  little  pains. 
The  verses  and  language  I  have  let  come  as 
they  would,  and  I  am  about  to  publish  more 
serious  things  this  winter  ;  afterwards,  that  is 
next  year,  If  the  thing  should  be  remembered 


90  long,  I  have  no  objection  to  the  author  being 
known,  but  not  now.  I  should  like  well  enough 
that  it  should  both  go  to  press  and  be  printed 
very  quickly  ;  as  more  serious  things  are  on 
the  eve  of  engaging  both  the  public  attention 
and  mine.' 

The  poem  was  written  at  Florence,  in  the 
latter  part  of  October,  181'J,  and  sent  forward 
to  Hunt  at  once  for  publication.  It  did  not 
appear,  however,  until  twenty  years  after,  when 
it  was  included  in  Mrs.  Shelley's  second  edition 
of  the  collected  poems,  1839. 

DEDICATION 

TO  THOMAS  BBOWN,  KSQ.,  THE  Y©UNGER,  H.  F. 

Dear  Tom,  —  Allow  me  to  request  you  to 
introduce  Mr.  Peter  Bell  to  the  respectable 
family  of  the  Fudges.  Although  he  may  fall 
short  of  those  very  considerable  personages  in 
the  more  active  properties  which  characterize 
the  Rat  and  the  Apostate,  I  suspect  that  even 
you,  their  historian,  will  confess  tiiat  he  sur- 
passes them  in  the  more  peculiarly  legitimate 
qualification  of  intolerable  dulness. 

You  know  Mr.  Examiner  Hunt ;  well  —  it 
was  he  who  presented  me  to  two  of  the  Mr. 
Bells.  My  intimacy  with  the  younger  Mr. 
Bell  naturally  sprung  from  this  introduction 
to  his  brothers.  And  in  presenting  him  to  you 
I  have  the  satisfaction  of  being  able  to  assure 
you  that  he  is  considerably  the  dullest  of  the 
three. 

There  is  this  particular  advantage  in  an  ac- 
quaintance with  any  one  of  the  Peter  Bells 
that,  if  you  know  one  Peter  Bell,  you  know 
three  Peter  Bells  ;  they  are  not  one,  but  three  ; 
not  three,  but  one.  An  awful  my.stery,  which, 
after  having  caused  torrents  of  blood  and  hav- 
ing been  hymned  by  groans  enough  to  deafen 
the  music  of  the  spheres,  is  at  length  illustrated 
to  the  satisfaction  of  all  parties  in  the  theo- 
logical world  by  the  nature  of  Mr.  Peter  Bell. 

Peter  is  a  polyhedric  Peter,  or  a  Peter  with 
many  sides.  He  changes  colors  like  a  chame- 
leon and  his  coat  like  a  snake.  He  is  a  Pro- 
teus of  a  Peter.  He  was  at  first  sublime, 
pathetic,  impressive,  profound ;  then  dull ; 
then  prosy  and  dull ;  and  now  dull  —  oh,  so 
very  dull !  it  is  an  ultra-legitimate  dulness. 

You  will  perceive  that  it  is  not  necessary  to 
consider  Hell  and  the  Devil  as  supernatural 
machinery.  The  whole  scene  of  my  epic  is  in 
'  this  world  which  is  '  —  so  Peter  informed  us 
before  his  conversion  to  White  Obi  — 
Tlie  world  of  all  of  us,  and  tvhere 
We  f7id  our  happiness,  or  not  at  all. 

Let  me  observe  that  I  have  spent  six  or 
seven  days  in  composing  this  sublime  piece; 


26o 


PETER  BELL  THE  THIRD 


the  orb  of  my  moon-like  genius  has  made  the 
fourth  part  of  its  revolution  round  the  dull 
earth  which  you  inhabit,  driving  you  mad, 
while  it  has  retained  its  calmness  and  its 
splendor,  and  I  have  been  fitting  this  its  last 
phase  '  to  occupy  a  permanent  station  in  the 
literature  of  my  country.' 

Your  works,  indeed,  dear  Tom,  sell  better ; 
but  mine  are  far  superior.  The  public  is  no 
judge  ;  posterity  sets  all  to  rights. 

Allow  me  to  observe  that  so  much  has  been 
written  of  Peter  Bell  that  the  present  history 
can  be  considered  only,  like  the  Iliad,  as  a 
continuation  of  that  series  of  cyclic  poems 
which  have  already  been  candidates  for  be- 
stowing immortality  upon,  at  the  same  time 
that  they  receive  it  from,  his  character  and 
adventures.  In  this  point  of  view  I  have  vio- 
lated no  rule  of  syntax  in  begiuning  my  com- 
position with  a  conjunction ;  the  full  stop, 
which  closes  the  poem  continued  by  me,  being, 
like  the  full  stops  at  the  end  of  the  Iliad  and 
Odyssey,  a  full  stop  of  a  very  qualified  import. 

PROLOGUE 

Peter  Bells,  one,  two  and  three, 

O'er  the  wide  world  wandering  be. 

First,  the  antenatal  Peter, 

Wrapped  in  weeds  of  the  same  metre, 

The  so  long  predestined  raiment, 

Clothed  in  which  to  walk  his  way  meant 

The  second  Peter  ;  whose  ambition 

Is  to  link  the  proposition. 

As  the  mean  of  two  extremes, 

(This  was  learned  from  Aldrich's  themes), 

Shielding  from  the  guilt  of  schism 

The  orthodoxal  syllogism  ; 

The  First  Peter  —  he  who  was 

Like  the  shadow  in  the  glass 

Of  the  second,  yet  unripe, 

His  substantial  antitype. 

Then  came  Peter  Bell  the  Second, 

Who  henceforward  must  be  reckoned 

The  body  of  a  double  soul. 

And  that  portion  of  the  whole 

Without  which  the  rest  would  seem 

Ends  of  a  disjointed  dream. 

And  the  Tliird  is  he  who  has 

O'er  the  grave  been  forced  to  pass 

To  the  other  side,  which  is  — 

Go  and  try  else  —  just  like  this. 

Peter  Bell  the  First  was  Peter 

Smugger,  milder,  softer,  neater, 

Like  the  soul  before  it  is 

Born  from  that  world  into  this. 

The  next  Peter  Bell  was  he, 


Hoping  that  the  immortality  which  you  have 
given  to  the  Fudges,  you  will  receive  from 
them  ;  and  in  the  firm  expectation  that  when 
London  shall  be  an  habitation  of  bitterns,  when 
St.  Paul's  and  Westminster  Abbey  shall  stand, 
shapeless  and  nameless  ruins,  in  the  midst  of 
an  unpeopled  marsh  ;  when  the  piers  of  Water- 
loo Bridge  shall  become  the  nuclei  of  islets  of 
reeds  and  osiers,  and  cast  the  jagged  shadows 
of  their  broken  arches  on  the  solitary  stream, 
some  transatlantic  commentator  will  be  weigh- 
ing in  the  scales  of  some  new  and  now  unim- 
agined  system  of  criticism  the  respective 
merits  of  the  Bells  and  the  Fudges  and  their 
historians, 

I  remain,  dear  Tom, 

Yours  sincerely, 

December  1,  1819.      Miching  Mallecho. 

P.  S.  —  Pray  excuse  the  date  of  place ;  so 
soon  as  the  profits  of  the  publication  come  in, 
I  mean  to  hire  lodgings  in  a  more  respectable 
street. 

Predevote,  like  you  and  me. 
To  good  or  evil,  as  may  come; 
His  was  the  severer  doom,  — 
For  be  was  an  evil  Cotter, 
And  a  polygamic  Potter. 
And  the  last  is  Peter  Bell, 
Damned  since  our  first  parents  fell, 
Damned  eternally  to  Hell  — 
Surely  he  deserves  it  well  I 


PART   THE   FIRST 


DEATH 


And  Peter  Bell,  when  he  had  been 

With  fresh-imported  Hell-fire  warmed, 

Grew  serious  —  from  his  dress  and  mien 

'T  was  very  plainly  to  be  seen 
Peter  was  quite  reformed. 


His  eyea  turned    up,   bis    mouth   turned 
down; 

His  accent  caught  a  nasal  twang; 
He  oiled  his  hair;  there  might  be  heard 
The  grace  of  God  in  every  word 

Which  Peter  said  or  sang. 


But  Peter  now  grew  old,  and  had 
An  ill  no  doctor  could  unravel; 


PETER   BELL  THE   THIRD 


261 


His  torments  almost  drove  liim  mad; 
Some  said  it  was  a  fever  bad; 
Some  swore  it  was  the  gravel. 


IV 


His  holy  friends  then  came  about, 

And  with  long  preaching  and  persuasion 

Convinced  the  patient  that  without 

The  smallest  shadow  of  a  doubt 
He  was  predestined  to  danmation. 


They  said  —  '  Thy  name  is  Peter  Bell; 

Thy  skin  is  of  a  brimstone  hue; 
Alive  or  dead  —  ay,  sick  or  well — • 
The  one  God  made  to  rhyme  with  hell; 

The  other,  I  think,  rhymes  with  you.' 

VI 
Then  Peter  set  up  such  a  yell  ! 

The  nurse,  who  with  some  water  gruel 
Was  climbing  up  the  stairs,  as  well 
As  her  old  legs  could  climb  them  —  fell, 
And  broke    them    both  —  the  fall  was 
cruel. 


The  Parson  from  the  casement  leapt 

Into  the  lake  of  Windermere; 
And  many  an  eel  —  though  no  adept 
In  God's  right  reason  for  it  —  kept 
Gnawing  his  kidneys  half  a  year. 

VIII 
And  all  the  rest  rushed  through  the  door, 

And  tumbled  over  one  another. 
And  broke  their  skulls.  —  Upon  the  floor 
Meanwhile  sat  Peter  Bull,  and  swore, 

And  cursed  his  father  and  his  mother; 

IX 
And  raved  of  God,  and  sin,  and  death. 

Blaspheming  like  an  infidel; 
And  said  that  with  his  clenched  teeth 
He  'd  seize  the  earth  from  underneath 

And  drag  it  with  him  down  to  hell. 


As  he  was  speaking  came  a  spasm 

And  wrenched  his  gnashing  teeth  asun- 
der; 
Like  one  who  sees  a  strange  phantasm 
He  lay,  —  there  was  a  silent  chasm 
Betwixt  his  upper  jaw  and  under. 


XI 


And  yellow  death  lay  on  his  face; 

And  a  fixed  smile  that  was  not  human 
Told,  as  I  understand  the  case, 
That  he  was  gone  to  the  wrong  place. 

I  heard  all  this  from  the  old  woman. 


Then  there  came    down   from    Langdale 
Pike 

A  cloud,  with  lightning,  wind  and  hail; 
It  swept  over  the  mountains  like 
An  ocean,  —  and  I  heard  it  strike 

The  woods  and  crags  of  Grasmere  vale. 

XIII 
And  I  saw  the  black  storm  come 

Nearer,  minute  after  minute; 
Its  thunder  made  the  cataracts  dumb; 
With  hiss,  and  clash,  and  hollow  hum, 

It  neared  as  if  the  Devil  was  in  it. 

XIV 

The  Devil  was  in  it;  he  had  bought 
Peter  for  half-a-crown;  and  when 

The    storm     which    bore    him    vanished, 
nought 

That  in  the  house  that  storm  had  caught 
Was  ever  seen  again. 


The  gaping  neighbors  came  next  day; 

They  found  all  vanished  from  the  shore; 
The  Bible,  whence  he  used  to  pray. 
Half  scorched  under  a  hen-coop  lay; 

Smashed  glass  —  and  nothing  more  I 


PART   THE    SECOND 

THE   DEVIL 
I 

The  Devil,  I  safely  can  aver. 

Has  neither  hoof,  nor  tail,  nor  sting; 
Nor  is  he,  as  some  sages  swear, 
A  spirit,  neither  here  nor  there. 

In  nothing  —  yet  in  everything. 


He  is  —  what  we  are ;  for  sometimes 

The  Devil  is  a  gentleman ; 
At  others  a  bard  bartering  rhymes 
For  sack;  a  statesman  spinning  crimes; 

A  swindler,  living  as  he  can; 


262 


PETER   BELL  THE  THIRD 


III 


A  thief,  who  cometh  in  the  night, 

With  whole  boots  and  net  pantaloons, 
Like  some  one  whom  it  were  not  right 
To  mention,  —  or  the  luckless  wight, 
From  whom  he  steals  nine  silver  spoons. 


IV 


But  in  this  case  he  did  appear 

Like  a  slop-merchant  from  Wapping, 
And  with  smug  face  and  eye  severe 
On  every  side  did  perk  and  peer 
Till  he  saw  Peter  dead  or  napping. 


He  had  on  an  upper  Benjamin 

(For  he  was  of  the  driving  schism) 
In  the  which  he  wrapped  his  skin 
Prom  the  storm  he  travelled  in, 
For  fear  of  rheumatism. 

VI 

He  called  the  ghost  out  of  the  corse,  — 
It  was  exceedingly  like  Peter, 

Only  its  voice  was  hollow  and  hoarse; 

It  had  a  queerish  look,  of  course; 
Its  dress  too  was  a  little  neater. 


The  Devil  knew  not  his  name  and  lot; 

Peter  knew  not  that  he  was  Bell  ; 
Each  had  an  upper  stream  of  thought, 
Which  made  all  seem  as  it  was  not, 

Fitting  itself  to  all  things  well. 

VIII 

Peter  thought  he  had  parents  dear. 
Brothers,  sisters,  cousins,  cronies, 

In  the  fens  of  Lincolnshire; 

He  perhaps  had  found  them  there 
Had  he  gone  and  boldly  shown  his 

IX 
Solemn  phiz  in  his  own  villnge. 

Where  he  thouglit  oft  when  a  boy 
He'd  clonib  the  orchard  walls  to  pillage 
The  produce  of  his  neighbor's  tillage, 

With  marvellous  pride  and  joy. 


And  the  Devil  thought  he  had, 

*Mid  the  misery  and  confusion 
Of  an  unjust  war,  just  made 
A  fortune  by  the  gainful  trade 


Of  giving  soldiers  rations  bad  — 

The  world  is  full  of  strange  delusion; 


That  he  had  a  mansion  planned 

In  a  square  like  Grosvenor-square, 
That  he  was  aping  fashion,  and 
That  he  now  came  to  Westmoreland 
To  see  what  was  romantic  there. 

XII 

And  all  this,  though  quite  ideal. 

Ready  at  a  breath  to  vanish, 
Was  a  state  not  more  unreal 
Thau  the  peace  he  could  not  feel. 
Or  the  care  he  could  not  banish. 


After  a  little  conversation, 

Tlie  Devil  told  Peter,  if  he  chose. 

He  'd  bring  him  to  the  world  of  fashion 

By  giving  him  a  situation 

In  his  own  service  —  and  new  clothes. 

XIV 
And  Peter  bowed,  quite  pleased  and  proud. 

And  after  waiting  some  few  days 
For  a  new  livery  —  dirty  yellow 
Turned    up    with    black  —  the    wretched 
fellow 
Was   bowled   to    Hell    in    the    Devil's 
chaise. 


PART   THE   THIRD 


HELL 


Hell  is  a  city  much  like  London  — 

A  populous  and  a  smoky  city; 
There  are  all  sorts  of  people  undone. 
And  there  is  little  or  no  fun  done; 

Small  justice  shown,  and  still  less  pity. 


There  is  a  Castles,  and  a  Canning, 

A  Cobbett,  and  a  Castlereagh; 

All  sorts  of  caitiff  corpses  planning 

All  sorts  of  cozening  for  trepanning 

Corpses  less  corrupt  than  they. 

Ill 

There  is  a ,  who  has  lost 

His  wits,  or  sold  them,  none  knows  which; 


PETER  BELL  THE  THIRD 


263 


He  walks  about  a  double  ghost, 
Aud,  though  as  thiu  as  Fraud  almost, 
Ever  grows  more  grim  aud  rich. 


There  is  a  Chancery  Court;  a  King; 

A  manufacturing  mob;  a  set 
Of  thieves  who  by  themselves  are  sent 
Similar  thieves  to  represent; 

An  army;  and  a  public  debt. 


Which  last  is  a  scheme  of  paper  money, 

And  means  —  being  interpreted  — 
•  Bees,  keep  your  wax  —  give  us  the  honey, 
And  we  will  plant,  while  skies  are  sunny, 
Flowers,  which  in  winter  serve  instead.' 


There  is  great  talk  of  revolution  — 

And  a  great  chance  of  despotism  — 
German  soldiers  —  camps  —  confusion  — 
Tumults  —  lotteries  —  rage  —  delusion  — 
Gin  —  suicide  —  and  methodism ; 


Taxes  too,  on  wine  aud  bread, 

And  meat,  and  beer,  aud  tea,  and  cheese. 
From  which  those  patriots  pure  are  fed. 
Who  gorge  before  they  reel  to  bed. 

The  tenfold  essence  of  all  these. 

VIII 

There  are  mincing  women,  mewing 

(Like  cats,  who  amant  viisere) 
Of  their  own  virtue,  and  pursuing 
Their  gentler  sisters  to  that  ruin 

Without  which  —  what  were  chastity  ? 

IX 
Lawyers  —  judges  —  old  hobnobbers 

Are  there  —  bailiffs  —  chancellors  — 
Bishops  —  great  and  little  robbers  — 
Rhymesters  —  pamphleteers  —  stock-job- 
bers — 
Men  of  glory  in  the  wars; 


Things  whose  trade  is,  over  ladies 

To  lean,  and  flirt,  and  stare,  and  sim- 
per, 
Till  all  that  is  divine  in  woman 
Grows  cruel,  courteous,  smooth,  inhuman. 
Crucified  'twixt  a  smile  and  whimper; 


Thrusting,  toiling,  wailing,  moiling. 

Frowning,  preaching  —  such  a  riot ! 
Each  with  never-ceasing  labor, 
Wliilst  he  thinks  he  cheats  his  neighbor, 
Cheating  his  own  heart  of  quiet. 


XII 
And  all  these  meet  at  levees; 

Dinners  convivial  and  political; 
Suppers  of  epic  poets;  teas. 
Where  small  talk  dies  iu  agonies; 

Breakfasts  professional  and  critical; 

XIII 

Lunches  and  snacks  so  aldermanic 

That  one  would  furuish  forth  ten  din- 
ners. 
Where  reigns  a  Cretan-tongufed  panic, 
Lest  news  Russ,  Dutch,  or  Alemannic 
Should   make   some    losers,   and    some 
winners ; 

XIV 
At  conversazioni  —  balls  — 

Conventicles  —  and  drawing-rooms  — 
Courts  of  law  —  committees  —  calls 
Of  a  morning  —  clubs  —  book-stalls  — 

Churches  —  masquerades  —  aud  tombs, 

XV 
And  this  is  Hell  —  aud  in  tliis  smother 

Are  all  damnable  and  danuied; 
Each  one,  damning,  damns  the  other; 
They  are  damned  by  one  another, 

By  none  other  are  they  danmed. 

XVI 

'T  is  a  lie  to  say,  '  God  damns  ! ' 

Where  was  Heaven's  Attorney-General 

When  they  first  gave  out  such  flams  ? 

Let  there  be  an  end  of  shams; 

They  are  mines  of  poisonous  mineral. 

XVII 
Statesmen  damn  themselves  to  be 

Cursed;  and  lawyers  damn  their  souls 
To  the  auction  of  a  fee; 
Churchmen  damn  themselves  to  see 

God's  sweet  love  iu  burning  coals. 

XVIII 
The  rich  are  damned,  beyond  all  cure, 
To  taunt,  and  starve,  and  trample  on 


254 


PETER  BELL  THE  THIRD 


The  weak  and  wretched;  and  the  poor 
Damn  their  broken  hearts  to  endure 
Stripe  on  stripe,  with  groan  ou  groan. 

XIX 

Sometimes  the  poor  are  damned  indeed 
To  take,  not  means  for  being  blessed. 
But  Cobbett's  snuff,  »revenge;  that  weed 
From  which  the  worms  that  it  doth  feed 
Squeeze     less    than    they    before    pos- 
sessed. 

XX 

And  some  few,  like  we  know  who, 

Damned  —  but  God  alone  knows  why  — 
To  believe  their  minds  are  given 
To  make  this  ugly  Hell  a  Heaven; 
In  which  faith  they  live  and  die. 

XXI 

Thus,  as  in  a  town,  plague-stricken, 

Each  man,  be  he  sound  or  no, 
Must  indifferently  sicken ; 
As  when  day  begins  to  thicken, 

None  knows  a  pigeon  from  a  crow; 

XXII 

So  good  and  bad,  sane  and  mad. 

The  oppressor  and  the  oppressed; 
Those  who  weep  to  see  what  others 
Smile  to  inflict  ui^on  their  brothers; 
Lovers,  haters,  worst  and  best; 

xxin 

All  are  damned  —  they  breathe  an  air, 
Thick,  infected,  joy-dispelling; 

Each  pursues  what  seems  most  fair, 

Mining,   like   moles,    through    mind,  and 
there 

Scoop  palace-caverns  vast,  where  Care 
In  throned  state  is  ever  dwelling. 


PART   THE    FOURTH 

SIN 


Lo,  Peter  in  Hell's  Grosvenor-square, 

A  footman  in  the  Devil's  service  ! 
And  the  misjudging  world  would  swear 
That  every  man  in  service  there 
To  virtue  would  prefer  vice. 


But  Peter,  though  now  damned,  was  not 

What  Peter  was  before  damnation. 
Men  oftentimes  prepare  a  lot 
Which,  ere  it  finds  them,  is  not  what 
Suits  with  their  genuine  station. 


All  things  that  Peter  saw  and  felt 

Had  a  peculiar  aspect  to  him  ; 
And  when  they  came  within  the  belt 
Of  his  own  nature,  seemed  to  melt, 
Like  cloud  to  cloud,  into  him. 


And  so  the  ontward  world  uniting 
To  that  within  him,  he  became 

Considerably  uninviting 

To  those,  who  meditation  slighting. 
Were  moulded  in  a  different  frame. 


And  he  scorned  them,  and  they  scorned 
him; 

And  he  scorned  all  they  did ;  and  they 
Did  all  that  men  of  their  own  trim 
Are  wont  to  do  to  please  their  whim  — 

Drinking,  lying,  swearing,  play. 


Such  were  his  fellow-servants;  thus 
His  virtue,  like  our  own,  was  built 
Too  much  on  tliat  indignant  fuss 
Hypocrite  Pride  stirs  up  in  us 
To  bully  one  another's  guilt. 

VII 

He  had  a  mind  which  was  somehow 
At  once  circumference  and  centre 

Of  all  he  might  or  feel  or  know; 

Nothing  went  ever  out,  although 
Something  did  ever  enter. 


He  had  as  mnch  imagination 
As  a  pint-pot;  —  he  never  could 

Fancy  another  situation, 

From  which  to  dart  his  contemplation^ 
Than  that  wherein  he  stood. 

IX 
Yet  his  was  individual  mind. 

And  new-created  all  he  saw 
In  a  new  manner,  and  refined 


PETER  BELL  THE  THIRD 


265 


Those  new  creations,  and  combined 
Theiu,  by  a  naaster-spirit's  law 


Thus  —  though  unimaginative  — 
An  apprehension  clear,  intense. 
Of  his  mind's  work,  had  made  alive 
The  things  it  wrought  on;  I  believe 
Wakening  a  sort  of  thought  in  sense. 

XI 

But  from  the  first  't  was  Peter's  drift 

To  be  a  kind  of  moral  eunuch; 
He  touched  the  hem  of  Nature's  shift, 
Felt  faint  —  and  never  dared  uplift 
The  closest,  all-concealing  tunic. 

XII 

She    laughed    the    while,    with    an    arch 
smile, 

And  kissed  him  with  a  sister's  kiss. 
And  said  —  '  My  best  Diogenes, 
1  love  you  well  —  but,  if  you  please, 

Tempt  aot  again  my  deepest  bliss. 


'  'T  is  you  are  cold  —  for  I,  not  coy. 

Yield  love  for  love,  frank,   warm  and 
true ; 
And  Burns,  a  Scottish  peasant  boy  — 
His  errors  prove  it  —  knew  my  joy 
More,  learned  friend,  than  you. 


'  Bocca  bacciata  nonperde  ventura 

Anzi  rinnuova  come  fa  la  luna  :  — 
So  thought  Boccaccio,  whose  sweet  words 

might  cure  a 
Male  prude,  like  you,  from  what  you  now 
endure,  a 
Low-tide  in  soul,  like  a  stagnant  laguna.' 


Then  Peter  rubbed  his  eyes  severe, 

And   smoothed    his    spacious    forehead 
down, 
With    his    broad  palm;    'twixt  love   and 

fear. 
He  looked,  as  he  no  doubt  felt,  queer, 
And  in  his  dream  sate  down. 


Tlie  Devil  was  no  uncommon  creature; 

A  leaden-witted  thief  —  just  huddled 
Out  of  the  dross  and  scum  of  nature; 


A  toad-like  lump  of  limb  and  feature. 
With  mind,  and  heai't,  and  fancy  mud- 
dled. 


XVII 


He  was  that  heavy,  dull,  cold  thing, 
The  spirit  of  evil  well  may  be; 

A  drone  too  base  to  have  a  sting; 

Wlio  gluts,  and  grimes  his  lazy  wing, 
And  calls  lust  luxury. 


Now  he  was  quite  the  kind  of  wight 

Round  whom  collect,  at  a  fixed  era, 
Venison,  turtle,  hock,  and  claret,  — 
Good  cheer  —  and  those  who  come  to  share 
it  — 
And  best  East  Indian  madeira  I 

XIX 

It  was  his  fancy  to  invite 

Men  of  science,  wit,  and  learning, 
Who  came  to  lend  each  other  light; 
He  proudly  thought  that  his  gold's  might 

Had  set  those  spirits  burning. 


And  men  of  learning,  science,  wit, 

Considered  him  as  you  and  I 
Think  of  some  rotten  tree,  and  sit 
Lounging  and  dining  under  it, 
Exposed  to  the  wide  sky. 

XXI 

And  all  the  while,  with  loose  fat  smile, 
The  willing  wretch  sat  winking  there. 
Believing  't  was  his  power  that  made 
That  jovial  scene  —  and  that  all  paid 
Homage  to  his  unnoticed  chair; 

XXII 

Though  to  be  sure  this  place  was  Hell; 

He  was  the  Devil  —  and  all  they  — 
What  though  the  claret  circled  well, 
And  wit,  like  ocean,  rose  and  fell  ?  — 

Were  damned  eternally. 


PART   THE   FIFTH 

GRACE 


Among  the  guests  who  often  stayed 
Till  the  Devil's  petits-soupers, 


266 


PETER  BELL  THE  THIRD 


A  man  there  came,  fair  as  a  maid, 
Aud  Peter  noted  what  he  said, 

Standing  behind  his  master's  chair. 


He  was  a  mighty  poet  —  and 

A  subtle-sonled  psychologist; 
All  things  he  seemed  to  understand, 
Of  old  or  new  —  of  sea  or  land  — 

But  his  own  mind  —  which  was  a  mist. 

Ill 

This  was*  a  man  who  might  have  turned 
flell  into  Heaven  —  and  so  in  gladness 

A  Heaven  unto  himself  have  earned; 

But  he  in  shadows  undiscerned 

Trusted,  —  aud  damned  himself  to  mad- 
ness. 

IV 
He  spoke  of  poetry,  and  how 

'  Divine  it  was  —  a  light  —  a  love  — 
A  spirit  which  like  wind  doth  blow 
As  it  listetli,  to  and  fro; 

A  dew  rained  down  from  God  above; 


'  A    power  which   comes    and    goes    like 
dream. 
And  which  none  can  ever  trace  — 
Heaven's  light  on  earth  —  Truth's  brightest 

beam.' 
And  when  he  ceased  there  lay  the  gleam 
Of  those  words  upon  his  face. 


Now  Peter,  when  he  heard  snch  talk. 
Would,  heedless  of  a  broken  pate, 
Stand  like  a  man  asleep,  or  balk 
Some  wishing  guest  of  knife  or  fork. 
Or  drop  aud  break  his  master's  plate. 

VII 

At  night  he  oft  would  start  and  wake 

Like  a  lover,  and  began 
In  a  wild  measure  songs  to  make 
On  moor,  and  glen,  and  rocky  lake, 

And  on  the  heart  of  man, — 


A.nd  on  the  universal  sky. 

And  the  wide  earth's  bosom  green, 
And  the  sweet,  strange  mystery 
Of  what  beyond  these  things  may  lie, 

And  yet  remain  unseen. 


IX 
For  in  his  thought  be  visited 

The  spots  iu  which,  ere  dead  and  damned. 
He  his  wayward  life  had  led; 
Yet  knew  not  whence  the  thoughts  were 
fed. 
Which  thus  his  fancy  crammed. 


And  these  obscure  remembrances 
Stirred  such  harmony  in  Peter, 
That  whensoever  he  should  please, 
He  could  speak  of  rocks  and  trees 
In  poetic  metre. 


For  though  it  was  without  a  sense 
Of  memory,  yet  he  remembered  well 

Many  a  ditch  and  quick-set  fence; 

Of  lakes  he  had  intelligence; 

He  knew  something  of  heath  and  fell. 


He  had  also  dim  recollections 

Of  pedlers  tramping  on  their  roimds; 
Milk-pans  and  pails;  and  odd  collections 
Of  saws  and  proverbs;  and  reflections 
Old  parsons  make  in  burying-grounds. 


But  Peter's  verse  was  clear,  and  came 
Announcing  from  the  frozen  hearth 
Of  a  cold  age,  that  none  might  tame 
The  soul  of  that  diviner  flame 
It  augured  to  the  Earth; 


Like  gentle  rains,  on  the  dry  plains, 

Making  that  green  whicli  late  was  gray, 
Or  like  the  sudden  moon,  that  stains 
Some  gloomy  chamber's  window  panes 
With  a  broad  light  like  day. 

XV 

For  language  was  in  Peter's  band 

Like  clay  while  he  was  yet  a  potter; 
And  he  made  songs  for  all  the  land, 
Sweet,  both  to  feel  and  understand, 
As  pipkins  late  to  mountain  cotter. 

XVI 

And  Mr. ,  the  bookseller, 

Gave   twenty  pounds   for  some;  —  theu 
scorning 


PETER  BELL  THE  THIRD 


267 


A  footman's  yellow  coat  to  wear, 
Peter,  too  proud  of  heart,  I  fear. 
Instantly  gave  the  Devil  warning. 

XVII 

Whereat  the  Devil  took  offence, 
And    swore    in  his  soul   a  great    oath 
then, 
'  That  for  his  damned  impertinence, 
He  'd  hring  him  to  a  proper  sense 
Of  what  was  dae  to  gentlemen  !  * 


PART   THE   SIXTH 

DAMNATION 


*  O  THAT  mine  enemy  had  written 

A  book  ! '  —  cried  Job;  a  fearful  curse, 
If  to  the  Arab,  as  the  Briton, 
'T  was  galling  to  be  critic-bitten; 

The  Devil  to  Peter  wished  no  worse. 


When  Peter's  next  new  book  found  vent, 
The  Devil  to  all  the  first  Reviews 

A  copy  of  it  slyly  sent. 

With  five-pound  note  as  compliment. 
And  this  short  notice  — '  Pray  abuse.' 


Then  seriatim,  month  and  quarter. 

Appeared  such  mad  tirades.    One  said,  — 
*  Peter  seduced  Mrs.  Foy's  daughter, 
Then  drowned  the  mother  in  UUswater 
The  last  thing  as  he  went  to  bed.' 

IV 

Another  —  '  Let  him  shave  his  head  ! 

Where  's   Dr.   W^illis  ?  —  Or  is  he  jok- 
ing? 
What  does  the  rascal  mean  or  hope. 
No  longer  imitating  Pope, 

In  that  barbarian  Shakespeare  poking  ? ' 


One  more,  '  Is  incest  not  enough. 
And  must  there  be  adultery  too  ? 

Grace  after  meat  ?     Miscreant  and  Liar  ! 

Thief  !     Blackguard  !     Scoundrel !    Fool ! 
Hell-fire 
la  twenty  times  too  good  for  you. 


*  By  that  last  book  of  yours  we  think 

You  've     double     damned    yourself    to 
scorn; 
We  warned  you  whilst  yet  on  the  brink 
You   stood.     From  your  black  name  will 
shrink 
The  babe  that  is  unborn.' 

VII 
All  these  Reviews  the  Devil  made 

Up  in  a  parcel,  which  he  had 
Safely  to  Peter's  house  conveyed. 
For  carriage,  tenpenee  Peter  paid  — 
Untied  them  —  read  them  —  went  half- 
mad. 

VIII 
'  What  ! '  cried  he,  '  this  is  my  reward 
For   nights   of    thought,    and    days    of 
toil  ? 
Do  poets,  but  to  be  abhorred 
By  men  of  whom  they  never  heard, 
Consume  their  spirits'  oil  ? 


'  What    have    I    done    to    them  ?  —  and 
who 

Is  Mrs.  Foy  ?     'T  is  very  cruel 
To  speak  of  me  and  Betty  so  ! 
Adultery  !  God  defend  me  !     Oh  ! 

I  've  half  a  mind  to  fight  a  duel. 


'  Or,'  cried  he,  a  grave  look  collecting, 

'  Is  it  my  genius,  like  the  moon, 
Sets  those  wlio  stand  her  face  inspecting, 
That  face  within  their  brain  reflecting, 
Like  a  crazed  bell-chime,  out  of  tune  ?' 


For  Peter  did  not  know  the  town. 

But  thought,  as  country  readers  do, 
For  half  a  guinea  or  a  crown 
He  bought  oblivion  or  renown 

From  God's  own  voice  in  a  Review. 

XII 

All  Peter  did  on  this  occasion 

Was  writing  some  sad  stuff  in  prose. 
It  is  a  dangerous  invasion 
When  poets  criticise ;  their  station 
Is  to  delight,  not  pose. 


268 


PETER   BELL  THE  THIRD 


XIII 
The  Devil  then  sent  to  Leipsic  fair, 

For  Bom's  translation  of  Kant's  book; 
A  world  of  words,  tail  foremost,  where 
Kight,   wrong,  false,   true,  and  foul,  and 
fair 
As  in  a  lottery-wheel  are  shook; 

XIV 

Five  thousand  crammed  octavo  pages 

Of  German  psychologies,  —  he 
Who  his/uror  verborum  assuages 
Thereon  deserves  just  seven  mouths'  wages 
More  than  will  e'er  be  due  to  me. 


I  looked  on  them  nine  several  days. 

And  then  I  saw  that  they  were  bad; 
A  friend,  too,  spoke  in  their  dispraise,  — 
He  never  read  them ;  with  amaze 
I  found  Sir  William  Drummoud  had. 

XVI 

When  the  book  came,  the  Devil  sent 

It  to  P.  Verbovale,  Esquire, 
With  a  brief  note  of  compliment, 
By  that  night's  Carlisle  mail.     It  went. 
And  set  his  soul  on  fire  — 


Fire,  which  ex  luce  prcebens  fumum, 
Made  him  beyond  the  bottom  see 

Of  truth's  clear  well  —  when  I  and  you. 
Ma'am, 

Go,  as  we  shall  do,  subter  kumum, 
We  may  know  more  than  he. 

XVIII 

Now  Peter  ran  to  seed  in  soul 

Into  a  walking  paradox; 
For  he  was  neither  part  nor  whole. 
Nor  good,  nor  bad,  nor  knave  nor  fool,  — 

Among  the  woods  and  rocks. 


Furious  he  rode,  where  late  he  ran, 

Lashin<5  and  spurring  his  tame  hobby; 
Turned  to  a  foriiial  puritan, 
A  solemn  and  unsexiial  man, — 
He  half  believed  White  Obi. 

XX 

This  steed  in  vision  he  would  ride. 
High  trotting  over  nine-inch  bridges, 


With  Flibbertigibbet,  imp  of  pride. 
Mocking  and  mowing  by  his  side  — 
A  mad-brained  goblin  for  a  guide  — 
Over  cornfields,  gates  and  hedges. 


After  these  ghastly  rides,  he  came 

Home   to  his   heart,  and    found    from 
thence 

Much  stolen  of  its  accustomed  flame; 

His  thoughts  grew  weak,  drowsy,  and  lame 
Of  their  intelligence. 

XXII 

To  Peter's  view,  all  seemed  one  hue; 

He  was  no  whig,  he  was  no  toryj 
No  Deist  and  no  Cliristiau  he; 
He  got  so  subtle  that  to  be 

Nothing  was  all  his  glory. 

XXIII 

One  single  point  in  his  belief 

From  his  organization  sprung. 
The  heart-enrooted  faith,  the  chief 
Ear  in  his  doctrines'  blighted  sheaf, 
That  *  happiness  is  wrong.' 

XXIV 
So  thought  Calvin  and  Dominic; 

So  think  their  fierce  successors,  who 
Even  now  would  neither  stint  nor  stick 
Our  flesh  from  off  our  bones  to  pick, 

If  they  might  '  do  their  do.' 

XXV 

His  morals  thus  were  undermined ; 

The  old  Peter  —  the  hard,  old  Potter 
Was  born  anew  within  his  mind ; 
He  grew  dull,  harsh,  sly,  unrefined. 

As  when  he  tramped  beside  the  Otter. 


In  the  death  hues  of  agony 

Lambently  flashing  from  a  fish. 
Now  Peter  felt  amused  to  see 
Shades  like  a  rainbow's  rise  and  flee, 
Mixed  with  a  certain  hungry  wish. 

XXVII 

So  in  his  Country's  dying  face 

He  looked  —  and  lovely  as  she  lay, 
Seeking  in  vain  his  last  embrace. 
Wailing  her  own  abandoned  case, 

With  hardened  sheer  he  turned  away; 


PETER  BELL  THE  THIRD 


269 


XXVIII 
And  coolly  to  his  own  soul  said,  — 

'  Do  you  not  tiiiuk  that  we  might  make 
A  poem  on  her  when  she  's  dead; 
Or,  no  —  a  thought  is  in  my  head  — 

Her  shroud  for  a  new  sheet  I  '11  take; 

XXIX 

*  My  wife  wants  one.     Let  who  will  bury 
This  mangled  corpse  !     And  I  and  you, 
My  dearest  Soul,  will  then  make  merry, 
As  the  Prince  Regent  did  with  Sherry,  — 
Ay  —  and  at  last  desert  me  too.' 

XXX 

And  so  his  soul  would  not  be  gay, 

But  moaned  within  him;  like  a  fawn 
Moaning  within  a  cave,  it  lay 
Wounded  and  wasting,  day  by  day, 
Till  all  its  life  of  life  was  gone. 


As  troubled  skies  stain  waters  clear, 
The  storm  in  Peter's  heart  and  mind 

Now  made  his  verses  dark  and  queer; 

They  were  the  ghosts  of  what  they  were. 
Shaking  dim  grave  clothes  in  the  wind. 

XXXII 
For  he  now  raved  enormous  folly, 

Of      Baptisms,      Sunday-schools,      and 
Graves; 
'T  would  make  George  Colman  melancholy 
To  have  heard  him,  like  a  male  Molly, 
Chanting  those  stupid  staves. 


Yet  the  Reviews,  who  heaped  abuse 

On  Peter  while  he  wrote  for  freedom, 
So  soon  as  in  his  song  they  spy 
The  folly  which  soothes  tyranny. 
Praise  him,  for  those  who  feed  'em. 

XXXIV 
•  He  was  a  man,  too  great  to  scan; 

A  planet  lost  in  truth's  keen  rays; 
His  virtue,  awful  and  prodigious; 
He  was  the  most  sublime,  religious, 

Pure-minded  Poet  of  these  days.' 

XXXV 

As  soon  as  he  read  that,  cried  Peter, 

'  Eureka  !  I  have  found  the  way 
Tc  make  a  better  thing  of  metre 


Than  e'er  was  made  by  living  creature 
Up  to  this  blessed  day.' 


Then  Peter  wrote  odes  to  the  Devil, 
In  one  of  which  he  meekly  said: 

'  May  Carnage  and  Slaughter, 

Thy  niece  and  thy  daughter, 

May  Rapine  and  Famine, 

Thy  gorge  ever  cramming. 

Glut  thee  with  living  and  dead  I 


*  May  death  and  damnation, 

And  consternation, 
Flit  up  from  hell  with  pure  intent ! 

Slash  them  at  Manchester, 

Glasgow,  Leeds  and  Chester; 
Drench  all  with  blood  from  Avon  to  Trent 


*  Let  thy  body-guard  yeomen 

Hew  down  babes  and  women 
And  laugh  with  bold  triumph  till  Heaven 
be  rent  ! 
When  Moloch  in  Jewry 
Munched  children  witli  fury. 
It  was  thou,  Devil,  dining  with  pure  in- 
tent.' 


PART   THE    SEVENTH 


DOUBLE   DAMNATION 


The  Devil  now  knew  his  proper  cue. 

Soon  as  he  read  the  ode,  he  drove 
To  his  friend  Lord  MacMurderchouse's, 
A  man  of  interest  in  both  houses. 

And  said:  —  '  For  money  or  for  love, 


'  Pray  find  some  cure  or  sinecure; 

To  feed  from  the  superfluous  taxes, 
A  friend  of  ours  —  a  poet;  fewer 
Have  fluttered  tamer  to  the  lure 

Than  he.'  His  lordship  stands  and  racks 
his 

III 
Stupid  brains,  while  one  might  count 
As  many  beads  as  he  had  boroughs,  — 


27© 


PETER  BELL  THE  THIRD 


At  length  replies,  from  his  mean  front, 
Like  one  who  rubs  out  an  account, 

Smoothing   away    the    uumeauing    fur- 
rows : 

IV 

*  It  happens  fortunately,  dear  Sir, 

I  can.     I  hope  I  need  require 
No  pledge  from  you  that  he  will  stir 
In  our  affairs; —  like  Oliver, 

That  he  '11  be  worthy  of  his  hire.* 


These  words  exchanged,  the  news  sent  off 

To  Peter,  home  the  Devil  hied,  — 
Took  to  his  bed;  he  had  no  cough, 
No  doctor,  —  meat  and  drink  enough,  — 
Yet  that  same  night  he  died. 

VI 

The  Devil's  corpse  was  leaded  down; 

His  decent  heirs  enjoyed  his  pelf ; 
Mourning-coaches,  many  a  one. 
Followed  his  hearse  along  the  town;  — 

Where  was  the  Devil  himself  ? 


When  Peter  heard  of  his  promotion, 

His  eyes  grew  like  two  stars  for  bliss; 
There  was  a  bow  of  sleek  devotion. 
Engendering  in  his  back;  each  motion 
Seemed  a  Lord's  shoe  to  kiss. 


He    hired    a    house,    bought    plate,    and 
made 

A  genteel  drive  up  to  his  door. 
With  sifted  gravel  neatly  laid, 
As  if  defying  all  who  said, 

Peter  was  ever  poor. 

IX 

But  a  disease  soon  stnick  into 

The  very  life  and  soul  of  Peter; 
He  walked  about  —  slept  —  had  the  hue 
Of  healtlj  upon  his  cheeks  —  and  few 
Dug  better  —  none  a  heartier  eater. 


And  yet  a  strange  and  horrid  curse 
Clung  upon  Peter,  night  and  day; 
Month  after  month  the  thing  grew  worse. 
And  deadlier  than  in  this  my  verse 
I  can  find  strength  to  say. 


Peter  was  dull  —  he  was  at  first 

Dull  —  oh,  so  dull  —  so  very  dull  ! 
Whether  he  talked,  wrote,  or  rehearsed  — 
Still  with  this  dulness  was  he  cursed  — 
Dull  —  beyond  all  conception  —  dull. 

XII 
No  one  could  read  his  books  —  no  mortal. 
But  a  few  natural  friends,  would  bear 
him; 
The  parson  came  not  near  his  portal; 
His  state  was  like  that  of  the  immortal 
Described  by  Swift  —  no  man  could  bear 
him. 


His  sister,  wife,  and  children  yawned. 
With  a  long,  slow,  and  drear  ennui. 

All  human  patience  far  beyond; 

Their  hopes  of  Heaven  each  would  have 
pawned 
Anywhere  else  to  be. 


But  in  his  verse,  and  in  his  prose, 
The  essence  of  his  dulness  was 
Concentred  and  compressed  so  close, 
'T  would  have  made  Guatimozin  doze 
On  his  red  gridiron  of  brass. 


A  printer's  boy,  folding  those  pages, 
Fell  slumbrously  upon  one  side, 

Like  those  famed  seven  who  slept  three 
ages; 

To  wakeful  frenzy's  vigil  rages. 
As  opiates,  were  the  same  applied. 

XVI 

Even  the  Reviewers  who  were  hired 
To  do  the  work  of  his  reviewing, 

With  adamantine  nerves,  grew  tired; 

Gaping  and  torpid  they  retired 

To   dream   of  what   they  should  be  do- 


XVII 

And  worse  and  worse  the  drowsy  curse 
Yawned  in  him,  till  it  grew  a  pest  — 

A  wide  contagious  atmosphere 

Creeping    like    cold     through    all    things, 
near, 
A  power  to  infect  and  to  infest 


THE  WITCH  OF  ATLAS 


271 


flis  servant-maids  and  dogs  grew  dull; 

His  kitten,  late  a  sportive  elf ; 
The  woods  and  lakes,  so  beautiful, 
Of  dim  stupidity  were  full; 

All  grew  dull  as  Peter's  self. 


The  earth  under  his  feet  —  the  springs 

Which  lived  within  it  a  quick  life, 
The  air,  the  winds  of  many  wings 
That  fan  it  with  new  murmurings, 

Were  dead  to  their  harmonious  strife. 

XX 

The  birds  and  beasts  within  the  wood, 
The  insects,  and  each  creeping  thing, 

Were  now  a  silent  multitude; 

Love's    work     was    left    unwrought  —  no 
brood 
Near  Peter's  house  took  wing. 


And  every  neighboring  cottager 
Stupidly  yawned  upon  the  other; 


No  jackass  brayed;  no  little  cur 
Cocked  up  his  ears;  no  man  would  stir 
To  save  a  dying  mother. 

XXII 

Yet  all  from  that  charmed  district  went 

But  some  half-idiot  and  half-kuave, 
Who  rather  than  pay  any  rent 
Would  live  with  marvellous  content 
Over  his  father's  grave. 

XXIII 
No  bailiff  dared  within  that  space, 

For  fear  of  the  dull  charm,  to  enter; 
A  man  would  bear  upon  his  face, 
For  fifteen  months  in  any  case, 

The  yawn  of  such  a  venture. 


Seven  miles  above  —  below  —  around  ■ 
This  pest  of  dulness  holds  its  sway; 

A  gliastly  life  without  a  sound ; 

To  Peter's  soul  the  spell  is  bound  — 
How  should  it  ever  pass  away  ? 


THE   WITCH    OF   ATLAS 


The  Witch  of  Atlas  was  conceived  during'  a 
solitary  w^lk  from  the  Baths  of  San  Giuliano, 
near  Pisa,  to  the  top  of  Monte  San  Pellegrino, 
Augnst  12,  1820,  and  was  written  August  14, 
15,  and  16.  It  was  sent  to  Oilier  to  be  pub- 
lished with  Shelley's  name,  but  was  first  issued 
in  Mrs.  Shelley's  edition  of  the  Posthumous 
Poems,  1824.  Her  own  note  gives  all  our  in- 
formation concerning  it,  except  Shellev's  char- 
acteristic sigh  '  if  its  merit  be  measured  by  the 
labor  which  it  cost,  [it]  is  worth  nothing.' 
Mrs.  Shelley  writes  : 

'  We  spent  the  summer  at  the  Baths  of  San 
Giuliano,  four  miles  from  Pisa.  These  baths 
were  of  great  use  to  Shelley  in  soothing  his 
nervous  irritability.  We  made  several  excur- 
sions in  the  neighborhood.  The  country  around 
is  fertile,  and  diversified  and  rendered  pictur- 
esque by  ranges  of  near  hills  and  more  distant 
mountains.  The  peasantry  are  a  handsome, 
intelligent  race,  and  there  was  a  gladsome 
sunny  heaven  spread  over  us,  that  rendered 
home  and  every  scene  we  visited  cheerful  and 
bright.  During  some  of  the  hottest  days  of 
August,  Shelley  made  a  solitary  journey  on 
foot  to  the  summit  of  Monte  San  Pelegrino  — 
a  mountain  of  some  height,  on  the  top  of  which 


there  is  a  chapel,  the  object,  during  certain 
days  in  the  year,  of  many  pilgrimages.  The 
excursion  delighted  him  while  it  lasted,  though 
he  exerted  himself  too  much,  and  the  effect  was 
considerable  lassitude  and  weakness  on  his  re- 
turn. During  the  expedition  he  conceived  the 
idea  and  wrote,  in  the  three  days  immediately 
succeeding  to  his  return.  The  Witch  of  Atlas. 
This  poem  is  peculiarly  characteristic  of  his 
tastes  —  wildly  fanciful,  full  of  brilliant  ima- 
gery, and  discarding  human  interest  and  pas- 
sion, to  revel  in  the  fantastic  ideas  that  his 
imapfination  suggested. 

'  The  surpassing  excellence  of  TTie  Cenci  had 
made  rae  greatly  desire  that  Shelley  should  in- 
crease his  popularity,  by  adopting  subjects  that 
would  more  suit  the  popular  taste  than  a  poem 
conceived  in  the  abstract  and  dreamy  spirit  of 
The  Witch  of  Atlas.  It  was  not  only  that  I 
wished  him  to  acquire  popularity  as  redound- 
ing to  his  fame  ;  but  I  believed  that  he  would 
obtain  a  greater  mastery  over  his  own  powers, 
and  greater  happiness  in  his  mind,  if  public 
applause  crowned  his  endeavors.  The  few 
stanzas  that  precede  the  poem  were  addressed 
to  me  on  my  representing  these  ideas  to  him. 
Even  now  I  believe  that  I  was  in  the  right 


272 


THE  WITCH   OF  ATLAS 


Shelley  did  not  expect  sympathy  and  approba- 
tion from  the  public ;  but  the  want  of  it  took 
away  a  portion  of  the  ardor  that  ought  to  have 
sustained  him  while  writing.  He  was  thrown  on 
his  own  resources  and  on  the  inspiration  of  his 
own  soul,  and  wrote  because  his  mind  over- 
flowed, without  the  hojje  of  being  appreciated. 
I  had  not  the  most  distant  wish  that  he  should 
truckle  in  opinion,  or  submit  his  lofty  aspira- 
tions for  the  human  race  to  the  low  ambition 
and  pride  of  the  many,  but  I  felt  sure  that  if  his 
poems  were  more  addressed  to  the  common 
feelings  of  men,  his  proper  rank  among  the 
writers  of  the  day  would  be  acknowledged  ; 
and  that  popularity  as  a  poet  would  enable 
his  countrymen  to  do  justice  to  his  character 
and  virtues  ;  which,  in  those  days,  it  was  the 
mode  to  attack  with  the  most  flagitious  calum- 
nies and  insulting  abuse.  That  he  felt  these 
things  deeply  cannot  be  doubted,  though  he 
armed  himself  with  the  consciousness  of  acting 
from  a  lofty  and  heroic  sense  of  right.  The 
truth  burst  from  his  heart  sometimes  in  solitude, 
and  he  would  write  a  few  unfinished  verses 
that  showed  that  he  felt  the  sting.  .  .  . 

TO    MARY 

ON  HER  OBJECTING  TO  THE  FOLLOWING 
POEM  UPON  THE  SCORE  OF  ITS  CON- 
TAINING NO  HUMAN  INTEREST 


How,  my  dear  Mary,  are  yon  critic-bitten 
(For  vipers  kill,  though  dead)  by  some 
review, 
That  you   condemn  these   verses   I  have 
written, 
Because    they    tell    no    story,  false   or 
true  ! 
What,  though  no  mice   are  caught  by  a 
young  kitten. 
May  it  not  leap  and  play  as  grown  cats 
do. 
Till  its  claws  come  ?     Prithee,  for  this  one 

time. 
Content  thee  with  a  visionary  rhyme. 


What  hand  would  crush  the  silken-wingfed 

fly' 

The  youngest  of  inconstant  April's  min- 
ions. 
Because  it  cannot  climb  the  purest  sky, 
Where  the  swan  sings,  amid  the  sun's 
dominions  ? 
Not  thine.    Thou  knowest  't  is  its  doom  to 
die, 


'  I  believed  that  all  this  morbid  feeling 
would  vanish,  if  the  chord  of  sympathy  be- 
tween him  and  his  countrymen  were  touched. 
But  my  persuasions  were  vain ;  the  mind  could 
not  be  bent  from  its  natural  inclination. 
Shelley  shrunk  instinetivelj'  from  portraying 
human  passion,  with  its  mixture  of  good  and 
evil,  of  disappointment  and  disquiet.  Such 
opened  again  the  wounds  of  his  own  heart,  and 
he  loved  to  shelter  himself  rather  in  the  airiest 
flights  of  fancy,  forgetting  love  and  hate  and 
regret  and  lost  hope,  in  such  imaginations  as 
borrowed  their  hues  from  sunrise  or  sunset, 
from  the  yellow  moonshine  or  paly  twilight, 
from  the  aspect  of  the  far  ocean  or  the  shadows 
of  the  woods ;  which  celebrated  the  singing  of 
the  winds  among  the  pines,  the  flow  of  a  mur- 
muring stream,  and  the  thousand  harmonious 
sounds  which  nature  creates  in  her  solitudes. 
These  are  the  materials  which  form  The  Witch 
of  Atlas;  it  is  a  brilliant  congregation  of 
ideas,  such  as  his  senses  gathered,  and  his 
fancy  colored,  during  his  rambles  in  the  sunny 
land  he  so  much  loved.' 


When  day  shall  hide  within  her  twilight 
pinions 
The  lucent  eyes,  and  the  eternal  smile. 
Serene  as  thine,  which  lent  it  life  awhile. 

Ill 
To  thy  fair  feet  a  winged  Vision  came, 
Whose   date   should  have   been  longer 
than  a  day. 
And  o'er  thy  head  did  beat  its  wings  for 
fame. 
And  in  thy  sight  its  fading  plumes  dis- 
play; 
The   watery   bow  burned  in  the  evening 
flame, 
But  the  shower  fell,  the  swift  sun  went 
his  way  — 
And  that  is  dead.     Oh,  let  me  not  believe 
That  anything  of  mine  is  fit  to  live  I 

IV 

Wordsworth   informs  us  he  was  nineteen 
years 
Considering  and  retouching  Peter  Bell; 
Watering     his    laurels    with    the    killing 
tears 
Of  slow,  dull  care,  so  that  their  roots  to 
hell 
Might  pierce,  and  their  wide  branches  blot 
the  spheres 
Of  heaven,  with  dewy  leaves  and  flowers; 
this  well 


THE  WITCH  OF  ATLAS 


273 


May  be,  for  Heaven  and  Earth  conspire  to 

foil 
The  over-busy  gardener's  blundering  toil. 


My  Witch  indeed  is  not  so  sweet  a  creature 
As   Ruth   or  Lucy,  whom  his  graceful 
praise 
Clothes     for     our     grandsons  —  but     she 
matches  Peter, 
Though  he  took  nineteen  years,  and  she 
three  days, 
lu   dressing.     Light   the    vest   of   flowing 
metre 
She  wears;  he,  proud  as  dandy  with  his 
stays. 
Has  bung  upon  his  wiry  limbs  a  dress 
Like  King  Lear's  '  looped  and  windowed 
raggedness.' 

VI 
If  you  strip  Peter,  you  will  see  a  fellow 
Scorched  by  Hell's  hyperequatorial  cli- 
mate 
Into  a  kind  of  a  sulphureous  yellow: 

A  lean  mark,  hardly  fit  to  fling  a  rhyme 
at; 
In  shape  a  Scaramouch,  in  hue  Othello. 
If  you  unveil  my  Witch,  no  priest  nor 
primate 
Can  shrive  you  of  that  sin,  —  if  sin  there  be 
In  love,  when  it  becomes  idolatry. 


Before  those  cruel  Twins,  whom  at  one 
birth 
Incestuous   Change   bore  to   her  father 
Time, 
Error   and   Truth,   had   hunted   from  the 
earth 
All  those  bright  natures  which  adorned 
its  prime. 
And  left  us  nothing  to  believe  in,  worth 

The  pains  of  putting  into  leaniM  rhyme, 
A  Lady-Witch  there  lived  on  Atlas'  moun- 
tain 
Within  a  cavern  by  a  secret  fountain. 


Her  mother  was  one  of  the  Atlantides; 

The  all-beholding  Sun  had  ne'er  beholden 
In  his  wide  voyage  o'er  continents  and  seas 

So  fair  a  creature,  as  she  lay  enfolden 
In  the  warm  shadow  of  her  loveliness; 


He  kissed  her  with  his  beams,  and  made 
all  golden 
The  chamber  of  gray  rock  in  which  she  lay; 
She,  in  that  dream  of  joy,  dissolved  away. 

Ill 

'T  is  said,  she  first  was  changed  into  a  va- 
por. 
And  then  into  a  cloud,  such  clouds  as  flit, 
Like  splendor-winged  moths  about  a  taper. 
Round  the  red  west  wheu  the  sun  dies 
in  it; 
And  then  into  a  meteor,  Bueh  as  caper 

On  hill-tops  when  the  moon  is  in  a  fit; 
Then,  into  one  of  those  mysterious  stars 
Which  hide  themselves  between  the  Earth 
and  Mars. 


Ten  times  the  Mother  of  the  Months  had 
bent 
Her  bow  beside   the   folding-star,   and 
bidden 

With  that  bright  sign  the  bUlows  to  in- 
dent 
The   sea-deserted   sand  —  like   children 
chidden. 

At  her  command  theyever  came  and  went — 
Since  in  that  cave  a  dewy  splendor  hid- 
den 

Took  shape   and  motion;  with  the  living 
form 

Of  this  embodied  Power  the   cave  grew 
warm. 


A  lovely  lady  garmented  in  light 

From  her  own  beauty;  deep  her  eyes  as 
are 
Two  openings  of  unfathomable  night 

Seen  through  a  temple's  cloven  roof;  her 
hair 
Dark;  the  dim  brain  whirls  dizzy  with  de- 
light. 
Picturing  her  form;  her  soft  smiles  shone 
afar, 
And  her  low  voice  was  heard  like  love,  and 

drew 
All  living  things  towards  this  wonder  now. 


And  first  the  spotted  camelopard  came. 

And  then  the  wise  and  fearless  elephant; 
Then  the  sly  serpent,  in  the  golden  flame 


274 


THE  WITCH  OF  ATLAS 


Of  his   own   volumes   iutervolved.     All 
gauut 
And  saiiguiiie  beasts  her  gentle  looks  made 
tame ; 
They   drank  "before   her  at  her  sacred 
fount; 
And  every  beast  of  beating  heart  grew  bold, 
Such  gentleness  and  power  even  to  behold. 


The  briuded  lioness  led  forth  her  young, 
That   she  might  teach  them  how  they 
should  forego 
Their  inborn  thirst  of  death;  the  pard  un- 
strung 
His   sinews  at  her  feet,  and  sought  to 
know, 
With  looks  whose  motions  spoke  without  a 
tongue, 
How  he  might  be  as  gentle  as  the  doe. 
The  magic  circle  of  her  voice  and  eyes 
All  savage  natures  did  imparadise. 


And  old  Silenus,  shaking  a  green  stick 
Of  lilies,  and  the  wood-gods  in  a  crew 

Came,  blithe,  as  in  the  olive  copses  thick 
Cicadse  are,  drunk  with  the  noonday  dew; 

And  Dryope  and  Faunus  followed  quick, 
Teasing  the  god  to  sing  them  something 
new; 

Till  in  this  cave  they  found  the  Lady  lone, 

Sitting  upon  a  seat  of  emerald  stone. 

IX 
And  universal  Pan,  'tis  said,  was  there; 
And  —  tliough  none  saw  liim  —  through 
the  adamant 
Of  the  deep  mountains,  through  the  track- 
less air 
And  through  those  living  spirits,  like  a 
want, 
He  passed  out  of  his  everlasting  lair 

Where   the    quick   lieart   of   the    great 
world  doth  pant. 
And  felt  that  wondrous  Lady  all  alone,  — 
And  she  felt  him  upon  her  emerald  throne. 


And  every  nymph  of  stream  and  spreading 
tree. 
And  every  shepherdess  of  Ocean's  flocks. 
Who  drives  her  white  waves  over  the  green 
sea, 


And  Ocean,  with  the  brine  on  his  gray 
locks. 
And  quaint  Priapus  with  his  company. 
All  came,  much  wondering  how  the  en- 
wonib^d  rocks 
Could  have  brought  forth  so  beautiful  a 

birth ; 
Her  love  subdued  their  wonder  and  their 
mirth. 

XI 

The  herdsman  and  the  mountain  maidens 

came. 

And  the  rude  kings  of  pastoral  Garamant ; 

Their  spirits  shook  within  them,  as  a  flame 

Stirred  by  the  air  under  a  cavern  gauut ; 

Pygmies,  and  Polypliemes,by  many  a  name. 

Centaurs  and  Satyrs,  and  such  shapes  as 

haunt 

Wet  clefts,  and  lumps  neither  alive  nor 

dead. 
Dog-headed,  bosom-eyed,  and  bird-footed. 


For  she  was  beautiful;  her  beauty  made 
The  bright  world  dim,  and  everything 
beside 

Seemed  like  the  fleeting  image  of  a  shade; 
No  thought  of  living  spirit  could  abide, 

Which  to  lier  looks  had  ever  been  betrayed, 
On  any  object  in  the  world  so  wide, 

On  any  hope  within  tlie  circling  skies. 

But  on  her  form,  and  in  her  inmost  eyes. 


Which  when  the  Lady  knew,  she  took  her 
spindle 
And  twined  three  threads  of  fleecy  mist, 
and  three 
Long  lines  of  light,  such  as  the  dawn  may 
kindle 
The   clouds   and  waves  and   mountains 
with;  and  she 
As  many  star-beams,  ere  their  lamps  could 
dwindle 
In  the  belated  moon,  wound  skilfully; 
And  with  these  threads  a  subtle  veil  she 

wove  — 
A  shadow  for  the  splendor  of  her  love. 

XIV 

The  deep  recesses  of  her  odorous  dwelling 
Were    stored    with    magic   treasures — • 
sounds  of  air 


THE  WITCH  OF  ATLAS 


275 


Which  had  the  power  all  spirits  of  com- 
pelling, 
Folded  in  cells  of  crystal  silence  there; 
Such  as  we  hear  in  youth,  and  think  the 
feeling 
Will  never  die  —  yet  ere  we  are  aware, 
The  feeling  and   the  sound  are  fled  and 

gone, 
And  the  regret  they  leave  remains  alone. 


And  there  lay  Visions  swift,  and  sweet,  and 
quaint. 
Each  in  its  thin  sheath  like  a  chrysalis; 
Some  eager  to  burst  forth,  some  weak  and 
faint 
With  the  soft  burden  of  intensest  bliss 
It  is  its  work  to  bear  to  many  a  saint 
Whose    heart   adores   the  shrine  which 
holiest  is. 
Even  Love's;  and  others  white,  green,  gray, 

and  black. 
And  of  all  shapes  —  and  each  was  at  her 
beck. 


And  odors  in  a  kind  of  aviary 

Of  ever-blooming  Eden-trees  she  kept. 
Clipped  in  a  floating  net  a  love-sick  Fairy 
Had  woven  from  dew-beams  while  the 
moon  yet  slept; 
As  bats  at  the  wired  window  of  a  dairy. 
They  beat  their  vans;  and  each  was  an 
adept. 
When  loosed  and  missioned,  making  wings 

of  winds, 
To  stir  sweet  thoughts  or  sad,  in  destined 
minds. 


And  liquors  clear  and  sweet,  whose  health- 
ful might 
Could  medicine  the  sick  soul  to  happy 
sleep. 
And  change  eternal  death  into  a  night 
Of  glorious  dreams  —  or,  if  eyes  needs 
must  weep, 
Could  make  their  tears  all  wonder  and  de- 
light — 
She    in   her    crystal   vials    did    closely 
keep; 
If  men  could  drink  of  those  clear  vials,  't  is 

said, 
The  living  were  not  envied  of  the  dead. 


XVIII 

Her  cave  was  stored  with  scrolls  of  strange 
device. 
The   works   of   some    Saturniau   Archi- 
mage. 
Which  taught  the  expiations  at  whose  price 
Men  from  the  gods  might  win  that  happy 
.age 
Too  lightly  lost,  redeeming  native  vice; 
And  which  might  quench  the  earth-con- 
suming rage 
Of  gold  and  blood,  till  men  should  live  and 

move 
Harmonious  as  the  sacred  stars  above; 

XIX 

And  how  all  things  that  seem  untamable, 

Not  to  be  checked  and  not  to  be  confined. 
Obey  the  spells  of  wisdom's  wizard  skill; 
Time,  earth  and  fire,  the  ocean  and  the 
wind. 
And  all  their  shapes,  and  man's  imperial 
will; 
And  other  scrolls  whose  writings  did  un- 
bind 
The  inmost  lore  of  Love  —  let  the  profane 
Tremble  to  ask  what  secrets  they  contain. 

XX 

And   wondrous   works   of  substances   un- 
known, 
To  which  the  enchantment  of  her  father's 
power 
Had  changed  those  ragged  blocks  of  savage 
stone. 
Were  heaped  in  the  recesses  of  her  bower; 
Carved  lamps  and  chalices,  and  vials  which 
shone 
In  their  own  golden  beams  —  each  like  a 
flower 
Out  of  whose  depth  a  fire-fly  shakes  his 

light 
Under  a  cypress  in  a  starless  night. 

XXI 

At  first  she  lived  alone  in  this  wild  home, 
And  her  own  thoughts  were  each  a  min« 
ister. 
Clothing  themselves  or  with  the  ocean-foam. 
Or  with  the  wind,  or  with  the  speed  of 
fire. 
To  work  whatever  purposes  might  come 
Into  her  mind;  such  power  her  mighty 
Sire 


276 


THE  WITCH   OF  ATLAS 


Had  girt  them  with,  whether  to  fly  or  run, 
Through  all  the  regious  which  he  shiues 
upou. 


The  Ocean-nyinphs  and  Hamadryades, 
Oreads  and  Naiads  with  long  weedy  locks, 

Offered  to  do  her  bidding  tliroiigh  the  seas, 
Under  the  earth,  and  in  the  hollow  rocks. 

And  far  beneath  the  matted  roots  of  trees. 
And  in  the  gnarled  heart  of  stubborn  oaks, 

So  they  might  live  forever  in  the  light 

Of  her  sweet  presence  —  each  a  satellite. 

xxin 

*  This  may  not  be,'  the  Wizard  Maid  re- 

plied ; 
'  The  fountains  where  the  Naiades  bedew 
Their  shining  hair,  at  length  are  drained 
and  dried; 
The  solid  oaks  forget  their  strength,  and 
strew 
Their  latest  leaf  upon  the  mountains  wide; 
The  boundless  ocean,  like  a  drop  of  dew. 
Will   be  consumed  —  the   stubborn  centre 

must 
Be  scattered,  like  a  cloud  of  summer  dust; 

XXIV 

*  And  ye  with  them  will  perish  one  by  one. 

If  I  must  sigh  to  think  that  this  sliall  be. 
If  I  must  weep  when  the  survivilig  Sun 

Shall  smile  on  your  decay,  oh,  ask  not  me 
To  love  you  till  your  little  race  is  run; 

I  cannot  die  as  ye  must  —  over  me 
Your  leaves  shall  glance  —  the  streams  in 

wliich  ye  dwell 
Shall  be   my  paths  henceforth,  and  so  — 
farewell  I ' 

XXV 

She  spoke  and  wept;  the  dark  and  azure 
well 
Sparkled    beneath    the   shower   of    her 
bright  tears, 
And  every  little  circlet  where  they  fell 
Flung    to    the    cavern-roof    inconstant 
spheres 
And  intertangled  lines  of  light;  a  knell 
Of  sobbing  voices  came  upon  her  ears 
From   those  departing  Forms,  o'er  the  se- 
rene 
Of  the  white   streams  and  of  the  forest 
green. 


XXVI 

All  day  the  Wizard  Lady  sate  aloof. 
Spelling  out  scrolls  of  dread  antiquity, 

Under  the  cavern's  fountain-lighted  roof; 
Or  broidering  the  pictured  poesy 

Of  some  high  tale  upon  her  growing  woof, 
Which  the  sweet  splendor  of  her  smiles 
could  dye 

In  hues  outshining  Heaven  —  and  ever  she 

Added  some  grace  to  the  wrought  poesy. 

XXVII 

While  on  her  hearth  lay  blazing  many  a 
piece 

Of  sandal-wood,  rare  gums  and  cinnamon ; 
Men  scarcely  know  how  beautiful  fire  is; 

Each  flame  of  it  is  as  a  precious  stone 
Dissolved  in  ever-moving  light,  and  this 

Belongs  to  each  and  all  who  gaze  upon; 
The  Witch  beheld  it  not,  for  in  her  hand 
She  held  a  woof  that  dimmed  the  burning 
brand. 


This  Lady  never  slept,  but  lay  in  trance 

All  niglit  within  tlie  fountain,  as  in  sleep. 
Its  emerald  crags  glowed  in  her  beauty's 
glance; 
Through  the  green  splendor  of  the  water 
deep 
She  saw  the  constellations  reel  and  dance 
Like  fire-flies,  and  withal  did  ever  keep 
The  tenor  of  her  contemplations  cnlm, 
With  open  eyes,  closed   feet,  and  folded 
palm. 


And  when  the  whirlwinds  and  the  clouds 
descended 

From  the  white  pinnacles  of  that  cold 
hill, 
She  passed  at  dewfall  to  a  space  extended, 

Where,  in  a  lawn  of  flowering  asphodel 
Amid  a  wood  of  pines  and  cedars  blended. 

There  yawned  an  inextinguishable  well 
Of  crimson  fire,  full  even  to  the  brim. 
And  overflowing  all  the  margin  trim; 

XXX 

Within  the  which  she  lay  when  the  fierce 

war 
Of  wintry  winds  shook  that   innocuous 

liquor 
In  many  a  mimic  moon  and  bearded  star, 


THE  WITCH  OF  ATLAS 


277 


O'er  woods  aud  lawns;  the  serpent  heard 

it  flicker 

In  sleep,  aud,  dreaming  still,  he  crept  afar; 

And  when  the  windless  snow  descended 

thicker 

Than  autumn  leaves,  she  watched  it  as  it 

came 
Melt  on  the  surface  of  the  level  flame. 


She   had  a  boat  which  some  say  Vulcan 
wrought 

For  Veuus,  as  the  chariot  of  her  star; 
But  it  was  found  too  feeble  to  be  fraught 

With  all  the  ardors  in  that  sphere  which 
are, 
And  so  she  sold  it,  and  Apollo  bought 

And  gave  it  to  this  daughter;  from  a  car 
Changed  to  the  fairest  and  the  lightest  boat 
Which  ever  upon  mortal  stream  did  float. 


A.nd  others  say,  that,  when  but  three  hours 
old. 
The  first-born  Love  out  of  his   cradle 
leapt, 
And  clove  dun  Chaos  with  his  wings  of  gold. 

And  like  a  horticultural  adept. 
Stole  a  strange  seed,  and  wrapped  it  up  in 
mould, 
And  sowed  it  in  his  mother's  star,  and 
kept 
Wateiing  it  all   the  summer  with  sweet 

dew, 
Aud  with  his  wings  fanning  it  as  it  grew. 

XXXIII 

The  plant   grew   strong    and  green;    the 
snowy  flower 
Fell,  and  the  long  and  gourd-like  fruit 
began 
To  turn  the  light  and  dew  by  inward  power 
To  its  own  substance;  woven  tracery  ran 
Of  light  firm  texture,  ribbed  and  branch- 
ing, o'er 
The  solid  rind,  like  a  leaf's  veinfed  fan. 
Of  which  Love  scooped  this  boat,  and  with 

soft  motion 
Piloted  it  round  the  circumfluous  ocean. 

XXXIV 

This  boat  she  moored  upon  her  fount,  and 
lit 
A  living  spirit  within  all  its  frame. 
Breathing  the  soul  of  swiftness  into  it. 


Couched  on  the  fountain,  like  a  panther 
tame  — 
One  of  the  twain  at  Evan's  feet  that  sit  — 

Or  as  on  Vesta's  sceptre  a  swift  flame. 
Or    on    blind    Homer's    heart   a    winged 

thought,  — 
In  joyous  expectation  lay  the  boat. 


Then  by  strange  art  she  kneaded  fire  and 
snow 

Together,  tempering  the  repugnant  mass 
With  liquid  love  —  all  things  together  grow 

Through  which  the  harmony  of  love  can 
pass: 
And  a  fair  Shape  out  of  her  hands  did  flow, 

A  living  Image,  which  did  far  surpass 
In  beauty  that  bright  shape  of  vital  stone 
Which  drew  the  heart  out  of  Pygmalion. 

XXXVI 

A  sexless  thing  it  was,  and  in  its  growth 
It  seemed  to  have  developed  no  defect 

Of  either  sex,  yet  all  the  grace  of  both; 
In  gentleness  and  strength  its  limbs  were 
decked; 

The   bosom   lightly  swelled  with  its  full 
youth, 
The  countenance  was  such  as  might  select 

Some  artist  that  his  skill  should  never  die, 

Imaging  forth  such  perfect  purity. 

XXXVII 

From  its  smooth  shoulders  hung  two  rapid 
wings. 

Fit  to  have  borne  it  to  the  seventh  sphere, 
Tipped  with  the  speed  of  liquid  lightnings, 

Dyed  in  the  ardors  of  the  atmosphere. 
She  led  her  creature  to  the  boiling  springs 

Where  the  light  boat  was  moored,  and 
said,  '  Sit  here  ! ' 
And  pointed  to  the  prow  and  took  her  seat 
Beside  the  rudder  with  opposing  feet. 

XXXVIII 
And  down  the  streams  which  clove  those 
mountains  vast. 
Around  their  inland  islets,  and  amid 
The  panther-peopled  forests,  whose  shade 
cast 
Darkness  and  odors,  and  a  pleasure  hid 
In  melancholy  gloom,  the  piimace  passed; 

By  many  a  star-surrounded  pyramid 
Of  icy  crag  cleaving  the  purple  sky. 
And  caverns  yawning  round  unfathomably. 


278 


THE  WITCH   OF  ATLAS 


XXXIX 

The  silver  noon  into  that  winding  dell, 
With  slanted  gleam  athwart  the  forest 
tops, 
Tempered    like     golden    evening,    feebly 
fell; 
A   green   and   glowing   light,   like  that 
which  drops 
From  folded  lilies   in  which   glow-worms 
dwell. 
When  earth  over  her  face  night's  mantle 
wraps; 
Between    the    severed   mountains    lay  on 

high. 
Over  the  stream,  a  narrow  rift  of  sky. 

XL 

And  ever  as  she  went,  the  Image  lay 

With  folded  wings  and  unawakened  eyes; 
And  o'er  its  gentle  countenance  did  play 
The  busy  dreams,  as  thick  as  summer 
fliesi, 
Chasing  the  rapid  smiles  that  would  not 
stay. 
And  drinking  the  warm  tears,  and  the 
sweet  sigiis 
Inhaling,  which,  with  busy  murmur  vain. 
They  had  aroused  from  that  full  heart  and 
brain. 

XLI 

And  ever  down  the  prone  vale,  like  a  cloud 
Upon  a  stream  of  wind,  the  pinnace  went; 
Now  lingering  on  the  pools,  in  which  abode 
The  calm  and  darkness  of  the  deep  con- 
tent 
In  which  they  paused ;  now  o'er  the  shallow 
road 
Of  white  and  dancing  waters,  all  besprent 
With  sand  and  polished  pebbles:   mortal 

boat 
In  such  a  shallow  rapid  could  not  float. 

xui 
And    down    the    earthquaking    cataracts, 
which  shiver 
Their  snow-like  waters  into  golden  air. 
Or  under  chasms  unfathomable  ever 

Sepulchre  them,  till  in  their  rage  they 
tear 
A  subterranean  portal  for  the  river. 

It  fled  —  the  circling  sunbows  did  upbear 
Its  fall  down  the  hoar  prec-ipice  of  spray. 
Lighting  it  far  upon  its  lampless  way. 


XLIII 
And  when  the  Wizard  Lady  would  ascend 
The   labyrinths  of   some   many-winding 
vale. 
Which   to  the   inmost    mountain  upward 
tend. 
She  called  *  Hermaphroditus  ! '  and  the 
pale 
And  heavy  hue  which  slumber  could  extend 

Over  its  lips  and  eyes,  as  on  the  gale 
A  rapid  shadow  from  a  slope  of  grass. 
Into  the  darkness  of  the  stream  did  pass. 

XLIV 

And  it  unfurled  its  heaven-colored  pinions, 
With  stars  of  fire  spotting  the  stream 
below. 
And  from  above  into  the  Sun's  dominions 

Flinging  a  glory,  like  the  golden  frlow 
In  which  Spring  clothes  her  emerald-winged 
minions, 
All  interwoven  with  fine  feathery  snow 
And  moonlight  splendor  of  intensest  rime 
With  which  frost  paints  the  pines  in  winter 
time; 


And  then  it  winnowed  the  Elysian  air. 

Which  ever  hung  about  that  lady  bright. 
With    its    ethereal    vans;     and    speeding 
there. 
Like  a  star  up  the  torrent  of  the  night, 
Or  a  swift  eagle  in  the  morning  glare 
Breasting  the  whirlwind  with  impetuous 
flight. 
The   pinnace,  oared  by   those    enchanted 

wings. 
Clove  the  fierce  streams  towards  their  up- 
per springs. 

XLVI 
The  water  flashed,  like  sunlight  by  the  prow 
Of  a   noon-wandering   meteor   flung   to 
Heaven ; 
The  still  air  seemed  as  if  its  waves  did 
flow 
In  tempest  down  the  mountains;  loosely 
driven 
The  lady's  radiant  hair  streamed  to   and 
fro; 
Beneatli,    the     billows,     having    vainly 
striven 
Indignant  and  impetuous,  roared  to  feel 
The  swift  and  steady  motion  of  the  keeL 


THE  WITCH   OF  ATLAS 


279 


XLVII 

Or,  when  the  weary  moon  was  in  the  wane, 
Or  in  the  noon  of  interhmar  night, 

The  Lady-Witch  iu  visions  could  not  chain 
Her  spirit;   but  sailed  forth  under   the 
light 

Of  shooting  stars,  and  bade  extend  amain 
Its  storm-outspeediug  wings  the  Herma- 
phrodite ; 

She  to  the  Austral  waters  took  her  way, 

Beyond  the  fabulous  Thamandocana, 

XLVIII 

Where,  like  a  meadow  which  no  scythe  has 
shaven, 
WJiich  rain  could  never  bend,  or  whirl- 
blast  shake, 
With  the  Antarctic  constellations  paven, 
Canopus  and   hb  crew,  lay  the  Austral 
lake; 
There  she  would  baild  herself  a  windless 
haven 
Out  of  the  clouds  whose  moving  turrets 
make 
The  bastions  of  the  storm,  when  through 

the  sky 
The  spirits  of  the  tempest  thundered  by; 

XLIX 

A  haven,  beneath  whose  translucent  floor 
The  tremulous  stars  sparkled  unfathom- 
ably. 

And  around  which  the  solid  vapors  hoar. 
Based  on  the  level  waters,  to  the  sky 

Lifted   their   dreadful   crags,  and,  like    a 
shore 
Of  wintry  mountains,  inaccessibly 

Hemmed  in,  with  rifts  and  precipices  gray 

And  hangfing  crags,  many  a  cove  and  bay. 


And  whilst  the  outer  lake  beneath  the  lash 
Of   the  wind's   scoiirge    foamed    like    a 
wounded  thing, 
And  the  incessant  hail  with  stony  clash 
Ploughed  up  the  waters,  and  the  flagging 
wing 
Of  the  roused  cormorant  in  the  lightning 
flash 
Looked   like   the  wreck  of   some  wind- 
wandering 
Fragment   of   inky   thunder-smoke  —  this 

haven 
Was  as  a  gem  to  copy  Heaven  engraven; 


On  which    that    Lady   played   her  many 
pranks. 
Circling  the  image  of  a  shooting  star. 
Even  as  a  tiger  on  llydaspes'  banks 

Outspeeds  the  antelopes  which  speediest 
are. 
In  her  light  boat;  and  many  quips  and 
cranks 
She  played  upon  the  water;  till  the  car 
Of  the  late  moon,  like  a  sick  matron  wan. 
To  journey  from  the  misty  east  began. 

LII 

And  then  she  called  out  of  the  hollow  tur- 
rets 
Of  those  high  clouds,  white,  golden  and 
vermilion. 
The  armies  of  her  ministering  spirits; 

In  mighty  legions,  million  after  million. 
They   came,    each   troop   emblazoning   its 
merits 
On  meteor  flags;  and  many  a  proud  pa- 
vilion 
Of  the  intertexture  of  the  atmosphere 
They  pitched  upon  the  plain  of  the  calm 


Llll 

They  framed   the   imperial   tent  of  their 
great  Queen 

Of  woven  exhalations,  underlaid 
With  lambent  liglitning-fire,  as  may  be  seen 

A  dome  of  thin  and  open  ivory  inlaid 
With  crimson  silk;  cressets  from  the  serene 

Hung  there,  and  on   the  water  for  her 
tread 
A  tapestry  of  fleece-like  mist  was  strewn. 
Dyed  in  the  beams  of  the  ascending  moon. 


And   on  a  throne   o'erltid  with  starlight, 
caught 
L^pon  those  wandering  isles  of  aery  dew 
Which   highest   shoals  of   mountain   ship- 
wreck not. 
She  sate,  and   heard  all   that  had  hap- 
pened new 
Between   the  earth  and   moon  since   they 
had  brought 
The  last  intelligence;  and  now  she  grew 
Pale  as  that  moon  lost  in  the  watery  night. 
And  lAw  she  wept,  and  now  she  laughed 
outright. 


28o 


THE  WITCH  OF  ATLAS 


These   were   tame   pleasures.     She  would 
often  climb 
The  steepest  ladder  of  the  crudded  rack 
Up  to  some  beaked  cape  of  cloud  sublime, 

Aud  like  Ariun  ou  the  dolphin's  back 
Bide   singing   through   the   shoreless   air; 
oft-time 
Following  the  serpent  lightning's  winding 
track, 
She  ran  upon  the  platforms  of  the  wind, 
Aud  laughed  to  hear  the  iire-balls  roar  be- 
hind. 


Aud  sometimes  to  those  streams  of  upper 

air, 
Which   whirl   the  earth  in  its   diurnal 

round, 
She    would    ascend,  and  win    the    spirits 

there 
To  let   her  join  their  chorus.     Mortals 

found 
That  ou  those  days  the  sky  was  calm  aud 

fair, 
And  mystic  snatches  of  harmonious  sound 
Wandered   upon   the   earth   where'er   she 

passed. 
And  happy  thoughts  of  hope,  too  sweet  to 

last. 


Bat  her  choice  sport  was,  in  the  hours  of 
sleep, 
To  glide  adown  old  Nilus,    where   he 
threads 
Egypt  and  ^Ethiopia,  from  the  steep 

Of  utmost  Axume,  until  he  spreads, 
Like  a  calm  flock  of  silver-fleeced  sheep, 
His  waters  on  the  plain,  —  and  crested 
heads 
Of  cities  and  proud  temples  gleam  amid, 
And  many  a  vapor-belted  pyramid; 

LVIII 

By  Moeris  and  the  ^lareotid  lakes, 

Strewn  with   faint   blooms,  like   bridal- 
chamber  floors, 
Where  naked  boys  bridling  tame  water- 
snakes. 
Or  charioteering  ghastly  alligators. 
Had  left  on  the  sweet  waters  mighty  wakes 
Of  those  huge  forms  —  within  the  brazen 
doors 


Of  the  great  Labyrinth  slept  both  boy  and 

beast 
Tired  with  the  pomp  of  their  Osirian  feast; 

LIX 

And  where  within  the  surface  of  the  river 

The  shadows  of  the  massy  temples  lie, 
And  never  are  erased  —  but  tremble  ever 
Like  things  which  every  cloud  can  doom 
to  die; 
Through  lotus-paven  canals,  and  whereso- 
ever 
The  works  of  man  pierced  that  serenest 
sky 
With  tombs,  and  towers,  and  fanes,  —  't  was 

her  delight 
To  wander  in  the  shadow  of  the  night. 

LX 

With  motion  like  the  spirit  of  that  wind 
Whose  soft  step  deepens  slumber,  her 
light  feet 
Passed  through  the  peopled  haunts  of  hu- 
mankind, 
Scattering  sweet  visions  from  her  pre- 
sence sweet; 
Through  fane  and  palace-court  and  laby- 
rinth mined 
With  many  a  dark   and    subterranean 
street 
Under  the  Nile,  through  chambers  high  aud 

deep 
She  passed,  observing  mortals  in  their  sleep. 


A  pleasure  sweet  doubtless  it  was  to  see 
Mortals   subdued   in  all  the  shapes  of 
sleep. 
Here  lay  two  sister-twins  in  infancy; 

Tliere  a  lone  youth  who  in  his  dreams 
did  weep; 
Within,  two  lovers  linked  innocently 
In  their  loose  locks  which  over  both  did 
creep 
Like  ivy  from  one  stem ;  and  there  lay  calm 
Old  age  with  snow-bright  hair  aud  folded 
palm. 

LXII 

But  other  troubled  forms  of  sleep  she  saw, 
Not  to  be  mirrored  in  a  holy  song; 

Distortions  foul  of  supernatural  awe. 
And  pale  imaginings  of  visioned  wrong. 

And  all  the  code  of  custom's  lawless  law 


THE  WITCH   OF  ATLAS 


281 


Written  upon  the  brows  of  old  and  young; 
*This,'   said  the  Wizard  Maiden,  'is  the 

strife 
Which  stirs  the  liquid  surface  of  man's  life.' 

LXIII 

And  little  did  the  sight  disturb  her  soul. 

We,  the  weak  mariners  of  that  wide  lake, 
Where'er  its  shores  extend  or  billows  roll, 

Our  course  unpiloted  and  starless  make 
O'er  its  wild  surface  to  an  unknown  goal; 

But  she  in  the  calm  depths  her  way  could 
take 
Where  in  bright  bowers  immortal  forms 

abide, 
Beneath  the  weltering  of  the  restless  tide. 

LXIV 

And  she  saw  princes  couched  nnder  the 
glow 
Of  sun-like  gems;  and  round  each  tem- 
ple-court 
In  dormitories  ranged,  row  after  row. 

She  saw  the  priests  asleep,  all  of  one  sort. 
For  all  were  educated  to  be  so. 

The  peasants   in  their  huts,  and  in  the 
port 
The  sailors  she  saw  cradled  on  the  waves. 
And  the  dead  lulled  within  their  dreamless 
graves. 

LXV 

And  all  the  forms  in  which  those  spirits  lay 

Were  to  her  sight  like  the  diaphanous 
Veils  in  which  those  sweet  ladies  oft  array 
Their  delicate  limbs,  who  would  conceal 
from  us 
Only  their  scorn  of  all  concealment;  they 
Move  in  the  light  of  their  owu  beauty 
thus. 
But  these  and  all  now  lay  with  sleep  npon 

them. 
And  little  thought  a  Witch  was  looking  on 
them. 

LXVI 

She  all  those  human  figures  breathing  there 

Beheld  as  living  spirits;  to  her  eyes 
The  naked  beauty  of  the  soul  lay  bare ; 
And  often  throngh  a  rude  and  worn  dis- 
.  guise 
She  saw  the  inner  form  most  bright  and 
fair; 
And  then  she  had  a  charm  of  strange 
device, 


Which,  murmured  on  mute  lips  with  tender 

tone, 
Could   make  that  spirit  mingle   with  hei- 

own. 

Lxvir 

Alas,   Aurora !   what   wouldst    thou  have 
given 
For  such  a  charm,  when  Tithon  became 
gray  ? 
Or  how  much,  Venus,  of  thy  silver  Heaven 
Wouldst  thou  have  yielded,  ere  Proser- 
pina 
Had  half  (oh  !  why  not  all  ?)  the  debt  for- 
given 
Which  dear  Adonis  had  been  doomed  to 

pay. 

To  any  witch  who  would  have  taught  you 

it? 
The  Heliad  doth  not  know  its  value  yet. 

LXVIII 
T  is  said  in  after  times  her  spirit  free 
Knew   what    love   was,   and    felt  itself 
alone; 
But  holy  Dian  could  not  chaster  be 

Before  she  stooped  to  kiss  Endymion, 
Than  now  this  lady  —  like  a  sexless  bee 

Tasting  all  blossoms  and  confined  to  none; 
Among   those  mortal   forms   the   Wizard- 
Maiden 
Passed  with  an  eye  serene  and  heart  un- 
laden. 

LXIX 

To  those  she  saw  most  beautif  nl,  she  gave 

Strange  panacea  in  a  crystal  bowl; 
They  drank   in   their  deep  sleep   of   that 
sweet  wave. 
And  lived  thenceforward  as  if  some  con- 
trol, 
Mightier  than  life,  were  in  them;  and  the 
grave 
Of  such,  when  death  oppressed  the  wearj' 
soul, 
Was  as  a  green  and  over-arching  bower 
Lit  by  the  gems  of  many  a  starry  flower. 

LXX 

For  on  the  night  when  they  were  buried, 
she 
Restored   the   embalmers'   ruining    and 
shook 
The  light  out  oi  the  funeral  lamps,  to  be 
A  mimic  day  within  that  deathy  nook; 


282 


THE  WITCH   OF  ATLAS 


And  she  unwound  the  woven  imagery 
Of  second  childhood's  swaddling  bands, 
and  took 
The  coffin,  its  last  cradle,  from  its  niche, 
And  threw  it  with  contempt  into  a  ditch. 

LXXI 

And  there  the  body  lay,  age  after  age, 
Mute,    breathing,    beating,   warm,    and 
undecaying, 
Like  one  asleep  in  a  green  hermitage. 
With  gentle   smiles  about    its    eyelids 
playing. 
And  living  in  its  dreams  beyond  the  rage 
Of  death  or  life,  while   they  were  still 
arraying 
In  liveries  ever  new  the  rapid,  blind, 
And  fleeting  generations  of  mankind. 

LXXII 

And  she  would  write  strange  dreams  upon 
the  brain 
Of  those  who  were  less  beautiful,  and 
make 
All  harsh  and  crooked  purposes  more  vain 
Than  in  the  desert  is  the  serpent's  wake 
Which  the  sand  covers;  all  his  evil  gain 
The  miser  in  such  dreams  would  rise  and 
shake 
Into  a  beggar's  lap;  the  lying  scribe 
Would  his  own  lies  betray  without  a  bribe. 

Lxxm 

The  priests  would  write   an   explanation 
full. 
Translating  hieroglyphics  into  Greek, 
How  the  god  Apis  really  was  a  bull. 

And  nothing  more;  and  bid  the  herald 
stick 
The  same  against   the  temple  doors,  and 
pull 
The  old  cant  down ;  they  licensed  all  to 
speak 
Whate'er  they  thought  of  hawks,  and  cats, 

and  preese, 
By  pastoral  letters  to  each  diocese. 

LXXIV 

The  king  would  dress  an  ape   up  in  his 
crown 
And  robes,  and  seat  him  on  his  glorious 
seat. 
And  on  the  right  hand  of  the  sun-like  throne 
Would  place  a  gaudy  uiock-bird  to  re- 
peat 


The    chatterings  of    the  monkey.     Every 

one 
Of  the  prone  courtiers  crawled  to  kiss 

the  feet 
Of  their  great  emperor  when  the  morning 

came, 
And    kissed  —  alas,   how    many  kiss    the 

same  ! 

LXXV 

The  soldiers  dreamed  that  they  were  black- 
smiths, and 
Walked  out  of  quarters   in  somnambu- 
lism; 
Round  the  red  anvils  you  might  see  them 
stand, 
Like  Cyclopses  in  Vulcan's  sooty  abysm, 
Beating  their  swords  to  ploughshares;  in  a 
band 
The   gaolers  sent  those   of  the  liberal 
schism 
Free  through  the  streets  of  Memphis, — 

much,  I  wis, 
To  the  annoyance  of  king  Amasis. 

LXXVI 

And  timid  lovers  who  had  been  so  coy 
They  hardly  knew  whether  they  loved  or 
not. 
Would  rise  out  of  their  rest,  and  take  sweet 
joy, 
To  the  fulfilment  of  their  inmost  thought; 
And  when  next  day  the  maiden  and   the 
boy 
Met    one    another,    both,    like    sinners 
caught. 
Blushed  at  the  thing  which  each  believed 

was  done 
Only  in  fancy  —  till  the  tenth  moon  shone ; 

LXXVII 

And  then  the  Witch  would  let  them  take 
no  ill; 
Of  many  thousand  schemes  which  lovers 
find 
The  Witch  found  one,  —  and  so  they  took 
their  fill 
Of    happiness   in    marriage   warm   and 
kind. 
Friends  who,  by  practice  of  some  envious 
skill, 
Were  torn  apart  —  a  wide  wound,  mind 
from  mind  — 
She  did  unite  again  with  visions  clear 
Of  dee^)  affection  and  of  truth  sincere. 


CEDIPUS  TYRANNUS   OR   SWELLFOOT  THE  TYRANT      283 


LXXVIII 

These  were  the  prauks  she  played  among 

the  cities 
Of  mortal   men,  and  what  she   did   to 

sprites 
And  Gods,  entangling  them  in  her  sweet 

ditties 


To  do  her  will,  and  show  their  subtle 
slights, 
I  will  declare  another  time;  for  it  is 

A  tale   more   fit  for  the  weird  winter 
nights 
Than  for  these  garish  summer  days,  when 

we 
Scarcely  believe  much  more  than  we  can  see. 


CEDIPUS  TYRANNUS   OR   SWELLFOOT  THE   TYRANT 

A  TRAGEDY 

IN  TWO  ACTS 

TRANSLATED   FROM   THE   ORIGINAL   DORIC 


Choose  Reform  or  Civil  War, 


When  through  thy  streets,  instead  of  hare  with  dogs, 
A  Consort-Queen  shall  hunt  a  King  with  hogs, 
Riding  on  the  IONIAN.  MINOTAUR. 


(Edipus  Tyrannns,  a  piece  of  clrollery  like 
Peter  Bell,  was  begun,  under  the  circumstances 
described  in  Mrs.  JShellcy's  Note,  August  24, 
1819,  at  the  Baths  of  !^an  Giuliano,  near  Pisa. 
It  was  sent  to  Horace  Smith,  who  had  it  pub- 
lished as  a  pamphlet  without  Shelley's  name. 
It  was  threatened  with  prosecution  by  citizens 
of  the  ward,  and  some  steps  thereto  seem  to 
have  been  taken  ;  but  at  the  suggestion  of 
Alderman  Roth  well  the  publisher  gave  up  the 
whole  edition,  except  seven  copies,  which  had 
been  sold,  and  also  told  the  name  of  his  em- 
ployer. The  secret  of  the  authorship  was  kept 
by  Horace  Smith,  who  said  only  that  the  work 
had  been  sent  to  him  from  Pisa.  The  drama 
was  suggested  by  the  aifair  of  Queen  Caroline. 
Of  the  characters  Purganax  stands  for  Lord 
Castlereagh,  Dakry  for  LorJ  Eldon,  and  Laoc- 
toiios  for  the  Duke  of  Wellington.  Mrs.  Shel- 
ley's Note  completes  the  history  of  the  poem  : 

'  In  the  brief  journal  I  kept  in  those  days,  I 
find  recorded  in  August  [24],  1820,  "  Shelley 
begins  Swellfoot  the  Tyrant,  suggested  by  the 
pigs  at  the  fair  of  San  Giuliano."  This  was 
the  period  of  Queen  Caroline's  landing  in  Eng- 
land, and  the  struggles  made  by  George  IV. 
to  get  rid  of  her  claims  ;  which  failing,  Lord 
Castlereagh  placed  the  "Green  Bag  "  on  the 
table  of  the  House  of  Commons,  demanding, 
in  the  King's  name,  that  an  inquiry  should  be 
instituted  into  his  wife's  conduct.  These  cir- 
cumstances were  the  theme  of  all  conversation 
among  the  English.  We  were  then  at  the 
Baths  of  San  Giuliano  ;  a  friend  [Mrs.  Mason] 


came  to  visit  us  on  the  day  when  a  fair  waa 
held  in  the  square,  beneath  our  windows. 
Shelley  read  to  us  his  Ode  to  Liberty  ;  and  waa 
riotously  accompanied  by  the  grunting  of  a 
quantity  of  pigs  brought  for  sale  to  the  fair. 
He  compared  it  to  the  "  chorus  of  frogs  "  in 
the  satiric  drama  of  Aristophanes  ;  and  it  being 
an  hour  of  merriment,  and  one  ludicrous  asso- 
ciation suggesting  another,  he  imagined  a  polit- 
ical satirical  drama  on  the  circumstances  of  the 
day,  to  which  the  pigs  would  serve  as  chorus 
—  and  Swellfoot  was  begun.  When  finished, 
ft  was  transmitted  to  England,  piinted  and 
published  anonymously  ;  but  stifled  at  the  very 
dawn  of  its  existence  by  the  "  Society  for  the 
Suppression  of  Vice,"  who  threatened  to  pro- 
secute it,  if  not  immediately  withdrawn.  The 
friend  who  had  taken  the  trouble  of  bringing 
it  out,  of  course  did  not  think  it  worth  the 
annoyance  and  expense  of  a  contest,  and  it  was 
laid  aside. 

'  Hesitation  of  whether  it  would  do  honor  to 
Shelley  prevented  my  publishing  it  at  first ; 
but  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  keep  back  any- 
thing he  ever  wrote,  for  each  word  is  fraught 
with  the  peculiar  views  and  sentiments  which 
he  believed  to  be  beneficial  to  the  human  race, 
and  the  bright  light  of  poetry  irradiates  every 
thought.  The  world  has  a  right  to  the  entire 
compositions  of  such  a  roan  ;  for  it  does  not 
live  and  thrive  by  the  outworn  lesson  of  the 
dullard  or  the  hypocrite,  but  by  the  original 
free  thoughts  of  men  of  genius,  who  aspire  to 
pluck  bright  truth 


284 


CEDIPUS   TYRANNUS 


ACT   I:   SC.  I. 


'  "  from  the  pale-faced  moon; 
Or  dire  into  the  bottom  of  the  deep, 
Where  fatboiii-liiie  could  never  touch  the  ground, 
And  pluck  up  drowned  " 

truth.  Even  those  who  may  dissent  from  hia 
opinions  will  consider  that  he  was  a  man  of 
genius,  and  that  the  world  will  take  more 
interest  in  his  slightest  word,  than  from  the 
waters  of  Lethe,  which  are  so  eagerly  pre- 
scribed as  medicinal  for  all  its  wrongs  and  woes. 
This  drama,  however,  must  not  be  judged  for 
more  than  was  meant.  It  is  a  mere  plaything 
of  the  imagination,  which  even  may  not  excite 
smiles  among  many,  who  will  not  see  wit  in 
those  combinations  of  thought  which  were  full 
of  the  ridiculous  to  the  author.  But,  like 
everything  he  wrote,  it  breathes  that  deep 
sympatiiy  for  the  sorrows  of  humanity,  and 
indignation  against  its  oppressors,  which  make 
it  worthy  of  his  name.' 


ADVERTISEMENT 

This  Tragedy  is  one  of  a  triad  or  system  of 
three  Plays  (an  arrangement  according  to  which 
the  Greeks  were  accustomed  to  connect  their 


dramatic  representations)  elucidating  the  won- 
derful and  appalling  fortunes  of  the  Swellfoot 
dynasty.  It  was  evidently  written  by  some 
learned  Theban;  and,  from  its  characteristic 
dulness,  apparently  before  the  duties  on  the 
importation  of  Attic  salt  had  been  repealed  by 
the  Boeotarchs.  The  tenderness  with  winch 
he  treats  the  Pigs  proves  him  to  have  been  a 
sus  Bceotice  ;  possibly  Epicuri  de  grege  porcus ; 
for,  as  the  poet  observes, 

'  A  fellow  feeling  makes  us  wondrous  kind.' 

No  liberty  has  been  taken  with  the  trans- 
lation of  this  remarkable  piece  of  antiquity 
except  the  suppressing  a  seditious  and  blas- 
phemous Chorus  of  the  Pigs  and  Bulls  at  the 
last  act.  The  word  Hoydipouse  (or  more 
properly  CEdipus),  has  been  rendered  literally 
bwellfoot  without  its  having  been  conceived 
necessary  to  determine  whether  a  swelling  of 
the  hind  or  the  fore  feet  of  the  Swinish  mon- 
arch is  particularly  indicated. 

Should  the  remaining  portions  of  this  Tra- 
gedy be  found,  entitled  Swellfoot  in  Angaria  and 
Chariti,  the  Translator  might  be  tempted  to 
give  them  to  the  reading  Public. 


CEDIPUS   TYRANNUS 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

Ttbant  Swillfoot,  King  The  Gadfly. 

of  Thebes.  Tlie  Leech. 

loNA     Tadrina,     his  The  Rat. 

Queen.  The  Minotawb. 

Mammon,    Arch-Priest    of  Moses,  the  Sow-gelder. 

Famine.  Soix)mon,  the  Porkraau. 

„ .„.^    1  Wizards,  Zkphamiah,  Pig-butcher. 

Ptmoju.AX    1    j,i„i,t^'„ 

V^i^!,„„,    [    of  Swell 
Laoctonos  j    j^^ 

Chorus  of  the  Swinish  Multitude. 
Odabos,  Attendants,  Priests,  etc.,  etc 

BcKMB.    Thebea. 


ACT    I 

ScEKS  —  A  magnificent  Temple,  built  of  thigh- 
bones and  death's-heads,  and  tiled  with  scalps. 
Over  the  Altar  the  statue  of  Famine,  veiled ; 
anumber  of  boars,  sows  and  sucking-pigs, 
crowned  with  thistle,  shamrock  and  oak,  sitting 
on  the  steps  and  clinging  round  the  Altar  of 
the  Temple. 

Enter  Swellfoot,  in  his  rotfol  robes,  without 
perceiving  the  Pigs. 

SWELLFOOT 

Thou  supreme  goddess  I  by  whose  power 
divine 


These  graceful  limbs  are  clothed  in  proud 
array 
{He  contemplates  himself  with  satisfaction. 
Of  gold  and  purple,  and  this  kinglv'  paunch 
Swells  like  a  sail  before  a  favoring  breeze, 
And  these  most  sacred  nether  promontories 
Lie  satisfied  with  layers  of  fat;  and  these 
Boeotian  cheeks,  like  Egypt's  pyramid, 
(Nor  with  less  toil  were  their  foundations 

laid) 
Sustain  the  cone  of  my  untroubled  brain. 
That  point,    the   emblem    of    a  pointless 
nothing !  10 

Thou  to  whom  Kings  and  laurelled  Em- 
perors, 
Radical-butchers,  Paper-money-millers, 
Bishops  and  deacons,  and  the  entire  army 
Of  those  fat  martyrs  to  the  persecution 
Of  stifling  turtle-soup  and  brandy-devils. 
Offer  their  secret  vows  !   thou  plenteous 

Ceres 
Of  their  Eleusis,  hail  I 

SWINE 

Eigh  !  eigh  !  eigh  !  eigh  I 

BWELLFOOT 

Ila  I  what  are  ye. 
Who,  crowned  with  leaves  devoted  to  the 

Furies, 
Cling  round  this  sacred  shrine  ? 


ACT  1 


OR,   SWELLFOOT  THE  TYRANT 


285 


Aigb  t  aigh  !  aigh  I 

SWBIXFOOT 

What !  ye  that  are 
The  very  beasts  that,  offered  at  her  altar  20 
With  blood  and  groans,  salt-cake,  and  fat, 

and  inwards. 
Ever  propitiate  her  reluctant  will 
When  taxes  are  withheld  ? 


Ugh  1  ugh  !  ugh  ! 

SWELLFOOT 

What !  ye  who  grub 
With  filthy  snouts  my  red  potatoes  up 
In  Allan's  rushy  bog  ?  who  eat  the  oats 
Up,  from  my  cavalry  in  the  Hebrides  ? 
Who  swill  the  hog-wash  soup  my  cooks 

digest 
From  bones,  and  rags,  and  scraps  of  shoe- 
leather, 
Which  should   be  given  to  cleaner  Pigs 
than  you  ? 

SEMICHOBUS  I  OF  SWDTK 

The  same,  alas  !  the  same;  30 

Though  only  now  the  name 
Of  Pig  remains  to  me. 

SEMICHORtTS  n  OF   SWINE 

If  't  were  your  kingly  will 
Us  wretched  Swine  to  kill, 

What  should  we  yield  to  thee  ? 

SWELLFOOT 

Why,  skin  and  bones,  and  some  few  hairs 
for  mortar. 

CHORUS  OF  SWINE 

I  have  heard  your  Laureate  sing 

That  pity  was  a  royal  thing; 

Under  your  mighty  ancestors  we  Pigs 

Were  blessed  as  nightingales  on  myrtle 

sprigs  40 

Or    grasshoppers    that    live   on    noonday 

dew. 
And  sung,  old  annals  tell,  as  sweetly  too; 
But  now  our  sties  are  fallen  in,  we  catch 
The  murrain  and  the  mange,  the  scab 

and  itch; 
Sometimes  your  royal  dogs  tear  down  our 

thatch. 
And  then  we  seek  the  shelter  of  a  ditch; 


Hog-wash  or  grains,  or  rutabaga,  none 
Has  yet  been  ours  since  your  reign  begun. 

FIRST  sow 

My  Pigs,  't  is  in  vain  to  tug. 

SECOND   sow 

I  could  almost  eat  my  litter.  50 

FIRST  pia 
I  suck,  but  no  milk  will  come  from  the 
dug. 

SECOND  PIO 

OiiT  skin  and  our  bones  would  be  bit- 
ter. 

BOARS 

We  fight  for  this  rag  of  greasy  rug. 

Though  a  trough  of  wash  would  be  fit- 
ter. 

SEMICHORUS 

Happier  Swine  were  they  than  we. 

Drowned  in  the  Gadarean  sea  ! 

I  wish  that  pity  would  drive  out  the  devils 

Which   in   your   royal    bosom   hold    their 
revels. 

And  sink  us  in  the  waves  of  thy  compas- 
sion ! 

Alas,  the  Pigs  are  an  unhappy  nation  !      60 

Now  if  your  Majesty  would  have  our  bris- 
tles 
To  bind  your  mortar  with,  or  fill  our 
colons 

With  rich  blood,  or  make  brawn  out  of  our 
gristles. 
In  policy  —  ask  else  your  royal  Solons  — 

You  ought  to  give  us  hog-wash  and  clean 
straw. 

And  sties  well  thatched;  besides,  it  is  the 
law ! 

SWELLFOOT 

This  is  sedition,  and  rank  blasphemy  ! 
Ho !  there,  my  guards  ! 

Enter  a  Guard 

GUARD 

Your  sacred  Majesty. 

SWELLFOOT 

Call  in  the  Jews,  Solomon  the  court  Pork- 
man, 


286 


CEDIPUS   TYRANNUS 


ACT  I 


Moses  the  Sow-gelder,  and  Zephaniah      70 
The  Hog-butcher. 

GUARD 

They  are  in  waiting,  Sire. 
Enter  Solomon,  Moses,  and  Zephaniah 

SWELLFOOT 

Out  with  your  knife,  old  Moses,  and  spay 

those  Sows 

[The  Pigs  run  about  in  consternation. 
That  load  the  earth  with  Pigs;  cut  close 

and  deep. 
Moral  restraint  I  see  has  no  effect, 
Nor  prostitution,  nor  our  own  example, 
Starvation,  typhus-fever,  war,  nor  prison. 
This  was  the  art  which  the  arch-priest  of 

Famine 
Hinted   at   in   his   charge   to   the  Theban 

clergy. 
Cut  close  and  deep,  good  Moses. 


Let  your  Majesty 
Keep  the  Boars  quiet,  else  — 

SWEULFOOT 

Zephaniah,  cut  80 
That  fat  Hog's  throat,  the   brute   seems 

overfed ; 
Seditious   hunks !    to   whine   for  want  of 

grains  1 

ZEPHANIAH 

Your  sacred  Majesty,  he  has  the  dropsy. 
We  shall  find  pints  of  hydatids  in  's  liver; 
He  has  not  half  an  inch  of  wholesome  fat 
Upon  his  carious  ribs  — 

8WTLLFOOT 

'T  is  all  the  same. 

He  '11  serve  instead  of  riot-money,  when 

Our  murmuring  troops  bivouac  in  Thebes' 
streets; 

And  January  winds,  after  a  day 

Of  butchering,  will  make  them  relish  car- 
rion. 90 

Now,  Solomon,  I  '11  sell  you  in  a  lump 

The  whole  kit  of  them. 


1  could  not  give  — 


Why,  yoQP  Majesty, 


SWELLFOOT 

Kill  them  out  of  the  way  — 
That  shall  be  price  enough;  and  let  me 

hear 
Their  everlasting  grunts   and  whines   no 
more ! 

[Exeunt,  driving  in  the  Swine. 

Enter  Mammon,  the  Arch-Priest ;   and  Pur- 
OANAX,  Chief  of  the  Council  of  Wizards 

PURGANAX 

The  future  looks  as  black  as  death;  a  cloud, 

Dark  as  the  frown  of  Hell,  hangs  over  it. 

The  troops  grow  mutinous,  the  revenue 
fails. 

There  's  something  rotten  in  us ;  for  the 
level  99 

Of  the  state  slopes,  its  very  bases  topple; 

The  boldest  turn  their  backs  upon  them- 
selves 1 

mammon 
Why,  what 's  the  matter,  my  dear  fellow, 

now? 
Do  the   troops  mutiny  ?  —  decimate  some 

regiments. 
Does  money  fail  ?  —  come  to  my  mint  — 

coin  paper, 
Till  gold  be  at  a  discount,  and,  ashamed 
To  show  his  bilious  face,  go  purge  himself. 
In  emulation  of  her  vestal  whiteness. 

PTJRGANAX 

Oh,  would  that  this  were  all !  The  ora- 
cle !  ! 


Why  it  was  I  who  spoke  that  oracle,        105 
And  whether  I  was  dead-drunk  or  inspired 
I  cannot  well  remember;  nor,  in  truth, 
The  oracle  itself  I 

PURGANAX 

The  words  went  thus: 
*  BcBotia,  choose  reform  or  civil  war. 
When  through  thy  streets,  instead  of  hare 

with  dogs, 
A  Consort-Queen  shall  hunt  a  King  with 

hogs, 
Riding  on  the  Ionian  Minotaur.' 

MAMMON 

Now  if  the  oracle  had  ne'er  foretold 
This  sad  alternative,  it  must  arrive, 


ACT  I 


OR,   SWELLFOOT  THE  TYRANT 


287 


Or  not,  and  so  it  must  now  that  it  has; 
And  whether  I  was  urged  hy  grace  divine 
Or  Lesbian  liquor  to  declai-e  these  words, 
Which  must,  as  all  words  must,  be  false 

or  true,  122 

It  matters  not;  for  the  same  power  made 

all, 
Oracle,  wine,  and  me  and  you  —  or  none  — 
'T  is  the  same  thing.    If  you  knew  as  much 
Of  oracles  as  I  do  — 

PURGANAX 

You  arch-priests 
Believe  in  nothing;  if  you  were  to  dream 
Of  a  particular  number  in  the  lottery, 
You  would  not  buy  the  ticket ! 


Yet  our  tickets 
Are  seldom  blanks.     But  what  steps  have 

you  taken  ?  130 

For  prophecies,  when  once  they  get  abroad, 
Like  liars  who  tell  the  truth  to  serve  their 

ends. 
Or  hypocrites,  who,  from  assuming  virtue. 
Do  the  same  actions  that  the  virtuous  do. 
Contrive  their  own  fulfilment.    This  lona  — 
Well  —  you  know  what  the  chaste  Pasiphae 

did. 
Wife  to  that  most  religious  King  of  Crete, 
And  still  how  popular  the  tale  is  here; 
And  these  dull  Swine  of  Thebes  boast  their 

descent 
From  the  free  Minotaur.     You  know  they 

still  140 

Call  themselves  Bulls,  though  thus  degen- 
erate ; 
And  everything  relating  to  a  Bull 
Is  popular  and  respectable  in  Thebes; 
Their  arms  are  seven  Bulls  in  a  field  gules; 
They  think  their  strength  consists  in  eatijig 

beef; 
Now  there  were  danger  in  the  precedent 
If  Queen  lona  — 

PtJBGANAX 

I  have  taken  good  care 
That  shall  not  be.     I  struck  the  crust  o' 

the  earth 
With  this   enchanted  rod,  and  Hell  lay 

bare  ! 
And  from  a  cavern  full  of  ugly  shapes,   iso 
I  chose  a  Leech,  a  Gadfly,  and  a  Rat. 
The  gadfly  was  the  same  which  Juno  sent 
To  agitate  It,  and  which  Ezekiel  mentions 


That  the   Lord   whistled   for  out  of  the 

mountains 
Of  utmost  Ethiopia  to  torment 
Mesopotaniian  Babylon.     The  beast 
Has  a  loud  trumpet  like  the  Scarabee; 
His  crooked  tail    is    barbed    with    many 

stings, 
Each  able  to  make  a  thousand  wounds,  and 

each 
Immedicable ;  from  his  convex  eyes  16c 

He  sees  fair  things  in  many  hideous  shapes. 
And   trumpets   all    his    falsehood   to    the 

world. 
Like  other  beetles  he  is  fed  on  dung; 
He  has  eleven  feet  with  which  he  crawls, 
Trailing  a  blistering  slime;  and  this  foul 

beast 
Has  tracked  lona  from  the  Theban  limits, 
From  isle  to  isle,  from  city  unto  city, 
Urging  her  flight  from  the  far  Chersonese 
To  fabulous  Solyma  and  tlie  JEtnean  Isle, 
Ortygia,  Melite,  and  Calypso's  Rock,       17c 
And  the  swart  tribes  of  Garamaut  and  Fez, 
iEolia  and  Elysium,  and  thy  shore?, 
Parthenope,  which  now,  alas  !  are  free  ! 
And  through  the  fortunate  Saturnian  land 
Into  the  darkness  of  the  West. 

HAMMOK 

Bat  if 
This  Gadfly  should  drive  lona  hither  ? 

PITKGANAX 

Gods  !  what  an  ifl  but  there  is  my  gray 

Rat, 
So  thin  with  want  he  can  crawl  in  and  out 
Of  any  narrow  chink  and  filthy  hole,        179 
And  he  shall  creep  into  her  dressing-room. 
And  — 


My  dear  friend,  where  are  your  wits  ? 

as  if 
She  does  not  always  toast  a  piece  of  cheese, 
And   bait  the  trap  ?  and  rats,  when  lean 

enough 
To  crawl  through  such  chinks  — 

PtTRGANAX 

But  my  Leech  —  a  leech 
Fit  to  suck  blood,  with   lubricous  round 

.rings, 
Capaciously  expatiative,  which  make 
His  little  body  like  a  red  balloon, 
As  full  of  blood  as  that  of  hydrogen, 


288 


CEDIPUS   TYRANNUS 


ACT   I 


Sucked  from  men's  hearts;  insatiably  lie 

sucks 
And  clings  and  pulls  —  a  horse-leech  whose 

deep  maw  190 

The  plethoric   King  Swellfoot  could  not 

fill, 
And  who,  till  full,  will  cling  forever. 


This 
For  Queen  lona  might  suffice,  and  less; 
But 't  is  the  Swinish  multitude  I  fear, 
And  in  that  fear  I  have  — 

PUKGANAX 

Done  what  ? 

MAMMON 

Disinherited 
My  eldest  son  Chrysaor,  because  he 
Attended  public  meetings,  and  would  al- 
ways 
Stand  prating  there  of  commerce,  public 

faith, 
Economy,  and  unadulterate  coin, 
And  other  topics,  ultra-radical;  200 

And  have  entailed  my  estate,  called  the 

Fool's  Paradise, 
And  funds  in  fairy-money,  bonds,  and  bills. 
Upon  my  accomplished  daughter  Bankno- 

tina, 
And  married  her  to  the  Gallows. 

PTTBGANAX 

A  good  match  ! 

MAMMON 

A  high  connection,  Purganax.    The  bride- 
groom 
Is  of  a  very  ancient  family. 
Of  Hounslow  Heath,  Tyburn,  and  the  New 

Drop, 
And  has  great  influence  in  both  Houses. 

Oh, 
He  makes  the  fondest  husband;  nay,  too 

fond  — 
New  married  people  should  not  kiss   in 

public;  210 

But  the  poor  souls  love  one  another  so  ! 
And    then    my   little    grandchildren,   the 

Gibbets, 
Promising  children  as  you  ever  saw,  — 
The  young  playing  at  hanging,  the  elder 

learning 


How  to    hold    radicals.     They    are    well 

taught  too. 
For  every  Gibbet  says  its  catechism. 
And  reads  a  select  chapter  in  the  Bible 
Before  it  goes  to  play. 

(A  most  tremendous  humming  is  heard) 

PUBGANAX 

Ha  !  what  do  I  hear  ? 
Erder  the  Gadfly 

MAMMON 

Your  Gadfly,  as  it  seems,  is  tired  of  gad- 
ding. 


Hum,  hum,  hum  !  220 

From  the  lakes  of  the  Alps  and  the  cold 
gray  scalps 

Of  the  mountains,  I  come  ! 

Hum,  hum,  hum  ! 
From  Morocco    and  Fez,  and    the    high 
palaces 

Of  golden  Byzantium ; 
From  the  temples  divine  of  old  Palestine, 

From  Athens  and  Rome, 

With  a  ha  !  and  a  hum  1 

I  come,  I  come  ! 


230 


All  inn-doors  and  windows 

Were  open  to  me; 
I  saw  all  that  sin  does, 
Which  lamps  hardly  see 
That  burn  in  the  night  by  the  curtained 

bed  — 
The  impudent  lamps  !  for  they  blushed  not 
red. 
Dinging  and  singing. 
From  slumber  I  rung  her, 
^    Loud  as   the   clank  of    an   ironmon- 
ger; 
Hum,  hum,  hum  t 

Far,  far,  far,  240 

With  the  trump  of  my  lips  and  the  sting 
at  my  hips, 
I  drove  her  —  afar  I 
Far,  far,  far. 
From  city  to  city,  abandoned  of  pity, 

A  ship  without  needle  or  star; 
Homeless  she  passed,  like  a  cloud  on  the 
blast, 
Seeking  peace,  finding  war; 
She  is  here  in  her  car, 


ACT  I 


OR,   SWELLFOOT  THE  TYRANT 


289 


From  afar,  and  afar. 
Hum,  hum  1 


250 


I  have  stung  her  and  wrung  her  ! 

The  venom  is  working; 
And  if  you  had  hung  her 
With  canting  and  quirking, 
She  could  not  be  deader  than  she  will  be 

soon; 
I  have  driven  her  close  to  you,  under  the 
moon, 
Night  and  day,  hum,  hnni,  ha  ! 
I  have  hummed  her  and  drummed  her 
From  place  to  place,  till  at  last   I  have 
dumbed  her. 
Hum,  hum,  hum  !  a6o 

Enter  the  Leech  and  the  Bat 

LEECH 

I  will  suck 

Blood  or  muck  ! 
The  disease  of  the  state  is  a  plethory, 
AVho  so  fit  to  reduce  it  as  I  ? 

KAT 

I  '11  slyly  seize  and 
Let  blood  from  her  weasand,  — 
Creeping  through  crevice,  and  chink,  and 

cranny. 
With  my  snaky  tail,  and    my  sides    so 
scranny. 

P0KGAKAX 

Aroint  ye,  thou  unprofitable  worm  \ 

{To  the  Leech) 
And  thou,  dull  beetle,  get  thee  back  to 
hell,  270 

(To  <Ae  Gadfly) 
To  sting  the  ghosts  of  Babylonian  kings. 
And  the  ox-headed  lo. 

8WINK  {within) 

Ugh,  ugh,  ugh  ! 
Hail,  lona  the  divine  ! 
We  will  be  no  longer  Swine, 
But  Bulls  with  horns  and  dewlaps. 


For, 
You  know,  my  lord,  the  Minotaur  — 

PURGANAX  {fiercely) 
Be  silent !  get  to  hell !  or  I  will  call 


The  cat  out  of  the  kitchen.     Well,  Lord 

Mammon, 
This  is  a  pretty  business  ! 

\_Exit  the  Rat. 

IIAMUON 

I  will  go 
And  spell   some  scheme  to  make  it  ugly 
then.  280 

[Exit. 
Enter  Swellfoot 

8WBLLF00T 
She  is  returned  !     Taurina  is  in  Thebes 
When  Swellfoot  wishes  that  she  were  in 
hell ! 

0  Hymen  !  clothed  in  yellow  jealousy 
And   waving  o'er  the  couch   of   wedded 

kings 
The  torch  of  Discord  with  its  fiery  hair  — 
This   is   thy  work,  thou   patron   saiut   of 

queens ! 
Swellfoot  is  wived !  tliough  parted  by  the 

sea. 
The  very  name  of  wife  had  conjugal  rights; 
Her  cursed  image  ate,  drank,  slept  with 

me. 
And  in  the  arms  of  Adiposa  oft  ago 

Her  memory  has  received  a  husband's  — 

{A  loud  tumult,  and  cries  of '  Iona  fokeveb  ! 
—  No  Swellfoot  ! ') 

SWELLFOOT 

Hark! 
How  the  Swine  cry  Iona  Taurina  ! 

1  suffer  the  real  presence.     Purgauax, 
Off  with  her  head  ! 

PURGANAX 

But  I  must  first  impanel 
A  jury  of  the  Pigs. 

SWELLFOOT 

Pack  them  then. 

PXTBGANAX 

Or  fattening  some  few  in  two  separate  sties, 
And  giving  them  clean  straw,  tying  some 

bits 
Of  ribbon  round  their  legs  —  giving  their 

Sows 
Some  tawdry  lace  and  bits  of  lustre  glass, 
And  their  young  Boars  white  and  red  rags, 

and  tails  300 


290 


CEDIPUS   TYRANNUS 


ACT  I 


Of  cows,  and  jay   feathers,  and  sticking 

cauliflowers 
Between  the  ears  of  the  old  ones;  and  when 
They  are  persuaded  that,  by  the  inherent 

virtue 
Of  these  things,  they  are  all  imperial  Pigs, 
Good  Lord  !  they  'd  rip  each  other's  bellies 

up, 
Not  to  say  help  us  in  destroying  her. 

SWELUFOOT 

This  plan  might  be  tried   too.     Where  's 

General 
Laoctouos  ? 

Enter  Laoctouos 
It  is  my  royal  pleasure 
That  you.  Lord  General,  bring  the  head 

and  body, 
L£    separate   it   would  please   me   better, 
hither  310 

Of  Queen  lona. 

IiAOCTONOS 

That  pleasure  I  well  knew, 
And  made  a  charge  with  those  battalions 

hold. 
Called,   from    their  dress  and   grin,   the 

Royal  Apes, 
Upon  the  Swine,  who  in  a  hollow  square 
Enclosed  her,  and  received  the  first  attack 
Like  so  many  rhinoceroses,  and  then 
Retreating  in  good  order,  with  bare  tusks 
And  wrinkled  snouts  presented  to  the  foe. 
Bore  her  in  triumph  to  the  public  sty. 
What  is  still  worse,  some  Sows  upon  the 

ground  320 

Have  given  the  Ape-guards  apples,  nuts 

and  gin. 
And  they  all  whisk  their  tails  aloft,  and 

cry, 
'  Long  live  lona  !  down  with  Swellf oot ! ' 


PCBQANAZ 


Hark. 


THE  SWINE  (without) 

Long  live  lona  !  down  with  Swellfoot ! 


Enter  Dakbt 

DAKKT 


Went  to  the  garret  of  the  Swineherd's 
tower, 


Which  overlooks  the  sty,  and  made  a  long 
Harangue    (all   words)   to  the   assembled 

Swine, 
Of  delicacy,  mercy,  judgment,  law, 
Morals,  and  precedents,  and  purity. 
Adultery,  destitution,  and  divorce,  330 

Piety,  faith,  and  state  necessity. 
And  how  I  loved  the  Queen  S  —  and  then 

I  wept 
With  the  pathos  of  my  own  eloquence. 
And    every   tear    turned    to   a    millstone 

which 
Brained  many  a  gaping  Pig,  and  there  was 

made 
A  slough   of  blood  and  brains  upon  the 

place, 
Greased  with  the   pounded  bacon;  round 

and  round 
The  millstones  rolled,  ploughing  the  pave- 
ment up. 
And  hurling  sucking  Pigs  into  the  air, 
With  dust  and  stones. 

Enter  Mammon 


I  wonder  that  gray  wizards 
Like  you  should  be  so  beardless  in  their 
schemes;  34* 

It  had  been  but  a  point  of  policy 
To  keep  lona  and  the  Swine  apart. 
Divide  and  rule  !  but  ye  have  made  a  junc- 
tion 
Between  two  parties  who  will  govern  you. 
But  for  my  art.  —  Behold  this  Bag  !  it  is 
The  poison  Bag  of  that  Green  Spicier  huge. 
On   which   our  spies  skulked   in    ovation 

through 
The  streets  of  Thebes,  when   they   were 
paved  with  dead :  349 

A  bane  so  much  the  deadlier  fills  it  now 
As  calumny  is  worse  than  death;  for  here 
The  Gadfly's  venom,  fifty  times  distilled. 
Is  mingled  with  the  vomit  of  the  Leech, 
In  due    proportion,   and    black    ratsbane, 

which 
That  very  Rat,  who,  like  the  Pontic  ty- 
rant. 
Nurtures  himself  on  poison,  dare  not  touch. 
All  is  sealed   up  with  the   broad  seal  of 

Fraud, 
Who  is  the  Devil's  Lord  High  Chancellor, 
And  over  it  the  Primate  of  all  Hell 
Murmured  this  pious  baptism:  — '  Be  thou 
called  360 


ACT   II  :   SC.    I 


OR,    SWELLFOOT  THE  TYRANT 


291 


The  Green  Bag;  and  this  power  and  grace 

be  thine: 
That  thy  contents,  on  whomsoever  poured, 
Turn  innocence  to  guilt,  and  gentlest  looks 
To  savage,  foul,  and  fierce  deformity; 
Let  all  baptized  by  thy  infernal  dew 
Be  called  adulterer,  drunkard,  liar,  wretch  ! 
No  name  left  out  which  orthodoxy  loves, 
Court  Journal  or  legitimate  Review  ! 
Be  they  called  tyrant,  beast,  fool,  glutton, 

lover 
Of  other  wives  and  husbands  than  their 

own  —  370 

The  heaviest  sin  on  this  side  of  the  Alps  ! 
Wither  they  to  a  ghastly  caricature 
Of  what  was  human !  —  let   not  man  or 

beast 
Behold  their  face  with  unaverted  eyes. 
Or  hear  their  names  with  ears  that  tingle 

not 
With    blood    of    indignation,    rage,    and 

shame  ! ' 
This  is  a  perilous  liquor,  good  my  Lords. 
fSwELLFOOT  approaches  to  touch  the  Green  Bag. 
Beware  !  for  God's  sake,  beware  !  — if  you 

should  break 
The  seal,  and  touch  the  fatal  liquor  — 

PUHGANAX 

There, 
Give  it  to  me.     I  have  been  used  to  handle 
All  sorts  of  poisons.     His  dread  Majesty 
Only  desires  to  see  the  color  of  it.  382 

MAMMON 

Now,   with  a  little    common    sense,    my 

Lords, 
Only  undoing  all  that  has  been  done, 
(Yet  so  as  it  may  seem  we  but  confirm  it) 
Our  victory  is  assured.     We  must  entice 
Her  Majesty  from  the  sty,  and  make  the 

Pigs 
Believe   that  the   contents   of   the   Green 

Bag 
Are  the  true  test  of  guilt  or  innocence; 
And  that,  if  she  be  guilty,  't  will  transform 

her  390 

To  manifest  deformity  like  guilt; 
If  innocent,  she  will  become  transfigured 
Into  an  angel,  such  as  they  say  she  is; 
And  they  will  see  her  flying  through  the 

air, 
So  bright  that  she  will  dim  the  noonday 

sun, 


Showering  down  blessings  in  the  shape  of 

comfits. 
This,   trust  a  priest,  is  just  the   sort  of 

thing 
Swine  will  believe.     I  '11  wager  you  will 

see  them 
Climbing  upon  the  thatch  of  their  low  sties, 
With  pieces  of  smoked  glass,  to  watch  her 

sail  400 

Among  the  clouds,  and  some  will  hold  the 

flaps 
Of  one  another's  ears  between  their  teeth, 
To  catch  the  coming  hail  of  comfits  in. 
You,  Purganax,  who  have  the  gift  o'  the 

Make  them  a  solemn  speech  to  this  effect. 
I  go  to  put  in  readiness  the  feast 
Kept  to  the  honor  of  our  goddess  Famine, 
Where,  for  more  glory,  let  the  ceremony 
Take  place  of  the  uglification  of  the  Queeu. 

DAKRY  {to  SWELLFOOt) 

I,  as  the  keeper  of  your  sacred  conscience. 
Humbly   remind   your   Majesty    that    the 
care  411 

Of  your  high  office,  as  Man-milliner 
Te  red  Bellona,  should  not  be  deferred. 

PURGANAX 

All  part,  in  happier  plight  to  meet  again. 

l^Exeunt. 


ACT   II 

Scene  I.—  The  Public  Sty.     The  Boars  in  full 

Assembly/. 

Enter  Pubganax 

PURGANAX 

Grant  me  your  patience.  Gentlemen  and 

Boars, 
Ye,  by  whose  patience  under  public  bur- 
dens 
The  glorious  constitution  of  these  sties 
Subsists,  and  shall  subsist.     The  Lean-Pig 

rates 
Grow  with  the  growing  populace  of  Swine; 
The  taxes,  that  true  source  of  Piggishness, 
(How  can  I  find  a  more  appropriate  term 
To   include   religion,    morals,    peace   and 

plenty, 
And  all  that  fit  Bceotia  as  a  nation 
To  teach  the  other  nations  how  to  live  ?)  10 


292 


CEDIPUS  TYRANNUS 


ACT  II:  sc.   I 


Increase  with  Piggishness  itself;  and  still 
Does  the  revenue,  that  great  spring  of  all 
The  patronage,  and  pensions,  and  by-pay- 
ments. 
Which  free-bom  Pigs  regard  with  jealous 

eyes, 
Diminish,  till  at  length,  by  glorious  steps, 
All  the  land's  produce  will  be  merged  in 

taxes. 
And  the  revenue  will  amount  to no- 
thing ! 
The  failure  of  a  foreign  market  for 
Sausages,  bristles,  and  blood-puddings. 
And  such  home  manufactures,  is  but  par- 
tial ;  20 
And,  that  the  population  of  the  Pigs, 
Instead  of  hog-wash,  has  been  fed  on  straw 
And    water,    is    a    fact    which    is  —  you 

know  — 
That  is  —  it  is  a  state  necessity  — 
Temporary,    of    course.      Those    impious 

Pigs, 
Who,  by  frequent  squeaks,  have  dared  im- 
pugn 
The  settled  Swellfoot  system,  or  to  make 
Irreverent  mockery  of  the  genuflexions 
Inculcated  by  the  arch-priest,  have  been 

whipped 
Into  a  loyal  and  an  orthodox  whine.  30 

Things  being  in  this  happy  state,  the  Queen 

lona 

(A  loud  cry  from  the  Pigs) 

She  is  innocent,  most  innocent  ! 

PUBGANAX 

That  is  the  very  thing  that  I  was  saying. 
Gentlemen  Swine;  the  Queen  lona  being 
Most  innocent,  no  doubt,  returns  to  Thebes, 
And  the  lean  Sows  and  Boars  collect  about 

her, 
Wishing  to  make  her  think  that  we  believe 
(I  mean  those  more  substantial  Pigs  who 

swill 
Rich  hog-wash,   while    the   others  month 

damp  straw) 
That  she  is  guilty;  thus,  the  Lean-Pig  fac- 
tion 40 
Seeks  to  obtain  that  hog-wash,  which  has 

been 
Your  immemorial  right,  and  which  I  will 
Maintain  you  in  to  the  last  drop  of  — 


A  BOAK  (interrupting  him) 
Does  any  one  accuse  her  of  ? 


What 


PURGAKAX 

Why,  no  one 
Makes  any  positive  accusation ;  but 
There  were  hints  dropped,  and  so  the  privy 

wizards 
Conceived  that  it  became  them  to  advise 
His  Majesty  to  investigate  their  truth; 
Not  for  his  own  sake ;  he  could  be  content 
To  let  his  wife  play  any  pranks  she  pleased. 
If,  by  that  sufferance,  he  could  please  the 

Pigs;  s> 

But  then  he  fears  the  morals  of  the  Swine, 
The  Sows  especially,  and  what  effect 
It  might  produce  upon  the  purity  and 
Religion  of  the  rising  generation 
Of  sucking  Pigs,  if  it  could  be  suspected 
That  Queen  lona  — 

{Apauie) 

FIEST  BOAR 

Well,  go  on;  we  long 
To  hear  what  she  can  possibly  have  done. 

PURGANAX 

Why,  it  is  hinted,  that  a  certain  Bull  — 
Thus   much    is   known :  —  the   milk-white 
Bulls  that  feed  60 

Beside  Clitumnus  and  the  crystal  lakes 
Of  the  Cisalpine  mountains,  in  fresh  dews 
Of  lotus-grass  and  blossoming  asphodel 
Sleeking  their  silken  hair,  and  with  sweet 

breath 
Loading    the    morning  winds    until   they 

faint 
With  living  fragrance,  are  so  beautiful ! 
Well,  /say  nothing;  but  Europa  rode 
On  such  a  one  from  Asia  into  Crete, 
And  the   enamoured  sea  grew  calm  be- 
neath 
His  gliding  beauty.     And  Pasiphae,  70 

lona's  grandmother, but  she  is  inno- 
cent ! 
And  that  both  you  and  I,  and  all  assert. 


FIRST  BOAS 


Most  innocent  ! 

PUKGANAX 

Behold  this  Bag;  a  Bag  — 

SECOND   BOAR 

Oh  !  no   Green  Bags  !  !     Jealousy's   eyes 

are  green. 
Scorpions   are    green,    and    water-snakes, 

and  efts, 
And  verdigris,  and  — 


ACT  II :  sc.  I  OR,    SWELLFOOT  THE  TYRANT 


293 


PUBGANAX 

Honorable  Swine, 
In  Piggish  souls  can  prepossessions  reign  ? 
Allow  me  to  remind  you,  grass  is  green  — 
All  flesh  is  grass ;  no  bacon  but  is  flesh  — 
Ye  are  but  bacon.  This  divining  Bag  80 
(Which  is  not  green,  but  only  bacon  color) 
Is  filled  with  liquor,  which  if  sprinkled  o'er 
A  woman  guilty  of  —  we  all  know  what  — 
Makes   her  so   liideous,  till  she  finds  one 

blind 
She  never  can  commit  the  like  again; 
If  innocent,  she  will  turn  into  an  angel 
And  rain  down  blessings  in   the  shape  of 

comfits 
As  she  flies  up  to  heaven.     Now,  my  pro- 
posal 
Is  to  convert  her  sacred  Majesty  89 

Into  an  angel  (as  I  am  sure  we  shall  do) 
By  pouring  on  her  head  this  mystic  water. 
[Showing  the  Bag. 
I  know  that  she  is  innocent ;  I  wish 
Only  to  prove  her  so  to  all  the  world. 

FIRST   BOAB 

Excellent,  just,  and  noble  Purganax  f 

gECOND   BOAB 

How  glorious  it  will  be  to  see  her  Majesty 
Flying  above  our  heads,  he?  petticoats 
Streaming  like  —  like  —  like  — 

THIKD  BOAB 

Anything, 

PUBGANAX 

Oh,  no  ! 
But  like  a  standard  of  an  admiral's  ship, 
Or  like  the  banner  of  a  conquering  host. 
Or  like  a  cloud  dyed  in  the  dying  day,     100 
Unravelled  on    the  blast    from    a    white 

mountain; 
Or  like  a  meteor,  or  a  war-steed's  mane, 
Or  waterfall  from  a  dizzy  precipice 
Scattered  upon  the  wind. 

FIBST  BOAB 

Or  a  eow'g  tail,  — 

SECOND  BOAB 

Or  anything,  as  the  learned  Boar  observed. 

FUBGANAX 

Gentlemen  Boars,  I  move  a  resolution, 
That  her  most  sacred  Majesty  should  be 


Invited  to  attend  the  feast  of  Famine, 
And    to   receive    upon   her    chaste  white 

body 
Dews  of  apotheosis  from  this  Bag.  no 

[A  great  confusion  is  heard,  of  the  Pigs  out  of 
Doors,  which  communicates  itself  to  those 
within.  During  the  Jirst  strophe,  the  doors 
of  the  sty  are  staved  in,  and  a  number  of  ex- 
ceedingly lean  Pigs  and  Sows  and  Moarit 
rush  in. 

SEMICUOBUS  I 

No  !  Yes  ! 

SEMICHOBUS  U 

Yesl  No! 

SEMICHORTJS    I 

A  law ! 

SEMICHOBUS   n 

A  flaw! 

SEMICHOBUS  I 

Porkers,  we  shall  lose  our  wash. 

Or  must  share  it  with  the  Lean- Pigs  1 

FIRST  BOAR 

Order  !  order  !  be  not  rash  ! 

Was  there  ever  such  a  scene.  Pigs  f 

AK  OLD  sow  (rushing  in) 
I  never  saw  so  fine  a  dash 
Since  I  first  began  to  wean  Pigs.       120 

SECOND  BOAR  (solemnly) 
The  Queen  will  be  an  angel  time  enough. 
I  vote,  in  form  of  an  amendment,  that 
Purganax  rub  a  little  of  that  stnff 
Upon  his  face  — 

PUBGANAX  (his  heart  is  seen  to  beat  through  his 
waistcoat) 

Gods  !  What  would  ye  be  at  ? 

SEMICHOBUS   I 

Purganax  has  plainly  shown  a 
Cloven  foot  and  jackdaw  feather. 

SEMICHORUS    II 

I  vote  Swellfoot  and  lona 
Try  the  magic  test  together; 
Whenever  royal  spouses  bicker. 
Both  should  try  the  magic  liquor,     131 


294 


CEDIPUS  TYRANNUS 


ACT  II  :   SC.   I 


AN  OLD  BOAB  (aside) 
A  miserable  state  is  that  of  Pigs, 
For  if  their  drivers  would  tear  caps  and 
wigs, 
The  Swiue  must  bite  each  other's  ear  there- 
for. 

AN  OLD  sow  (aside) 
A  wretched  lot  Jove   has  assigned  to 

Swine, 
Squabbling  makes  Pig-herds  hungry,  and 
they  dine 
On  bacon,  and  whip  sucking  Pigs  the  more. 

CHORUS 

Hog- wash  has  been  ta'en  away; 
If  the  Bull-Queen  is  divested. 
We  shall  be  in  every  way 

Hunted,  stripped,  exposed,  molested ; 
Let  us  do  whate'er  we  may,  141 

That  she  shall  not  be  arrested. 
Queen,  we   entrench    you  with    walls    of 
brawn. 
And  palisades  of  tusks,  sharp  as  a  bayo- 
net. 
Place  your  most  Sacred  Person  here.     We 
pawn 
Our  lives  that  none  a  finger  dare  to  lay 
on  it. 
Those  who  wrong  you,  wrong  us; 
Those  who  hate  you,  hate  us; 
Those  who  sting  you,  sting  us; 
Those  who  bait  you,  bait  us;  130 

The  oracle  is  now  about  to  be 
Fulfilled  by  circumvolving  destiny. 
Which  says:    'Thebes,   choose  reform  or 
civil  war. 
When   through  your  streets,  instead  of 

hare  with  dogs, 
A  Consort-Queen  shall  hunt  a  King  with 
hogs. 
Riding  upon  the  Ionian  Minotaur.' 

Enter  loNA  Taurina 

lONA  TAURINA  (coming  forward) 
Gentlemen  Swine,  and  gentle  Lady-Pigs, 
The  tender  heart  of  every  Boar  acquits 
Their  Queen  of  any  act  incongruous         159 
With  native  Piggishness,  and  she  reposing 
With  confidence  upon  the  grunting  nation. 
Has  thrown  herself,  her  cause,  her  life,  her 

all, 
Her  innocence,  into  their  Hoggish  arms; 
XtTor  has  the  expectation  been  deceived 


Of  finding  shelter  there.     Yet  know,  great 

Boars, 
(For  such  whoever  lives  among  you  finds 

you. 
And  so  do  I)  the  innocent  are  proud  i 
I  have  accepted  your  protection  only 
In  compliment  of  your  kind  love  and  Care, 
Not  for  necessity.     The  innocent  170 

Are  safest  there  where  trials  and  dangers 

wait; 
Innocent    queens   o'er  white-hot    plough- 
shares tread 
Unsinged;  and  ladies,  Erin's  laureate  sings 

it. 
Decked  with  rare  gems,  and  beauty  rarer 

still. 
Walked    from    Killarney   to  the    Giant's 

Causeway 
Through  rebels,  smugglers,  troops  of  yeo- 
manry. 
White-boys,  and  Orange-boys,  and  consta- 
bles. 
Tithe-proctors,   and  excise    people,   unin- 
jured ! 
Thus  I !  — 

Lord  Purganax,  I  do  commit  myself        180 
Into  your  custody,  and  am  prepared 
To  stand  the  test,  whatever  it  may  be  ! 

«  PURGANAX 

This  magnanimity  in  your  sacred  Msvjesty 
Must  please  the  Pigs.     You  cannot  fail  of 

being 
A  heavenly  angel.     Smoke  your  bits   of 

glass, 
Ye  loyal  Swine,  or  her  transfiguration 
Will  blind  your  wondering  eyes. 

AN  OLD  BOAR  (aside) 

Take  care,  my  Lord, 
They  do  not  smoke  you  first. 

PURGANAX 

At  the  approaching  feast 
Of  Famine  let  the  expiation  be. 


Content     content ! 

lONA  TAURINA  (aside) 

I,  most  content  of  all,     190 
Know  that  my  foes  even  thus  prepare  their 
falll 

[Exeunt  omnes. 


ACT  II :  sc.  II        OR,    SWELLFOOT  THE  TYRANT 


295 


Scene  II.  —  The  interior  of  the  Temple  of  Fam- 
ine. The  statue  of  the  Goddess,  a  skeleton 
clothed  in  party-colored  rags,  seated  upon  a 
heap  of  skulls  and  loaves  intermingled.  A 
number  of  exceedingly  fat  Priests  in  black  gar- 
ments arrayed  on  each  side,  ivith  marrow-bones 
and  cleavers  in  their  hands.  A  flourish  of 
trumpets. 

Enter  Mammon  as  Arch-priest,  Swellfoot, 
Dakry,  Pukganax,  lJAOCTO^os,  followed 
by  loNA  Ta0Rina  guarded.  On  the  other 
side  enter  the  Swine. 

CHonus  OF  PRIESTS  (accompanied  by  the  Court 
Porkman  on  marrow-bones  and  cleavers) 

Goddess  bare,  and  gaunt,  and  pale. 
Empress  of  the  world,  all  hail  ! 
What  though  Cretans  old  called  thee 
City-crested  Cybele  ? 
We  call  thee  Famine  ! 
Goddess  of  fasts  and  feasts,  starving  and 

cramming; 
Through   thee,   for  emperors,   kings  and 

priests  and  lords. 
Who  rule  by  viziers,  sceptres,  bank-notes, 
words, 
The  earth  pours  forth  its  plenteous  fruits, 
Corn,  wool,  linen,  flesh,  and  roots.  10 

Those  who  consume  these  fruits   through 
thee  grow  fat. 
Those  who  produce  these  fruits  through 
thee  grow  lean, 
Whatever  change  takes  place,  oh,  stick  to 
that, 
And   let   things   be   as  they  have  ever 

been; 
At  least  while  we  remain  thy  priests, 
And  proclaim  thy  fasts  and  feasts  ! 
Tlirough  thee  the  sacred  Swellfoot  dynasty 
Is  based  upon  a  rock  amid  that  sea 
Whose  waves  are  Swine  —  so  let  it  ever  be  ! 

[Swellfoot,  etc.,  seat  themselves  at  a  table, 
magnificently  covered,  at  the  upper  end  of  the 
temple.  Attendants  pass  over  the  stage  with 
hog-wash  in  pails.  A  number  of  Pigs,  ex- 
ceedingly lean,  follow  them,  licking  up  the 
wash. 

MAMMON 

I  fear  your  sacred  Majesty  has  lost  20 

The  appetite  which  you  were  used  to  have. 
Allow  me  now  to  recommend  this  dish  — 
A  simple  kickshaw  by  your  Persian  cook, 
Such  as  is  served  at  the  great  King's  second 
table. 


The  price  and  pains  which  its  ingredients 

cost 
Might  have  maintained  some  dozen  families 
A  winter  or  two  —  not  more  —  so  plain  a 

dish 
Could  scarcely  disagree. 

SWELLFOOT 

After  the  trial. 
And  tliese  fastidious  Pig.T  are  gone,  perhaps 
I  mr.y  recover  my  lost  appetite.  30 

I  feel  the  gout  flying  about  my  stomach; 
Give  me  a  glass  of  Maraschino  punch. 

PURGANAX  (filling  his  glass,  and  standing  up) 
The  glorious  constitution  cf  the  Pigs  ! 


A  toast !    a  toast  !    stand  up,  and  three 
times  three  1 

DAKKT 

No  heel-taps  —  darken  day-lights  ! 

LAOCTONOS 

Claret,  somehow, 
Puts  me  in  mind  of  blood,  and  blood  of 
claret ! 

SWELLFOOT 

Laoctonos  is  fishing  for  a  compliment; 
But  't  is   his   due.     Yes,  you  have   drunk 

more  wine, 
And  shed   more  blood,  than  any  man   in 

Thebes. 

(To  PUKGANAX) 

For  God's  sake  stop  the  grunting  of  those 
Pigs !  40 

PURGANAX 

We  dare   not,  Sire  !  't  is  Famine's  privi- 
lege. 

CHORUS  OF  SWINE 

Hail  to  thee,  hail  to  thee,  Famine  ! 

Thy  throne  is  on  blood,  and  thy  robe  is 
of  rags; 
Thou  devil  which  livest  on  damning; 

Saint   of   new   churches   and   cant,  and 
Green  Bags; 
Till  in  pity  and  terror  thou  risest, 
Confounding  the  schemes  of  the  wisest; 
Wlien  thou  liftest  thy  skeleton  form, 
When   the  loaves  and    the   skulls   roll 
about. 


296 


CEDIPUS  TYRANNUS 


ACT   II  :   SC.    II 


We  will  greet  thee  —  the  voice  of  a  storm 
Would  be  lost  iu  our  terrible  shout !     51 

Then  hail  to  thee,  hail  to  thee,  Famine  ! 

Hail  to  thee,  Empress  of  Earth  ! 
When  thou  risest,  dividing  possessions. 
When  thou  risest,  uprooting  oppressions, 

In  the  pride  of  thy  ghastly  mirth; 
Over  palaces,  temples,  and  graves 

We  will  rush  as  thy  minister-slaves. 

Trampling  behind  in  thy  train, 

Till  all  be  made  level  again  1  60 


I  hear  a  crackling  of  the  giant  bones 

Of  the  dread  image,  and  in  the  black  pits 

Which   once    were   eyes,  I   see   two  livid 

flames. 
These  prodigies  are  oracular,  and  show 
The  presence  of  the  unseen  Deity. 
Mighty  events  are  hastening  to  their  doom  ! 

SWELLFOOT 

I  only  hear  the  lean  and  mutinous  Swine 
Grunting  about  the  temple. 


In  a  crisis 
Of  such  exceeding  delicacy,  I  think  69 

We  ought  to  put  her  Majesty,  the  Queen, 
Upon  her  trial  without  delay. 


Is  here. 


The  Bag 


PUBGANAX 

I  have  rehearsed  the  entire  scene 
With  an  ox-bladder  and  some  ditch-water. 

On  Lady  P ;  it  cannot  fail. 

[Taking  up  the  Bag. 
Your  Majesty 

(To  Swellfoot) 
In  snch  a  filthy  business  had  better 
Stand  on  one  side,  lest  it  should  sprinkle  you. 
A  spot  or  two  on  me  would  do  no  harm; 
Nay,  it  might  hide  the  blood,  which  the  sad 

genius 
Of  the  Green  Isle  has  fixed,  as  by  a  spell. 
Upon  my  brow  —  which  would  stain  all  its 

seas,  80 

But  which  those   seas  could  never  wash 

away  ! 


lONA  TAUKINA 

My  Lord,  I  am  ready  —  nay,  I  am  impa- 
tient, 
To  undergo  the  test. 

[A  graceful  Jigure  in  a  semi-transparent  veil 
passes  unnoticed  through  the  Temple  ;  the  word 
Liberty  is  seen  through  the  veil,  as  if  it  ivere 
written  in  Jire  upon  its  forehead.  Its  words 
are  almost  drowned  in  the  furious  grunting  of 
the  Pigs,  and  the  business  of  the  trial.  She 
kneels  on  the  steps  of  the  Altar,  and  sjieaks  in 
tones  at  first  faint  and  low,  but  which  ever  be- 
come louder  and  louder. 


Mighty  Empress,  Death's  white  wife, 

Ghastly  mother-in-law  of  life  ! 

By  the  God  who  made  thee  such, 

By  the  magic  of  thy  touch, 

By  the  starving  and  the  cramming 
Of   fasts  and    feasts  !  —  by  thy  dread  self, 

O  Famine  ! 
I  charge  thee,  when  thou  wake  the  multi- 
tude, go 
Thou   lead   them   not  upon   the  paths  of 

blood. 
The  earth  did  never  mean  her  foison 
For  those  who  crown  life's  cup  with  poison 
Of  fanatic  rage  and  meaningless  revenge; 

But  for  those  radiant  spirits,  who   aie 
still 
The  standard-bearers  in  the  van  of  Cl;ange. 

Be  they  th'  appointed  stewards,  to  fill 
The  lap  of  Pain,  and  Toil,  and  Age  ! 
Remit,  O  Queen  !  thy  accustomed  rage  ! 
Be  what  thou  art  not !     In  voice  faint  and 

low  ICO 

Freedom  calls  Famine,  her  eternal  foe. 
To    brief    alliance,   hollow    truce.  —  Rise 
now  ! 

[  Whilst  the  veiled  figure  has  been  chanting  the 
strophe,  Mammon.  Dakry,  Laoctonos,  and 
Hwkl.IjFOO'c  have  surrounded  lONA  Taurina, 
who,  with  her  hands  folded  on  her  breast  and 
her  eyes  lifted  to  Heaven,  stands,  as  with 
saint-like  resignation,  to  wait  the  issue  of  the 
business  in  perfect  confidence  of  her  innocence. 

PuRGANAX.  after  unsealing  the  Green  Bag,  is 
gravely  about  to  pour  the  liquor  upon  her  head, 
when  suddenly  the  whole  expression  of  her 
figure  and  countenance  changes ;  she  snatches 
it  from  his  hand  with  a  loud  laugh  of  triumph, 
and  empties  it  over  Swellfoot  and  his  whole 
Court,  who  are  instantly  changed  into  a  jiumber 


EPIPSYCHIDION 


297 


of  filthy  and  ugly  animals,  and  rush  out  of  the 
Temple,  The  image  of  Famine  then  arises 
with  a  tremendous  sound,  the  Pigs  begin  scram- 
bling for  the  loaves,  and  are  tripped  up  by  the 
skulls  ;  all  those  who  eat  the  loaves  are  turned 
into  Balls,  and  arrange  themselves  quietly  be- 
hind the  altar.  The  image  of  Famine  sinks 
through  a  chasm  in  the  earth,  and  a  Minotaub 
rises. 

MINOTAUB 

I  am  the  Ionian  Minotaur,  the  mightiest 

Of  all  Enropa's taurine  progeny; 

I  am  the  old  traditional  Man-  Bull ; 

And  from  my  ancestors  having  been  Ionian 

I  am  called  Ion,  which,  by  interpretation, 

Is  John;  in  plain  Theban,  that  is  to  say, 

!My   name 's   John  Bull;  I  am   a  famous 

hunter. 
And  can  leap  any  gate  in  all  Bceotia,        no 
Even  the  palings  of  the  royal  park 
Or  double  ditcli  about  the  new  enclosures; 
And  if  your  Majesty  will  deign  to  mount 

me, 
At  least  till  you  have  hunted  down  your 

game, 
I  will  not  throw  you. 

lONA    TArRINA 

[^During  this  speech  she  has  been  putting  on  boots 
and  spurs  and  a  hunting-cap,  buckishly  cocked 
on  one  side;  and,  tucking  up  her  hair,  she 
leaps  nimbly  on  his  back. 

Hoa,  hoa  !  tally-ho  !  tally-hc  !  ho  !  ho  ! 

Come,  let  us  hunt  these  ugly  badgers  down, 


These    stinking    foxes,      these    devouring 

otters,  • 
These  hares,  these  wolves,  these  anything 

but  men. 
Hey,  for  a  whipper-in  1  my  loyal  Pigs,     120 
Now  let  your  noses  be  as  keen  as  beagles', 
Your  steps  as  swift  as  greyhounds',   and 

your  cries 
More  dulcet  and  symphonious  than    the 

bells 
Of  village-towers,  on  sunshine  holiday; 
Wake  all   the  dewy  woods  with  jangling 

music. 
Give  them  no  law  (are  they  not  beasts  of 

blood  ?) 
But  such  as  they  gave  you.     Tally-ho  !  ho  ! 
Through  forest,  furze  and  bog,  and  den  and 

desert. 
Pursue  the  ugly  beasts  I     Tally-ho  !  ho  ! 

rCTLL   CHORUS   OF  lONA  AND   THE   3WINB 

Tally-ho  !  tally-ho  !  130 

Through  rain,  hail,  and  snow. 
Through  brake,  gorse,  and  briar, 
Through  fen,  flood,  and  mire, 

We  go,  we  go  ! 

Tally-ho  !  tally-ho  ! 
Through  pond,  ditch,  and  slough, 
Wind  them,  and  find  them. 
Like  the  Devil  behind  them  ! 

Tally-ho,  tally-ho ! 

l_Exeunt,  in  full  cry  ;  loNA  driving  on 
the  Swine,  with  the  empty  Green  Bag. 


EPIPSYCHIDION 

VERSES  ADDRESSED  TO  THE  NOBLE   AND   UNFORTUNATE  LADY 


EMILIA  V- 


NOW  IMPRISONED   IN   THE  CONVENT  OF 


L'  anima  amante  si  slancia  fuori  del  create,  e  si  crea  nell'  infinito  un  mondo  tutto  per  essa,  diverso  assai  da  questo 
oscuro  a  pauroso  baratro. 

Her  own  words. 


The   noble   and    nnforttinate    lady,   Emilia 

V ,  who  inspired  Epipsychidion  was  Teresa 

Emilia  Viviani,  eldest  daufjhter  of  Count  Vivi- 
ani,  a  nobleman  of  Pisa.  She  had  been  placed 
by  her  family  in  the  neighboring  Convent  of 
St.  Anna,  and  there  Shelley  met  her  at  the  be- 


ginning' of  December,  1820,  and  interested 
himself  in  her  fortunes.  The  episode,  which 
is  too  long  for  narration  in  a  note,  is  best  de- 
scribed in  Mrs.  Marshall's  Life  of  Mary  Woll- 
stonecraft  Shelley.  Its  personal  incidents  are 
unimportant,  since  they  do  not  enter  into  the 


298 


EPIPSYCHIDION 


substance  of  the  poem,  which  is  '  an  idealized 
history '  of  Shelley's  spirit.  iThe  lady,  to 
whom  the  verses  are  addressed,  soon  lost  the 
enchantment  which  Shelley's  imagination  and 
sympathy  had  woven  about  her,  and  she 
ceased  to  interest  him  except  as  an  object  of 
compassion. 

Shelley  was  fully  aware  of  the  mystical 
nature  of  the  poem,  which  shows  the  most 
spiritual  elements  of  his  genius  at  their  point 
of  highest  intensity  of  passion.  He  wrote  to 
Gisbome  :  '  The  Epipsychidion  is  a  mystery  ; 
as  to  real  flesh  and  blood,  you  know  that  I  do 
not  deal  in  those  articles ;  you  might  as  well 
go  to  a  gin-shop  for  a  leg  of  mutton,  as  ex- 
pect anything  human  or  earthly  from  me  ; '  and 
again,  '  The  Epipsychidion  I  cannot  look  at ; 
the  person  whom  it  celebrates  was  a  cloud  in- 
stead of  a  Juno,  and  poor  Ixion  starts  from  the 
centaur  that  was  the  offspring  of  his  own  em- 
brace. If  you  are  curious,  however,  to  hear 
what  I  am  and  have  been,  it  will  tell  you 
something  thereof.  It  is  an  idealized  history 
of  my  life  and  feelings.  1  think  one  is  always 
in  love  with  something  or  other;  the  error, 
and  I  confess  it  is  not  easy  for  spirits  cased  in 
flesh  and  blood  to  avoid  it,  consists  in  seeking 
in  a  mortal  image  the  likeness  of  what  is,  per- 
haps, eternal.' 

In  sending  it  for  publication  to  Oilier,  he 
says :  '  I  send  you  .  .  .  and  a  longer  piece, 
entitled  Epipsychidion.  .  .  .  The  longer  poem, 
I  desire,  should  not  be  considered  as  my  own  ; 
indeed,  in  a  certain  sense,  it  is  a  production  of 
a  portion  of  me  already  dead  ;  and  in  this 
sense  the  advertisement  is  no  fiction.  It  is  to 
be  published  simply  for  the  esoteric  few ;  and 
I  make  its  author  a  secret,  to  avoid  the  malig- 
nity of  those  who  turn  sweet  food  into  poison, 
transforming  all  they  touch  into  the  corruption 
of  their  own  natures.  My  wish  with  respect 
to  it  is  that  it  should  be  printed  immediately 
in  the  simplest  form,  and  merely  one  hundred 
copies :  those  who  are  capable  of  judging  and 
feeling  rightly  with  respect  to  a  composition 
of  so  abstruse  a  nature,  certainly  do  not  arrive 
at  that  number  —  among  those,  at  least,  who 
would  ever  be  excited  to  read  an  obscure  and 
anonymous  production ;  and  it  would  give  me 
no  pleasure  that  the  vulgar  should  read  it.  If 
you  have  any  book-selling  reason  against  pub- 
lishing so  small  a  number  as  a  hundred,  merely, 
distribute  copies  among  those  to  whom  you 
think  the  poetry  would  afford  any  pleasure, 

Sweet  Spirit !  sister  of  that  orphan  one, 
Whose  empire  is  the  name  thou  weepest 

on, 
In  my  heart's  temple  I  suspend  to  thee 
These  votive  wreaths  of  withered  memory. 


and  send  me,  as  soon  as  you  can,  a  copy  by  the 
post.' 

The  poem  was  composed  at  Pisa  during  the 
first  weeks  of  1821,  and  an  edition  of  one  hun- 
dred copies  was  published  at  Loudon  the  fol- 
lowing summer.  The  title  means,  as  Dr.  Stop- 
ford  Brooke  points  out,  '  this  soul  out  of  my 
soul.' 


ADVERTISEMENT 

The  writer  of  the  following  lines  died  at 
Florence,  as  he  was  preparing  for  a  voyage  to 
one  of  the  wildest  of  the  Sporades,  which  he 
had  bought  and  where  he  had  fitted  up  tht 
ruins  of  an  old  building,  and  where  it  was  his 
hope  to  have  realized  a  scheme  of  life,  suited 
perhaps  to  that  happier  and  better  world  of 
which  he  is  now  an  inhabitant,  but  hardly 
practicable  in  this.  His  life  was  singular  ;  less 
on  account  of  the  romantic  vicissitudes  which 
diversified  it  than  the  ideal  tinge  which  it  re- 
ceived from  his  own  character  and  feelings. 
The  present  Poem,  like  the  Vita  Nuova  of 
Dante,  is  sufficiently  intelligible  to  a  certain 
class  of  readers  without  a  matter-of-fact  his- 
tory of  the  circumstances  to  which  it  relates  ; 
and  to  a  certain  other  class  it  must  ever  remain 
incomprehensible  from  a  defect  of  a  common 
organ  of  perception  for  the  ideas  of  which  it 
treats.  Not  but  that,  gran  vergogna  sarebbe  a 
colui,  che  rimasse  cosa  sotto  veste  di  Jigura  0  di 
colore  rettorico :  e  domandato  non  sapesse  denu- 
dare  le  sue  parole  da  cotal  veste,  in  guisa  che 
avessero  verace  intend iinento. 

The  present  poem  appears  to  have  been  in- 
tended by  the  writer  as  the  dedication  to  some 
longer  one.  The  stanza  on  the  opposite  page 
[below]  is  almost  a  literal  translation  from 
Dante's  famous  Canzone 

Voi,  ch'  intendendo,  U  terzo  del  movete,  etc. 
The  presumptuous  application  of  the  conclud- 
ing lines  to  his  own  composition  will  raise  a 
smUe  at  the  expense  of  my  unfortunate  friend : 
be  it  a  smile  not  of  contempt,  but  pity. 

Mr  Sonf|r,  I  fear  that  thou  wilt  find  but  few 
Who  fitly  shall  conceive  thy  reasoninp. 
Of  such  hard  matter  dost  thou  entertain  ; 
Whence,  if  by  misadventure  chance  should  bring 
Thoe  to  base  company  (as  chance  may  do) 
Quite  unaware  of  what  thou  dost  contain, 
I  prithee,  comfort  thy  sweet  self  again, 
My  last  delight !  tell  them  that  they  are  dull. 
And  bid  them  own  that  thou  art  beautiful. 

Poor  captive  bird  I  who  from  thy  narrow 

cage 
Pourest  such  music  that  it  might  assuage 
The  rugged  hearts  of  those  who  prisoued 

tbee, 


EPIPSYCHIDION 


299 


Were  they  not  deaf  to  all  sweet  melody,  — 
This  song  sliall  be  thy  rose ;  its  petals  pale 
Are  dead,  indeed,  my  adored  nightingale  ! 
But  soft  and  fragrant  is  the  faded  blos- 
som, 
And  it  has  no  thorn  left  to  wound  thy 
bosom.  12 

High,  spirit-wingfed  Heart !  who  dost 
forever 

Beat  thine  nnfeeling  bars  with  vain  en- 
deavor. 

Till  those  bright  plumes  of  thought,  in 
which  arrayed 

It  over-soared  this  low  and  worldly  shade. 

Lie  shattered;  and  thy  panting  wounded 
breast 

Stains  with  dear  blood  its  unmaterual  nest ! 

I  weep  vain  tears;  blood  would  less  bitter 
be, 

Yet  poured  forth  gladlier,  could  it  profit 
thee.  20 

Seraph  of  Heaven  !  too  gentle  to  be 
human, 

Veiling  beneath  that  radiant  form  of  Wo- 
man 

All  that  is  insupportable  in  thee 

Of  light,  and  love,  and  immortality  ! 

Sweet  Benediction  in  the  eternal  Curse  ! 

Veiled  glory  of  this  lampless  Universe  ! 

Thou  Moon  beyond  the  clouds  !  thou  living 
Form 

Among  the  Dead  !  thou  Star  above  the 
Storm  ! 

Thou  Wonder,  and  thou  Beauty,  and  thou 
Terror  ! 

Thou  Harmony  of  Nature's  art !  thou  Mir- 
ror 30 

In  whom,  as  in  the  splendor  of  the  Sun, 

All  shapes  look  glorious  which  thou  gazest 
on  ! 

Ay,  even  the  dim  words  which  obscure  thee 
now 

Flash,  lightning-like,  with  unaccustomed 
glow; 

I  pray  thee  that  thou  blot  from  this  sad 
song 

All  of  its  nmch  mortality  and  wrong. 

With  those  clear  drops,  which  start  like 
sacred  dew 

From  the  twin  lights  thy  sweet  soul  dark- 
ens through, 

Weeping,  till  sorrow  becomes  ecstasy  — 

Then  smile  on  it,  so  that  it  may  not  die.  40 


I  never  thought  before  my  death  to  see 
Youth's  vision  thus  made  perfect.  Emily, 
I  love  thee;  though  the  world  by  no  thin 

name 
Will  hide  that    love    from  its    unvalued 

shame. 
Would  we  two  had  been  twins  of  the  same 

mother  ! 
Or  that  the  name  my  heart  lent  to  another 
Could  be  a  sister's  bond  for  her  and  thee, 
Blending  two  beams  of  one  eternity  ! 
Yet  were  one  lawful  and  the  other  true. 
These  names,  though  dear,  could  paint  not, 

as  is  due,  50 

How  beyond  refuge  I  am  thine.     Ah  me  ! 
I  am  not  thine  —  I  am  a  part  of  thee. 

Sweet  Lamp  !  my  moth-like  Muse  has 
burned  its  wings; 

Or,  like  a  dying  swan  who  soars  and  sings. 

Young  Love  should  teach  Time,  in  his  own 
gray  style. 

All  that  thou  art.  Art  thou  not  void  of 
guile, 

A  lovely  soul  formed  to  be  blessed  and 
bless  ? 

A  well  of  sealed  and  secret  happiness. 

Whose  waters  like  blithe  light  and  music 
are, 

Vanquishing  dissonance  and  gloom  ?  a 
star  60 

Which  moves  not  in  the  moving  Heavens, 
alone  ? 

A  smile  amid  dark  frowns  ?  a  gentle  tone 

Amid  rude  voices  ?  a  beloved  light  ? 

A  solitude,  a  refuge,  a  delight  ? 

A  lute,  which  those  whom  love  has  taught  to 
play 

Make  music  on,  to  soothe  the  roughest  day 

And  lull  fond  grief  asleep  ?  a  buried  trea- 
sure ? 

A  cradle  of  yoimg  thoughts  of  wingless 
pleasure  ? 

A  violet-shrotided  grave  of  woe  ?  —  I  mea- 
sure 

The  world  of  fancies,  seeking  one  like  thee, 

And  find  —  alas  !  mine  own  infirmity.       71 

She  met  me.  Stranger,  upon  life's  rough 

way, 
And  lured   me   towards  sweet  death;  as 

Night  by  Day, 
Winter    by    Spring,  or   Sorrow  by  swift 

Hope, 
Led  into  light,  life,  peace.     An  antelope, 


300 


EPIPSYCHIDION 


In  the  suspended  impulse  of  its  lightness, 
Were  less  ethereally  light;  the  brightness 
Of  her  divinest  presence  trembles  through 
Her  limbs,  as  underneath  a  cloud  of  dew  79 
Embodied  in  the  windless  heaven  of  June, 
Amid  the  splendor-winged  stars,  the  Moon 
Burns,  inextinguishably  beautiful; 
And  from  her  lips,  as  from  a  hyacinth  full 
Of  honey-dew,  a  liquid  murmur  drops, 
Killing   the    sense    with  passion,  sweet  as 

stops 
Of  planetary  music  heard  in  trance. 
In  her  mild  lights  the  starry  spirits  dance, 
The   sunbeams  of   those  wells  which  ever 

leap 
Under   the   lightnings   of    the   soul — too 

deep 
For   the    brief   fathom-line  of  thought  or 

sense.  90 

The  glory  of  her  being,  issuing  thence. 
Stains  the  dead,  blank,  cold  air  with  a  warm 

shade 
Of  unentangled  intermixture,  made 
By  Love,  of  light  and  motion ;  one  intense 
Diffusion,  one  serene  Omnipresence, 
Whose   flowing    outlines    mingle  in   their 

flowing. 
Around  her  cheeks  and  utmost  fingers  glow- 

With  the  unintermitted  blood,  which  there 
Quivers  (as  in  a  fleece  of  snow-like  air 
The    crimson     pulse    of     living    morning 

quiver)  100 

Continuously  prolonged,  and  ending  never 
Till  they  are  lost,  and  in  that  Beauty  furled 
Which  penetrates,  and  clasps  and  fills  the 

world ; 
Scarce  visible  from  extreme  loveliness. 
Warm  fragrance  seems  to  fall  from  her 

light  dress, 
And  her  loose  hair;  and  where  some  heavy 

tress 
The  air  of  her  own  speed  has  disentwined, 
The  sweetness  seems  to  satiate  the  faint 

wind; 
And  in  the  soul  a  wild  odor  is  felt, 
Beyond   the   sense,  like    fiery  dews    that 

melt 
Into  the  bosom  of  a  frozen  bud.  m 

See  where  she  stands  !  a  mortal  shape  in- 
dued 
With  love  and  life  and  light  and  deity. 
And  motion  which  may  change  but  cannot 

die; 
Ad  image  of  some  bright  Eternity; 


A  shadow  of  some  golden  dream;  a  Splen- 
dor 

Leaving  the  third  sphere  pilotless;  a  ten- 
der 

Reflection  of  the  eternal  Moon  of  Love, 

Under  whose  motions  life's  dull  billows 
move; 

A  metaphor  of  Spring  and  Youth  and 
Morning;  120 

A  vision  like  incarnate  April,  warning. 

With  smiles  and  tears.  Frost  the  Anatomy 

Into  his  summer  grave. 

Ah  !  woe  is  me  ! 
What  have  I  dared  ?  where  am  1  lifted  ? 

how 
Shall  I  descend,  and  perish  not  ?     I  know 
That  Love  makes  all  things  equal;  I  have 

heard 
By    mine    own    heart    this    joyous   truth 

averred : 
The  spirit  of  the  worm  beneath  the  sod. 
In  love  and  worship,  blends  itself  with  God. 

Spouse  !  Sister  !  Angel  !  Pilot  of  the 
Fate  130 

Whose  course  has  been  so  starless  !  Oh, 
too  late 

Beloved  !     Oh,  too  soon  adored,  by  me  ! 

For  in  the  fields  of  immortality 

My  spirit  should  at  first  have  worshipped 
thine, 

A  divine  presence  in  a  place  divine; 

Or  should  have  moved  beside  it  on  this 
earth, 

A  shadow  of  that  substance,  from  its 
birth ; 

But  not  as  now.     I  love  thee;  yes,  I  feel 

That  on  the  fountain  of  my  heart  a  seal 

Is  set,  to  keep  its  waters  pure  and  bright 

For  thee,  since  in  those  tears  thou  hast  de- 
light. 141 

We  —  are  we  not  formed,  as  notes  of  music 
are, 

For  one  another,  though  dissimilar; 

Such  difference  without  discord  as  can 
make 

Those  sweetest  sounds,  in  which  all  spirits 
shake 

As  trembling  leaves  in  a  continuous  air  ? 

Thy  wisdom  speaks  in  me,  and  bids  me 
dare 
Beacon  the  rocks  on  which  high  hearts  are 
wrecked. 


EPIPSYCHIDION 


301 


I  never  was  attached  to  that  great  sect, 
Whose  doctrine   is,  that  each  one  should 
select  150 

Out  of  the  crowd  a  mistress  or  a  friend, 
And   all   the   rest,  though   fair  and  wise, 

commend 
To  cold  oblivion,  though  't  is  in  the  code 
Of  modern  morals,  and  the  beaten  road 
Which  those  poor  slaves  with  weary  foot- 
steps tread 
Who  travel  to  their  home  among  the  dead 
By  the  broad  highway  of  the  world,  and  so 
With  one  chained  friend,  perhaps  a  jealous 

foe. 
The  dreariest  and  the  longest  journey  go. 

True  Love  in  this  differs  from  gold  and 
clay,  160 

That  to  divide  is  not  to  take  away. 
Love    is    like    understanding   that   grows 

bright 
Gazing  on  many  truths;  'tis  like  thy  light, 
Imagination  !  which,  from  earth  and  sky. 
And  from  the  depths  of  human  fantasy, 
As  from  a  thousand  prisms  and  mirrors, 

fills 
The   Universe  with  glorious   beams,  and 

kills 
Error,  the   worm,  with  many  a  sun-like 

arrow 
Of  its  reverberated  lightning.     Narrow 
The  heart  that  loves,  the  brain  that  eon- 
templates,  170 
The  life  that  wears,  the  spirit  that  creates 
One   object,   and    one    form,   and    builds 

thereb}' 
A  sepulchre  for  its  eternity. 

Mind  from  its  object  differs  most  in  this; 
Evil  from  good;  misery  from  happiness; 
The  baser  from  the  nobler;  the  impure 
And   frail,  from  what   is  clear  and    must 

endure: 
If   you   divide   suffering   and    dross,   you 

may 
Diminish  till  it  is  consumed  away; 
If  you  divide  pleasure  and  love  and  thought. 
Each  part  exceeds  the  whole;  and  we  know 

not  iSr 

How  much,  while  any  j'et  remains  unshared, 
Of    pleasure   may    be   gained,   of   sorrow 

spared. 
This  truth  is  that  deep  well,  whence  sages 

draw 
The  unenvied  light  of  hope ;  the  eternal  law 


By  which  those  live,  to  whom  this  world  of 

life 
Is  as  a  garden  ravaged,  and  whose  strife 
Tills  for  the  promise  of  a  later  birth 
The  wilderness  of  this  Elysian  earth.       iSg 

There  was  a  Being  whom  my  spirit  oft 
Met  on  its  visioned  wanderings,  far  aloft, 
In  the  clear  golden  prime  of  my  youth's 

dawn. 
Upon  the  fairy  isles  of  sunny  lawn. 
Amid   the   enchanted  mouutaius,  and  the 

caves 
Of  divine  sleep,  and  on  the  air-like  waves 
Of  wonder-level  dream,  whose  tremulous 

floor 
Paved  her  light   steps.     On  an  imagined 

shore. 
Under  the  gray  beak  of  some  promontory 
She  met  me,  robed  in  such  exceeding  glory 
That  I  beheld  her  not.     lu  solitudes        200 
Her  voice  came  to  me  through  the  whis- 
pering woods. 
And  from  the  fountains  and  the  odors  deep 
Of  flowers,  wliich,  like  lips  murmuring  in 

their  sleep 
Of  the  sweet  kisses  which  had  lulled  them 

there. 
Breathed  but  of  her  to  the  enamoured  air; 
And  from  the  breezes  whether  low  or  loud. 
And  from  the  rain  of  every  passing  clotid, 
And  from  the  singing  of  the  summer-birds, 
And  from  all  sounds,  all  silence.     In  the 

words 
Of  antique   verse   and  high  romance,  in 

form,  210 

Sound,  color,  in  whatever  checks  that  Storm 
Which  with  the  shattered  present  chokes 

the  past, 
And  in  that  best  philosophy,  whose  taste 
Makes  this  cold  common  hell,  our  life,  a 

doom 
As  glorious  as  a  fiery  martyrdom  — 
Her  Spirit  was  the  harmony  of  truth. 

Then  from  the  caverns  of  my  dreamy 

youth 
I  sprang,  as  one  sandalled  with  plumes  of 

fire. 
And  towards  the  lodestar  of  my  one  desire 
I  flitted,  like  a  dizzy  moth,  whose  flight  220 
Is  as  a  dead  leaf's  in  the  owlet  light. 
When   it  would  seek  in   Hesper's  setting 

sphere 
A  radiant  death,  a  fiery  sepulchre, 


302 


EPIPSYCHIDION 


As  if  it  were  a  lamp  of  earthly  flame. 

But  She,  whom  prayers  or  tears  theu  could 
uot  tame, 

Passed,  like  a  god  throned  on  a  winged 
planet. 

Whose  burning  plumes  to  tenfold  swiftness 
fan  it. 

Into  the  dreary  cone  of  our  life's  shade; 

And  as  a  man  with  mighty  loss  dismayed, 

I  would  have  followed,  though  the  grave 
between  230 

Yawned  like  a  gulf  whose  spectres  are  un- 
seen; 

When  a  voice  said :  —  '0  Thou  of  hearts 
the  weakest. 

The  phantom  is  beside  thee  whom  thou 
seekest.' 

Then  I  —  '  Where  ?  '  the  world's  echo  an- 
swered '  Where  ? ' 

And  in  that  silence,  and  in  my  despair, 

I  questioned  every  tongueless  wind  that 
flew 

Over  my  tower  of  mourning,  if  it  knew 

Whither  't  was  fled,  this  soul  out  of  my 
soul; 

And  murmured  names  and  spells  which 
have  control 

Over  the  sightless  tyrants  of  our  fate;     240 

But  neither  prayer  nor  verse  could  dissipate 

The  night  wliich  closed  on  her;  nor  uncreate 

That  world  within  this  Chaos,  mine  and 
me. 

Of  which  she  was  the  veiled  Divinity,  — 

The  world  I  say  of  thoughts  that  wor- 
shipped her; 

And  therefore  I  went  forth,  with  hope  and 
fear 

And  every  gentle  passion  sick  to  death, 

Feeding  my  course  with  expectation's 
breath, 

Into  the  wintry  forest  of  onr  life; 

And  struggling  through  its  error  with  vain 
strife,  250 

And  stumbling  in  my  weakness  and  my 
haste. 

And  half    bewildered    by  new  forms,   I 


Seeking  among  those  untaught  foresters 
If  I  could  find  one  form  resembling  hers. 
In  which  she  might  have  masked  herself 

from  me. 
There,  —  One  whose  voice  was  venomed 

melody 
Sate  bv  a  well,  under  blue  night-shade 

bowers; 


The  breath  of  her  false  mouth  was  like 

faint  flowers; 
Her  touch  was  as  electric  poison,  —  flame 
Out  of  her  looks  into  my  vitals  came,      260 
And  from  her  living  cheeks  and  bosom  flew 
A  killing  air,  which  pierced  like  honey-dew 
Into  the  core  of  my  green  heart,  and  lay 
Upon  its  leaves ;  until,  as  hair  grown  gray 
O'er  a  young  brow,  they  hid  its  unblown 

prime 
With  ruins  of  unseasonable  time. 

In  many  mortal  forms  I  rashly  sought 
The  shadow  of  that  idol  of  my  thought. 
And   some   were   fair  —  but    beauty  dies 

away; 
Others   were   wise  —  but    honeyed  words 

betray;  270 

And  one  was  true  —  oh  !  why  not  true  to 

me? 
Then,  as  a  hunted  deer  that  could  not  flee, 
I  turned  upon  my  thoughts,  and  stood  at 

Ijay, 
Wounded  and  weak  and  panting;  the  cold 

day 
Trembled,  for  pity  of  my  strife  and  pain, 
When,  like  a  noonday  dawn,  there  shone 

again 
Deliverance.     One  stood  on  my  path  who 

seemed 
As  like  the  glorious  shape,  which   I  had 

dreamed. 
As  is  the  Moon,  whose  changes  ever  run 
Into  themselves,  to  the  eternal  Sun;        280 
The  cold  chaste  Moon,  the  Queen  of  Hea- 
ven's bright  isles. 
Who  makes  all   beautiful   on  which  she 

smiles; 
That  wandering  shrine  of  soft  yet  icy  flame. 
Which  ever  is   transformed,  yet  still   the 

same. 
And  warms  not  but  illumines.     Young  and 

fair 
As  the  descended  Spirit  of  that  sphere. 
She  hid  me,  as  the   Moon  may  bide   the 

night 
From  its  own  darkness,  until  all  was  bright 
Between   the   Heaven  and   Earth  of  my 

calm  mind. 
And,  as  a  cloud  charioted  by  the  wind,    290 
She  led  me  to  a  cave  in  that  wild  place. 
And  sate  beside  me,  with  her  downward 

face 
Illumining  my  slumbers,  like  the  Moon 
Waxing  and  waning  o'er  Eudymion. 


EPIPSYCHIDION 


303 


And  I  was  laid  asleep,  spirit  and  limb, 
And  all  my  being  became  bright  or  dim 
As  the  Moon's  image  in  a  summer  sea, 
According  as  she  smiled  or  frowned  on  me; 
And  there  I  lay,  within  a  chaste  cold  bed. 
Alas,  I  then  was  nor  alive  nor  dead;       300 
For  at  her  silver  voice  came   Death  and 

Life, 
Unmindful  each  of  their  accustomed  strife, 
Masked  like   twin   babes,  a  sister  and   a 

brother, 
The  wandering  hopes  of  one  abandoned 

mother, 
And  through  the  cavern  without  wings  they 

flew, 
And  cried,  *  Away  !  he  is  not  of  our  crew.' 
I  wept,  and  though  it  be  a  dream,  I  weep. 

What  storms  then  shook  the  ocean  of  my 

sleep, 
Blotting  that  Moon,  whose  pale  and  waning 

lips  309 

Then  shrank  as  in  the  sickness  of  eclipse; 
And  how  my  soul  was  as  a  lampless  sea. 
And  who  was  then  its  Tempest;  and  when 

She, 
The  Planet  of  that   hour,  was  quenched, 

what  frost 
Crept  o'er  those  waters,  till  from  coast  to 

coast 
The  moving  billows  of  my  being  fell 
Into  a  death  of  ice,  immovable; 
And  then  what  earthquakes  made  it  gape 

and  split. 
The  white  Moon  smiling  all  the  while  on 

it;  — 
These   words  conceal;   if   not,  each  word 

would  be 
The  key  of   stanchless   tears.     Weep  not 

for  me  !  320 

At  length,  into  the  obscure  forest  came 
The  Vision  I  had  sought  through  grief  and 

shame. 
Athwart  that  wintry  wilderness  of  thorns 
Flashed  from  her  motion  splendor  like  the 

Morn's, 
And  from  her  presence  life  was  radiated 
Through  the  gray  earth  and  branches  bare 

and  dead; 
So  that   her  way  was  paved  and  roofed 

above 
With  flowers  as  soft  as  thoughts  of  budding 

love; 
And  music  from  her  respiration  spread 


Like  light,  —  all  other  sounds  were  pene- 
trated 33a 
By  the   small,  still,  sweet  spirit  of  that 

sound. 
So    that    the    savage   winds    hung    mute 

around ; 
And  odors  warm  and  fresh  fell  from  her 

hair 
Dissolving  the  dull  cold  in  the  frore  air. 
Soft  as  an  Incarnation  of  the  Sun, 
When  light  is  changed  to  love,  this  glorious 

One 
Floated  into  the  cavern  where  I  lay. 
And  called  my  Spiiit,  and  the  dreaming 

clay 
Was  lifted  by  the  thing  that  dreamed  be- 
low 339 
As  smoke  by  fire,  and  in  her  beauty's  glow 
I  stood,  and  felt  the  dawn  of  my  long  night 
Was  penetrating  me  with  living  light; 
I  knew  it  was  the  Vision  veiled  from  me 
So  many  years  —  that  it  was  Emily. 

Twin   Spheres  of    light  who  rule  ^.his 

passive  Earth, 
This  world  of  love,  this  me  ;  and  into  birth 
Awaken  all  its  fruits  and  flowers,  and  dart 
Magnetic  might  into  its  central  heart; 
And  lift  its  billows  and  its  mists,  and  guide 
By  everlasting  laws  each  wind  and  tide  350 
To  its  fit  cloud,  and  its  appointed  cave; 
And  lull  its   storms,  each  in   the  craggy 

grave 
Which  was  its  cradle,  luring  to  faint  bowers 
The  armies  of  the  rainbow-wingM  showers; 
And,  as  those  married  lights,  which  from 

the  towers 
Of  Heaven  look  forth  and  fold  the  wan- 
dering ^lobe 
In  liquid  sleep  and  splendor,  as  a  robe ; 
And    all    their    many-mingled    influence 

blend. 
If  equal,  yet  unlike,  to  one  sweet  end ;  — 
So  ye,  bright  regents,  with  alternate  sway» 
Govern  my  sphere  of  being,  night  and  day  ! 
Thou,   not    disdaining    even  a    borrowed 

might ;  362 

Thou,  not  eclipsing  a  remoter  light; 
And,  through  the  shadow  of  the  seasons 

three, 
From  Spring  to  Autumn's  sere  maturity, 
Light  it  into  the  Winter  of  the  tomb, 
Where  it  may  ripen  to  a  brighter  bloom. 
Thou  too,  O  Comet,  beautiful  and  fierce, 
Who  drew  the  heart  of  this  frail  Universe 


304 


EPIPSYCHIDION 


Towards  thine  own;  till,  wrecked  in  that 

convulsion,  370 

Alternating  attraction  and  repulsion, 
Thine  went  astray,  and  that  was  rent  in 

twain; 
Oh,  float  into  our  aznre  heaven  again  ! 
Be  there  love's  folding-star  at  thy  return; 
The  living  Sun  will  feed  thee  from  its  urn 
Of  golden  fire;  the  Moon  will  veil  her  horn 
In  thy  last  smiles;  adoring  Even  and  Morn 
Will    worship   thee  with   incense  of  calm 

breath 
And   lights   and   shadows,  as   the  star  of 

Death 
And  Birth  is  worshipped  by  those  sisters 

wild  380 

Called  Hope   and  Fear  —  upon  the  heart 

are  piled 
Their  offerings,  —  of  this  sacrifice  divine 
A  World  shall  be  the  altar. 

Lady  mine, 
Scorn   not   these   flowers   of  thought,  the 

fading  birth, 
Which  from  its  heart  of  hearts  that  plant 

puts  forth, 
Whose   fruit,  made  perfect  by  thy  sunny 

eyes. 
Will  be  as  of  the  trees  of  Paradise. 

The  day  is  come,  and  thou  wilt  fly  with 

me. 
To  whatsoe'er  of  d\ill  mortality 
Is  mine  remain  a  vestal  sister  still;  390 

To  the  intense,  the  deep,  the  imperishable, 
Not   mine,    but   me,   henceforth   be    thou 

united 
Even  as  a  bride,  delighting  and  delighted. 
The  hour  is  come  —  the  destined  Star  has 

risen 
Which  shall  descend  upon  a  vacant  prison. 
The  walls  are  high,  the  gates  are  strong, 

thick  set 
The  sentinels  —  but  true  love  never  yet 
Was  thus    constrained;    it    overleaps    all 

fence; 
Like  lightning,  with  invisible  violence 
Piercing  its  continents;  like   Heaven's  free 

breath,  400 

Which  he  who  g^sps  can  hold  not;  liker 

Death, 
Who  rides  upon  a  thought,  and  makes  his 

way 
Through  temple,  tower,  and  palace,  and  the 

array 


Of  arms;  more  strength  has  Love  than  he 

or  they; 
For  it  can  burst  his  charnel,  and  make  free 
The  limbs  in  chains,  the  heart  in  agony, 
The  soul  in  dust  and  chaos. 

Emily, 
A  ship  is  floating  in  the  harbor  now, 
A  wind   is   hovering  o'er  the  mountain's 

brow; 
Tliere  is  a  path  on  the  sea's  azure  floor  — 
No  keel   has  ever  ploughed  that  path  be- 
fore; 411 
The  halcyons  brood  around  the  foamless 

isles; 
The  treacherous   Ocean  has  forsworn  its 

wiles; 
The  merry  mariners  are  bold  and  free  : 
Say,  my  heart's  sister,  wilt  thou  sail  with 

me? 
Our  bark  is  as  an  albatross,  whose  nest 
Is  a  far  Eden  of  the  purple  East ; 
And  we  between   her  wings  will  sit,  while 

Night, 
And  Day,  and   Storm,  and  Calm,  pursue 

their  flight, 
Our  ministers,  along  the  boundless  Sea,  420 
Treading  each  other's  heels,  unheededly. 
It  is  an  isle  under  Ionian  skies, 
Beautiful  as  a  wreck  of  Paradise, 
And,  for  the  harbors  are  not  safe  and  good. 
This  land  would  have  remained  a  solitude 
But  for  some  pastoral  people  native  there, 
Who  from  the  Elysian,  clear,  and  golden 

air 
Draw  the  last  spirit  of  the  age  of  gold. 
Simple  and  spirited,  innocent  and  bold. 
The  blue  ^Egean  girds  this  chosen  home  430 
With  ever-changing  sound  and  light  and 

foam 
Kissing  the  sifted  sands  and  caverns  hoar; 
And   all   the  winds  wandering   along  the 

shore 
Undulate  with  the  undulating  tide; 
There  are  thick  woods  where  sylvan  forms 

abide. 
And  many  a  fountain,  rivulet,  and  pond, 
As  clear  as  elemental  diamond, 
Or  serene  morning  air;  and  far  beyond, 
The  mossy  tracks  made  by  the  goats  and 

deer 
(Which  the  rough  shepherd  treads  but  once 

a  year)  440 

Pierce  into   glades,  caverns,    and   bowers, 

and  halls 


EPIPSYCHIDION 


305 


Built  round  with  ivy,  which  the  waterfalls 
Illumining,  with  sound  that  never  fails 
Accompany  the  noonday  nightingales; 
And  all  the  place  is  peopled  with  sweet  airs; 
The  light   clear    element   which   the    isle 

wears 
Is  heavy  with  the  scent  of  lemon-flowers. 
Which  floats  like  mist  laden  with  unseen 

showers, 
And  falls  upon  the  eyelids  like  faint  sleep; 
And  from  the  moss  violets  and  jonquils 

peep,  430 

And  dart  their  arrowy  odor  through  the 

brain 
Till  you  might  faint  with  that  delicious  pain. 
And  every  motion,  odor,  beam,  and  tone, 
With  that  deep  music  is  in  unison. 
Which  is  a  soul  within  the  soul;  they  seem 
Like  echoes  of  an  antenatal  dream. 
It  is  an  isle  'twixt  Heaven,  Air,  Earth,  and 

Sea, 
Cradled  and  hung  in  clear  tranquillity; 
Bright  as  that  wandering  Eden,  Lucifer, 
Washed  by  the  soft  blue  Oceans  of  young 

air.  460 

It  is  a  favored  place.     Famine  or  Blight, 
Pestilence,   War,  and   Earthquake,   never 

light 
Upon  its  mountain-peaks;  blind  vultures, 

they 
Sail  onward  far  upon  their  fatal  way; 
The  winged  storms,  chanting  their  thunder- 
psalm 
To  other  lands,  leave  azure  chasms  of  calm 
Over  this  isle,  or  weep  themselves  in  dew. 
From  which  its  fields  and  woods  ever  renew 
Their  green  and  golden  immortality. 
And  from  the  sea  there  rise,  and  from  the 

sky  470 

There    fall,    clear    exhalations,    soft    and 

bright, 
Veil  after  veil,  each  hiding  some  delight, 
Which  Sun  or  Moon  or  zephyr  draw  aside. 
Till  the  isle's  beauty,  like  a  naked  bride 
Glowing  at  once  with  love  and  loveliness. 
Blushes  and  trembles  at  its  own  excess; 
Yet,  like  a  buried  lamp,  a  Soul  no  less 
Burns  in  the  heart  of  this  delicious  isle, 
An  atom  of  the  Eternal,  whose  own  smile 
Unfolds  itself,  and  may  be  felt,  not  seen,  480 
O'er  the  gray  rocks,  blue  waves,  and  forests 

green, 
Filling  their  bare  and  void  interstices. 
But  the  chief  marvel  of  the  wilderness 
Is  a  lone  dwelling,  built  by  whom  or  how 


None  of  the  rustic  island-people  know; 

'T  is  not  a  tower  of  strength,  though  with 

its  height 
It  overtops  the  woods;  but,  for  delight. 
Some   wise   and  tender   Ocean-King,    ere 

crime 
Had  been  invented,  in  the   world's  young 

prime. 
Reared  it,  a  wonder  of  that  simple  time,  490 
And  envy  of  the  isles,  a  pleasure-house 
Made  sacred  to  his  sister  and  his  spouse. 
It  scarce  seems  now  a  wreck  of  human  art, 
But,  as  it  were,  Titanic,  in  the  heart 
Of  Earth  having  assumed  its    form,  then 

grown 
Out  of  the  mountains,  from  the  living  stone. 
Lifting  itself  in  caverns  light  and  high; 
For  all  the  antique  and  learned  imagery 
Has  been  erased,  and  in  the  place  of  it 
The  ivy  and  the  wild  vine  interknit  500 

The  volumes  of  their  n^any-t wining  stems; 
Parasite  flowers  illume  with  dewy  gems 
The  lampless  halls,  and,  when  they  fade, 

the  sky 
Peeps  through  their  winter- woof  of  tracery 
With  moonlight  patches,  or  star-atoms  keen. 
Or  fragments  of  the  day's  intense  serene. 
Working  mosaic  on  their  Parian  floors. 
And,  day  and  night,  aloof,  from  the  high 

towers 
And  terraces,  the  Earth  and  Ocean  seem 
To  sleep  in  one  another's  arms,  and  dream 
Of   waves,    flowers,    clouds,  woods,  rocks, 

and  all  that  we  511 

Read  in  their  smiles,  and  call  reality. 

This  isle  and  house  are  mine,  and  I  hare 
vowed 
Thee  to  be  lady  of  the  solitude. 
And  I  have  fitted  up  some  chambers  there 
Looking  towards  the  golden  Eastern  air. 
And  level  with  the  living  winds,  which  flow 
Like  waves  above  the  living  waves  below. 
I  have  sent  books  and  music  there,  and  all 
Those  instruments  with  which  high  spirits 
call  520 

The  future  from  its  cradle,  and  the  past 
Out  of  its  grave,  and  make  the  present  last 
In  thoughts  and  joys  which  sleep,  but  can- 
not die. 
Folded  within  their  own  eternity. 
Our  simple  life  wants  little,  and  true  taste 
Hires  not  the  pale  drudge  Luxury  to  waste 
The  Fcene  it  would  adorn,  and  therefore  still 
Nature  with  all  her  children  haunts  the  hill 


3o6 


EPIPSYCHIDION 


The  riug-dove,  in  the  embowering  ivy,  yet 
Keeps  up  her  love-hinient,  and  the  owls  flit 
Round  the  evening  tower,  and  the  young 
stars  glance  531 

Between  the  quick  bats  in  their  twilight 

dance; 
The  spotted  deer  bask  in  the  fresh  moon- 
light 
Before  our  gate,  and  the  slow  silent  night 
Is  measured   by  the  pants  of  their  calm 

sleep. 
Be  this  our  home  in  life,  and  when  years 

heap 
Their  withered  hours,  like  leaves,  on  oar 

decay. 
Let  us  become  the  overhanging  day, 
The  living  soul  of  this  Elysian  isle,  539 

Conscious,  inseparable,  one.     Meanwhile 
We  two  will  rise,  and  sit,  and  walk  together 
Under  the  roof  of  blue  Ionian  weather. 
And  wander  in  tlie  meadows,  or  ascend 
The  mossy  mountains,  where  the  blue  hea- 
vens bend 
With  lightest  winds,  to  touch  their  para- 
mour; 
Or  linger,  where  the  pebble-paven  shore. 
Under  the  quick  faint  kisses  of  the  sea 
Trembles  and  sparkles  as  with  ecstasy,  — 
Possessing  and  possessed  by  all  that  is     549 
Within  that  calm  circumference  of  bliss, 
And  by  each  other,  till  to  love  and  live 
Be  one;  or,  at  the  noontide  hour,  arrive 
Where  some  old  cavern  hoar  seems  yet  to 

keep 
The  moonlight  of  the  expired  night  asleep, 
Through  which  the  awakened  day  can  never 

peep; 
A  veil  for  our  seclusion,  close  as  Night's, 
Where  secure  sleep  may  kill  thine  innocent 

lights; 
Sleep,  the  fresh  dew  of  languid  love,  the  rain 
Whose  drops  quench  kisses  till  they  burn 
again.  559 

And  we  will  talk,  until  thought's  melody 
Become  too  sweet  for  utterance,  and  it  die 
In  words,  to  live  again  in  looks,  which  dart 
With  thrilling  tone  into  the  voiceless  heart. 
Harmonizing  silence  without  a  sound. 
Our    breath   shall    intermix,   our   bosoms 

bound, 
And  our  veins  beat  together;  and  our  lips, 
With  other  eloquence  than  words,  eclipse 
The  soul  that  burns  between  them;  and  the 

wells 
Which  boil  under  our  being's  inmost  cells, 


The  fountains  of  our  deepest  life,  shall  be 
Confused  in  passion's  golden  purity,        571 
As  mountain-springs   under   the   morning 

Sun. 
We  shall  become  the  same,  we  shall  be  one 
Spirit  within   two  frames,  oh !    wherefore 

two? 
One  passion  in  twin-hearts,  which  grows 

and  grew, 
Till  like  two  meteors  of  expanding  flame 
Those  spheres  instinct  with  it  become  the 

same, 
Touch,  mingle,  are  transfigured ;  ever  still 
Burning,  yet  ever  inconsumable; 
In  one  another's  substance  finding  food,  580 
Like  flames  too  pure  and  light  and  unim- 

bued 
To  nourish  their  bright  lives  with  baser 

prey, 
Which  point  to  Heaven  and  cannot  pass 

away; 
One  hope  within  two  wills,  one  will  beneath 
Two  overshadowing  minds,  one  life,  one 

death, 
One  Heaven,  one  Hell,  one  immortality. 
And  one  annihilation.     Woe  is  me  ! 
The  winged  words  on  which  my  soul  would 

pierce 
Into  the  height  of  love's  rare  Universe, 
Are  chains  of  lead  around  its  flight  of  fire. 
I  pant,  I  sink,  I  tremble,  I  expire  I  591 


Weak  Verses,  go,  kneel  at  your  Sover- 
eign's feet. 
And  say :  —  '  We  are  the  masters  of  thy 

slave ; 
What  wouldest  thou  with  us  and  ours  and 

thine  ? ' 
Then  call  your  sisters  from  Oblivion's  cave. 
All   singing  loud:    'Love's   very  pain   is 

sweet, 
But  its  reward  is  in  the  world  divine. 
Which,  if  not  here,  it  builds  beyond   the 

grave.' 
So  shall  ye  live  when  I  am  there.     Then 

haste 
Over  the  hearts  of  men,  until  ye  meet     600 
Marina,  Vanna,  Primus,  and  the  rest. 
And   bid    them   love   each    other   and   be 

blessed ; 
And  leave  the  troop  which  errs,  and  which 

reproves. 
And  come  and  be  my  guest,  —  for  I  am 

Love's. 


AUTHOR'S   PREFACE 


307 


ADONAIS 
AN  ELEGY  ON  THE   DEATH   OF  JOHN   KEATS 


Jivu  &i  Ocwiiv,  Ao/xTTci;  ecnrepo?  iy  (ftOiiiivoit. 


Plato. 


Adonais,  perhaps  the  most  widely  read  of 
the  longer  poems  of  Shelley,  owes  something 
of  its  charm  to  the  fact  noted  by  Mrs.  Shelley 
that  much  in  it '  seems  now  more  applicable  to 
Shelley  himself  than  to  the  young  and  gifted 
poet  whom  he  mourned.'  The  elegy  has  con- 
tributed much  to  the  feeling  that  links  these 
two  poets  in  one  memory,  though  in  life  they 
■were  rather  pleasant  than  intimate  friends. 
Keats  died  at  Rome,  February  23,  1821 ;  and 
Shelley  composed  the  poem  between  the  late 
days  of  May  and  June  11,  or  at  the  latest,  June 
16 ;  it  was  printed  at  Pisa,  under  his  OAvn  care, 
by  July  13,  and  copies  sent  to  London  for  issue 
there  by  his  publisher.  During  the  period  of 
composition  he  felt  that  he  was  succeeding,  and 
•wrote  of  it  as  '  a  highly  wrought  piece  of  art, 
and  perhaps  better,  in  point  of  composition, 
than  anything  I  have  written  ; '  and  after  its 
completion,  he  says,  '  The  Adonais,  in  spite  of 
its  mysticism,  is  the  least  imperfect  of  my 
compositions,  and,  as  the  image  of  my  regret 
and  honor  for  poor  Keats,  I  wish  it  to  be  so.' 
He  continued  to  indulge  hopes  of  its  success, 
as  in  the  case  of  The  Cenci,  though  on  a  differ- 
ent plane,  and  wrote  to  Oilier, '  I  am  especially 
curious  to  hear  the  fate  of  Adonais.  I  confess 
I  should  be  surprised  if  that  poem  were  bom 
to  an  immortality  of  oblivion ; '  and,  shortly 
after  this,  to  Hunt,  — '  Pray  tell  me  what  ef- 
fect was  produced  by  Adonais.  My  faculties 
are  shaken  to  atoms,  and  torpid.  I  can  write 
nothing ;  and  if  Adonais  had  no  success  and 
excited  no  interest,  what  incentive  can  I  have 
to  write  ?  '  A  month  or  two  later  he  writes  to 
Gisborne,  still  strong  in  his  faith  in  the  poem, 
— '  I  know  what  to  think  of  Adonais,  but 
what  to  think  of  those  who  confound  it  with 
the  many  bad  poems  of  the  day,  I  know  not. 
...  It  is  absurd  in  any  Review  to  criticise 
Adonais,  and  still  more  to  pretend  that  the 
verses  are  bad.'  His  friends  praised  it,  except 
Byron,  who  kept  silence,  perhaps,  Shelley  says, 
because  he  was  mentioned  in  it.  Shelley's  let- 
ter to  Severn  has  a  peculiar  interest :  — 

'  I  send  you  the  Elegj'  on  poor  Keats  —  and 
I  wish  it  were  better  worth  your  acceptance. 
You  will  see,  by  the  preface,  that  it  was  writ- 
ten before  I  could  obtain  any  particular  ac- 
count of  his  last  moments ;  all  that  I  still 
know,  was  communicated  to  me  by  a  friend 


who  had  derived  his  information  from  Colonel 
Finch  ;  I  have  ventured  to  express,  as  I  felt, 
the  respect  and  admiration  which  your  conduct 
towards  him  demands. 

'  In  spite  of  his  transcendent  genius,  Keats 
never  was,  nor  ever  will  be,  a  popular  poet; 
and  the  total  neglect  and  obscurity  in  which 
the  astonishing  remnants  of  his  mind  still 
lie,  was  hardly  to  be  dissipated  by  a  writer, 
who,  however  he  may  dififer  from  Keats  in 
more  important  qualities,  at  least  resembles 
him  in  that  accidental  one,  a  want  of  popu- 
larity. 

'  I  have  little  hope,  therefore,  that  the  poem 
I  send  you  will  excite  any  attention,  nor  do  I 
feel  assured  that  a  critical  notice  of  his  writings 
would  find  a  single  reader.  But  for  these  con- 
siderations, it  had  been  my  intention  to  have 
collected  the  remnants  of  his  compositions, 
and  to  have  published  them  with  a  Life  and 
Criticism.  Has  he  left  any  poems  or  writings 
of  whatsoever  kind,  and  in  whose  possession 
are  they  ?  Perhaps  j'ou  would  oblige  me  by 
information  on  this  point.' 

PREFACE 

9a.pii.axov  ^kOe,  "Biutv,  irOTi  crov  aroixa,  ^dpneucov  tlStS. 
ToiouTots  xeCKeacri.  noreSpafie,  kovk  eyXyKavOri ; 
Ti's  Si  /SpOTOT  TO<T<TovTov  oLvdnepiK,  T)  (cepacrai  rot 
*H  Sovvai  -jfaTeovTi,  to  (f>d.pfiaKov  eK^-uytv  SiSav  ; 

MoscHus,  Epitaph.  Biok. 

It  is  my  intention  to  subjoin  to  the  London 
edition  of  this  poem  a  criticism  upon  the  claims 
of  its  lamented  object  to  be  classed  among  the 
writers  of  the  highest  genius  who  have  adorned 
our  age.  My  known  repugnance  to  the  narrow 
principles  of  taste  on  which  several  of  his 
earlier  compositions  were  modelled  prove,  at 
least,  that  I  am  an  impartial  judge.  I  consider 
the  fragment  of  Hyperion  as  second  to  nothing 
that  was  ever  produced  by  a  writer  of  the 
same  years. 

John  Keats  died  at  Rome  of  a  consumption, 

in  his  twenty-fourth  year,  on  the of 

1821 ;  and  was  buried  in  the  romantic  and 
lonely  cemetery  of  the  Protestants  in  that  city, 
under  the  pyramid  which  is  the  tomb  of  Ces- 
tius  and  the  massy  walls  and  towers,  now 
mouldering  and  desolate,  which  formed  the 
circuit  of  ancient  Rome.    The  cemet«ry  is  an 


«o8 


ADONAIS 


open  space  among  the  ruins,  covered  in  winter 
with  violets  and  daisies.  It  might  make  one 
in  love  with  death  to  think  that  one  should  be 
buried  in  so  sweet  a  place. 

The  genius  of  the  lamented  person  to  whose 
memory  I  have  dedicated  these  unworthy 
verses  was  not  less  delicate  and  fragile  than  it 
was  beautiful ;  and  where  cankerworms  abound 
what  wonder  if  its  young  flower  was  bliglited 
in  the  bud  ?  The  savage  criticism  on  his  En- 
dymion,  which  appeared  in  the  Quarterly  Re- 
view, produced  the  most  violent  efPect  on  his 
susceptible  mind  ;  the  agitation  thus  originated 
ended  in  the  rupture  of  a  blood-vessel  in  the 
lungs ;  a  rapid  consumption  ensued,  and  the 
succeeding  acknowledgments  from  more  can- 
did critics  of  the  true  greatness  of  his  powers 
were  ineffectual  to  heal  the  wound  thus  wan- 
tonly inflicted. 

It  may  be  well  said  that  these  wretched  men 
know  not  what  they  do.  They  scatter  their 
insults  and  their  slanders  without  heed  as  to 
whether  the  poisoned  shaft  lights  on  a  heart 
made  callous  by  many  blows,  or  one  like 
Keats's  composed  of  more  penetrable  stuff. 
One  of  their  associates  is,  to  my  knowledge,  a 
most  base  and  unprincipled  calumniator.  As 
to  Endymion,  was  it  a  poem,  whatever  might 
be  its  defects,  to  be  treated  contemptuously  by 
those  who  had  celebrated  with  various  degrees 
of  complacency  and  panegyric  Paris  and  Wo- 
vian  and  a  Syrian  Tale,  and  Mrs.  Lefanu  and 
Mr.  Barrett  and  Mr.  Howard  Payne  and  a  long 
list  of  the  illustrious  obscure  ?  Are  these  the 
men  who  in  their  venal  good  nature  presumed 
to  draw  a  parallel  between  the  Rev.  Mr.  Mil- 
man  and  Lord  Byron  ?     What  g^nat  did  they 


strain  at  here  after  having  swallowed  all  those 
camels  ?  Against  what  woman  taken  in  adul- 
tery dares  the  foremost  of  these  literaiy  pros- 
titutes to  cast  his  opprobrious  stone  ?  Mis- 
erable man  !  you,  one  of  the  meanest,  have 
wantonly  defaced  one  of  the  noblest  specimens 
of  the  workmanship  of  God.  Nor  shall  it  be 
your  excuse  that,  murderer  as  you  are,  you 
have  spoken  daggers  but  used  none. 

The  circumstances  of  the  closing  scene  of 
poor  Keats's  life  were  not  made  known  to  me 
until  the  Elegy  was  ready  for  the  press.  I  am 
given  to  understand  that  the  wound  which  his 
sensitive  spirit  had  received  from  the  criticism 
of  Endymion  was  exasperated  by  the  bitter 
sense  of  unrequited  benefits  ;  the  poor  fellow 
seems  to  have  been  hooted  from  the  stage  of 
life  no  less  by  those  on  whom  he  had  wasted 
the  promise  of  his  genius  than  those  on  whom 
he  had  lavished  his  fortune  and  his  care.  He 
was  accompanied  to  Rome  and  attended  in  his 
last  illness  by  Mr.  Severn,  a  young  artist  of  the 
highest  promise,  who,  I  have  been  informed, 
'  almost  risked  his  own  life,  and  sacrificed 
every  prospect  to  unwearied  attendance  upon 
his  dying  friend.'  Had  I  known  these  circum- 
stances before  the  completion  of  my  poem,  I 
should  have  been  tempted  to  add  my  feeble  trib- 
ute of  applause  to  the  more  solid  recompense 
which  the  virtuous  man  finds  in  the  recollection 
of  his  own  motives.  Mr.  Severn  can  dispense 
with  a  reward  from  '  such  stuff  as  dreams  are 
made  of.'  His  conduct  is  a  golden  augury  of 
the  success  of  his  future  career  —  may  the 
unextinguished  Spirit  of  his  illustrious  friend 
animate  the  creations  of  his  pencil,  and  plead 
against  Oblivion  for  his  name  ! 


I  WEEP  for  Adonais  —  he  is  dead  f 

Oh,  weep  for  Adonais  !  though  our  tears 

Thaw  not  the  frost  which  binds  so  dear  a 

head  ! 
And  thou,  sad  Hour,  selected  from  all 

years 
To   mourn   our  loss,  rouse  thy  obscure 

compeers. 
And  teach  them  thine  own  sorrow  I  Say: 

'  With  me 
Died  Adonais;  till  the  Future  dares 
Forget  the  Past,  his  fate  and  fame  shall  be 
An  echo  and  a  light  unto  eternity  1 ' 


Where  wert  thou,  mighty  Mother,  when 

he  lay, 
When  thy  Son  lay,  pierced  by  the  shaft 

which  flieg 


In  darkness  ?  where  was  loru  Urania 
When  Adonais  died  ?     With  veiled  eyes, 
'Mid  listening  Echoes,  in  her  Paradise 
She  sate,  while  one,  with  soft  enamoured 

breath. 
Rekindled  all  the  fading  melodies. 
With  which,  like  flowers  that  mock  the 

corse  beneath. 
He  had  adorned  and  hid  the  coming  bulk 

of  death. 

in 
Oh,  weep  for  Adonais  —  he  is  dead  1 
Wake,   melancholy    Mother,    wake  and 

weep  ! 
Yet   wherefore  ?     Quench  within   their 

burning  bed 
Thy  fiery  tears,  and  let  thy  loud  heart 

keep 
Like   his    a    mute    and  uncomplaining 

deep; 


ADONAIS 


309 


For  he  is  gone  where  all  things  wise  and 
fair 

Descend.     Oh,  dream  not  that  the  amor- 
ous Deep 

Will  yet  restore  him  to  the  vital  air; 
Death  feeds  on  his  mute  voice,  and  laughs 
at  our  despair. 


Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  again  ! 
Lament  anew,  Urania  !  —  He  died. 
Who  was  the  sire  of  an  immortal  strain, 
Blind,  old,  and  lonely,  when  his  country's 

pride 
The  priest,  the  slave,  and  the  liberticide 
Trampled    and    mocked    with  many  a 

loathed  rite 
Of  lust  and  blood;  he  went,  unterrified, 
Into    the   gulf  of  death;  but  his  clear 

Sprite 
Yet  reigns  o'er  earth,  the  third  among  the 

sous  of  light. 


Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew  I 
Not  all  to  that  bright  station  dared  to 

climb; 
And  happier  they  their  happiness  who 

knew, 
Whose   tapers   yet    burn   through    that 

night  of  time 
In   which  suns   perished;    others   more 

sublime, 
Struck  by  the  envious  wrath  of  man  or 

God, 
Have   sunk,  extinct  in   their  refulgent 

prime ; 
And  some  yet  live,  treading  the  thorny 

road, 
Which  leads,   through   toil  and    hate,   to 

Fame's  serene  abode. 

VI 

But  now,  thy  youngest,  dearest  one  has 

perished, 
The   nursling   of   thy   widowhood,    who 
.       grew. 
Like  a  pale  flower  by  some  sad  maiden 

cherished 
And  fed  with  true-love  tears  instead  of 

dew; 
Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew  ! 
Thy  extreme  hope,  the  loveliest  and  the 

last. 


The  bloom,  whose  petals,  nipped  before 

they  blew. 
Died  on  the  promise  of  the  fruit,  is  waste; 
The  broken  lily  lies  —  the  storm  is  over- 
past. 

VII 

To  that  high  Capital,  where  kingly  Death 
Keeps  his  pale  court  in  beauty  and  decay, 
He  came;  and  bought,  with  price  of  pur- 
est breath, 
A    grave    among  the    eternal.  —  Come 

away  ! 
Haste,  while  the  vault  of  blue  Italian  day 
Is  yet  his  fitting  charnel-roof  I    while 

still 
He  lies,  as  if  in  dewy  sleep  he  lay; 
Awake  him  not !  surely  he  takes  his  fill 
Of  deep  and  liquid  rest,  forgetful  of  all  ill. 

VIII 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more  ! 

Within  the  twilight  chamber  spreads 
apace 

The  shadow  of  white  Death,  and  at  the 
door 

Invisible  Corruption  waits  to  trace 

His  extreme  way  to  her  dim  dwelling- 
place  ; 

The  eternal  Hunger  sits,  but  pity  and 
awe 

Soothe  her  pale  rage,  nor  dares  she  to 
deface 

So  fair  a  prey,  till  darkness  and  the  law 
Of  change  shall  o'er  his  sleep  the  mortal 
curtain  draw. 


Oh,    weep    for  Adonais  !  —  The    quick 

Dreams, 
The  passion-wingfed  ministers  of  thought. 
Who  were  his  flocks,  whom  near  the  liv- 
ing streams 
Of  his  young  spirit  he  fed,  and  whom  he 

taught 
The  love  which  was  its  music,  wander 

not,  — 
Wander  no  more,  from  kindling  brain  to 

brain. 
But  droop  there,  whence  they  sprung; 

and  mourn  their  lot 
Round  tlie  cold  heart,  where,  after  their 

sweet  pain, 
They  ne'er  will  gather  strength,  or  find  a 

home  again. 


3IO 


ADONAIS 


And  one  with  trembling  band  clasps  his 

cold  head, 
And  fans  him  with  her  moonlight  wings, 

and  cries, 
*  Our  love,  om"  hope,  our  sorrow,  is  not 

dead; 
See,  on  the  silken  fringe  of  his  faint  eyes, 
Like  dew  upon  a  sleeping  flower,  there 

lies 
A  tear  some  Dream  has  loosened  from 

his  brain.' 
Lost  Angel  of  a  ruined  Paradise  ! 
She  knew  not  't  was  her  own;  as  with  no 

stain 
She  faded,  like  a  cloud  which  had  outwept 

its  rain. 

XI 

One  from  a  lucid  urn  of  starry  dew 
Washed  bis  light  limbs,  as  if  embalming 

them; 
Another  clipped  her  profuse  locks,  and 

threw 
The  wreath  upon  him,  like  an  anadem. 
Which  frozen  tears  instead  of  pearls  be- 
gem; 
Another  in  her  wilful  grief  would  break 
Her  bow  and  winged  reeds,  as  if  to  stem 
A  greater  loss  with  one  which  was  more 
weak; 
And  dull  tbe  barbed  fire  against  his  frozen 
cheek. 

XII 

Another  Splendor  on  his  mouth  alit, 
That  mouth  whence  it  was  wont  to  draw 

the  breath 
Which  gave   it  strength  to  pierce  the 

guarded  wit. 
And  pass  into  the  panting  heart  beneath 
With    ligbtning    and   with   music;    the 

damp  death 
Quenched  its  caress  upon  his  icy  lips; 
And,  as  a  dying  meteor  stains  a  wreath 
Of  moonlight  vapor,  which  the  cold  night 

clips, 
It  flushed    through   bis    pale   limbs,  and 

passed  to  its  eclipse. 

XIII 

And  others  came  —  Desires  and  Adora- 
tions, 

Winged  Persuasions  and  veiled  Desti- 
nies. 


Splendors,  and  Glooms,  and  glimmering 

Incarnations 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  and  twilight  Fanta- 
sies; 
And  Sorrow,  with  her  family  of  Sighs, 
And  Pleasure,  blind  with  tears,  led  by 

the  gleam 
Of  her  own  dying  smile  instead  of  eyes, 
Came  in  slow  pomp;  —  the  moving  pomp 
might  seem 
Like   pageantry  of  mist  on  an  autumnal 
stream. 

XIV 

All  he  had  loved,  and    moulded    into 

thought 
From  shape,  and  hue,  and  odor,  and  sweet 

sound. 
Lamented  Adonais.     Morning  sought 
Her  eastern  watch  tower,  and  her  hair 

unbound, 
Wet  with  the  tears  which  should  adorn 

the  ground. 
Dimmed  the  aerial  eyes  that  kindle  day; 
Afar  the  melancholy  thunder  moaned, 
Pale  Ocean  in  unquiet  slumber  lay, 
And  the  wild  winds  flew  round,  sobbing  in 

their  dismay. 


Lost  Echo  sits  amid  the  voiceless  moun- 
tains, 

And  feeds  her  grief  with   his  remem- 
bered lay, 

And  will   no   more   reply  to   winds   or 
fountains, 

Or  amorous  birds  perched  on  the  young 
green  spray, 

Or  herdsman's  horn,  or  bell  at  closing 
day; 

Since  slie  can  mimic  not  his  lips,  more 
dear 

Than  those  for  whose  disdain  she  pined 
away 

Into  a  shadow  of  all  sounds:  —  a  drear 
Murmur,   between   their  songs,  is  all  the 
woodmen  hear. 

XVI 

Grief  made  tbe  young  Spring  wild,  and 

she  tlirew  down 
Her   kindling   buds,  as  if   she  Autumn 

were, 
Or  they  dead  leaves;  since  her  delight  is 

flown, 


ADONAIS 


3" 


For  whom  should  she  have  waked  the 

suUeu  year  ? 
To  Phoebus  was  not  Hyacinth  so  dear, 
Nor  to  himself  Narcissus,  as  to  both 
Thou,  Adonais;  wau  tliey  stand  and  sere 
Amid  the  faint  companions  of  their  youth, 
With  dew   all   turned    to  tears;   odor,  to 

sighing  ruth. 

XVII 

Thy  spirit's  sister,  the  lorn  nightingale. 

Mourns  not   her  mate  with  such  melo- 
dious pain; 

Not  so  the  eagle,  who  like  thee  could  scale 

Heaven,  and  could  nourish  in  the  sun's 
domain 

Her   mighty  youth  with  morning,  doth 
complain, 

Soaring  and  screaming  round  her  empty 
nest, 

As  Albion  wails  for  thee:  the  curse  of 
Cain 

Light  on  his  head  who  pierced  thy  inno- 
cent breast. 
And   scared   the  angel  soul   that  was   its 
earthly  guest ! 

XVIII 

Ah  woe  is  me  !   Winter  is  come  and  gone. 
But   grief    returns    with   the    revolving 

year; 
The  airs  and  streams  renew  their  joyous 

tone; 
The  ants,  the  bees,  the  swallows,  reap- 
pear; 
Fresh  leaves  and  flowers  deck  the  dead 

Seasons'  bier; 
The  amorous  birds   now  pair   in   every 

brake. 
And  build  their  mossy  homes  in  field  and 

brere ; 
And  the  green  lizard  and  the  golden 

snake, 
Like   unimprisoned   flames,   out   of    their 

trance  awake. 

XIX 

Through  wood  and  stream  and  field  and 

hill  and  Ocean, 
A  quickening  life  from  the  Earth's  heart 

has  burst, 
As   it   has  ever  done,  with  change  and 

motion. 
From  the  great  morning  of   the  world 

when  first 


God  dawned  on  Chaos;  in  its  stream  im- 
mersed. 

The  lamps  of  Heaven  flash  with  a  softer 
light; 

All  baser  things  pant  with  life's  sacred 
thirst. 

Diffuse  tliemselves,  and  spend  in  love's 
delight 
The  beauty  and  the  joy  of  their  renewed 
might. 


The  leprous  corpse,  touched  by  this  spirit 

tender. 
Exhales  itself  in  flowers  of  gentle  breath; 
Like    incarnations   of    the   stars,    when 

splendor 
Is  changed  to  fragrance,  they  illumine 

death 
And  mock  the  merry  worm  that  wakes 

beneath. 
Nought  we  know  dies.     Shall  that  alone 

which  knows 
Be  as   a  sword  consumed    before    the 

sheath 
By  sightless  lightning  ?  the  intense  atom 

glows 
A  moment,  then  is  quenched  in  a  most  cold 

repose- 


Alas  !  that  all  we  loved  of  him  should  be, 
But  for  our  grief,  as  if  it  had  not  been. 
And  grief  itself  be  mortal  !    Woe  is  me  ! 
Whence  are  we,  and  why  are  we  ?   of 

what  scene 
The  actors  or  spectators  ?     Great  and 

mean 
Meet  massed  in  death,  who  lends  what 

life  must  borrow. 
As  long  as  skies  are  blue  and  fields  are 

green. 
Evening   must  usher  night,  night  urge 

the  morrow. 
Month  follow  month  with  woe,  and  year 

wake  year  to  sorrow. 

XXII 
He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more  ! 
'  Wake   thou,'    cried   Misery,  '  childless 

Mother,  rise 
Out  of  thy  sleep,  and  slake,  in  thy  heart's 

core, 
A  wound  more  fierce  than  hLs  with  tears 

and  sighs.' 


312 


ADONAIS 


And  all  the  Dreams  that  watched  Ura- 
nia's eyes, 

And  all  the  Echoes  whom  their  sister's 
soug 

Had  held  in  holy  silence,  cried, '  Arise  !  ' 

Swift  as  a  Thought  by  the  snake  Mem- 
ory stung, 
From  her  ambrosial  rest  the  fading  Splen- 
dor sprung. 


She  rose  like  an  autumnal  Night,  that 
springs 

Out  of  the  East,  and  follows  wild  and 
drear 

The  golden  Day,  which,  on  eternal  wings. 

Even  as  a  ghost  abandoning  a  bier, 

Had  left  the  Earth  a  corpse ;  —  sorrow 
and  fear 

So  struck,  so  roused,  so  rapt  Urania; 

So  saddened  round  her  like  an  atmo- 
sphere 

Of  stormy  mist;  so  swept  her  on  her  way 
Even  to  the  mournful  place  where  Adonais 
lay. 

XXIV 

Out  of  her  secret  Paradise  she  sped, 
Through   camps  and   cities   rough  with 

stone,  and  steel,  • 

And   human   hearts  which,  to   her  airy 

tread 
Yielding  not,  wounded  the  invisible 
Palms  of  her  tender  feet  where'er  they 

fell; 
And  barbfed  tongues,  and  thoughts  more 

sharp  than  they. 
Bent  the  soft   Form  they  never  could 

repel. 
Whose  sacred  blood,  like  the  young  tears 

of  May, 
Paved  with  eternal  flowers  that  undeserving 

way. 


In    the   death-chamber    for  a  moment 

Death, 
Shamed  by  the  presence  of  that  living 

Might, 
Blushed  to  annihilation,  and  the  breath 
Bevisited  tho.se  lip.s,  and  life's  pale  liglit 
Flashed  through  those  limbs,  so  late  her 

dear  delight. 
*  Leave  me  not  wild  and  drear  and  com' 

f  ortless, 


As  silent  lightning  leaves  the  starless 

night ! 
Leave  me  not ! '  cried  Urania;  her  di;>. 

tress 
Boused  Death ;  Death  rose  and  smiled,  and 

met  her  vain  caress. 

XXVI 

*  Stay  yet  awhile  !  speak  to  me  once  again ; 
Kiss  me,  so  long  but  as  a  kiss  may  live; 
And  in  my  heartless  breast  and  burning 

brain 
That  word,  that  kiss,  shall  all  thoughts 

else  survive. 
With    food    of    saddest    memory  kept 

alive, 
Now  thou  art  dead,  as  if  it  were  a  part 
Of  thee,  my  Adonais  !  I  would  give 
All  that  I  am  to  be  as  thou  now  art  I 
But   I   am   chained   to  Time,  and  cannot 

thence  depart ! 

XXVII 

*  O  gentle  child,  beautiful  as  thou  wert, 
Why  didst  thou  leave  the  trodden  paths 

of  men 
Too  soon,  and  with  weak  hands  though 

mighty  heart 
Dare  the  unpastured  dragon  in  his  den  ? 
Defenceless  as  thou  wert,  oh,  where  was 

then 
Wisdom   the  mirrored  shield,  or  scorn 

the  spear  ? 
Or  hadst  thou  waited  the  full  cycle,  when 
Thy  spirit  should  have  filled  its  crescent 

sphere. 
The  monsters  of  life's  waste  had  fled  from 

thee  like  deer. 

XXVIII 
'The  herded  wolves,  bold  only  to  pursue; 
The  obscene  ravens,  clamorous  o'er  the 

dead ; 
The  vultures,  to  the  conqueror's  banner 

true, 
Who  feed   where   Desolation    first  has 

fed. 
And  whose  wings  raiu  contagion;  —  how 

they  fled, 
When,  like  Apollo,  from  his  golden  bow 
The  Pythian  of  the  age  one  arrow  sped 
And   smiled  !  —  The   spoilers  tempt  no 

second  blow, 
They  fawn  on  the  proud  feet  that  spurn 

them  lying  low. 


ADONAIS 


313 


XXIX 

*  The  sun  comes  forth,  and  many  reptiles 
spawn; 
He  sets,  and  each  ephemeral  insect  then 
Is  gathered  into  death  without  a  dawn. 
And  the  immortal  stars  awake  again; 
So  is  it  in  the  world  of  living  men: 
A  godlike  mind  soars  forth,  in  its  de- 
light 
Making  earth  bare  and  veiling  heaven, 

and  when 
It  sinks,  the   swarms   that  dimmed  or 
shared  its  light 
Leave  to  its  kindred  lamps  the  spirit's  aw- 
ful night.' 

XXX 

Thus    ceased    she;     and  the    mountain 

shepherds  came, 
Their  garlands  sere,  their  magic  mantles 

rent; 
The  Pilgrim  of  Eternity,  whose  fame 
Over  his  living  head  like  Heaven  is  bent. 
An  early  but  enduring  monument, 
Came,  veiling  all  the   lightnings  of  his 

song 
In  sorrow;  from  her  wilds  lerne  sent 
The  sweetest  lyrist  of  her  saddest  wrong. 
And  love  taught  grief  to  fall  like  music 

from  his  tongue. 

XXXI 

'Midst  others  of  less  note,  came  one  frail 

Form, 
A  phantom  among  men;  companionless 
As  the  last  cloud  of  an  expiring  storm 
Whose  thimder  is  its  knell ;  he,  as  I  guess. 
Had  gazed  on  Nature's  naked  loveliness, 
Actaeon-like,  and  now  he  fled  astray 
With  feeble  steps  o'er  the  world's  wil- 
derness. 
And  his  own  thoughts,  along  that  rugged 
way. 
Pursued,  like  raging  hounds,  their  father 
and  their  prey. 

XXXII 

A  pard-like  Spirit  beautiful  and  swift  — 
A  love  in  desolation  masked ;  —  a  Power 
Girt    round    with    weakness;  —  it    can 

scarce  uplift 
The  weight  of  the  superincumbent  hour; 
It  is  a  dying  lamp,  a  falling  shower, 
A   breaking    billow;  —  even  whilst  we 


Is   it  not  broken  ?     On  the   withering 

flower 
The  killing   sun   smiles  brightly;  on  a 
cheek 
The  life  can  burn  in  blood,  even  while  the 
heart  may  break. 

XXXIII 

His  head  was  bound  with  pansies  over- 
blown, 
And  faded  violets,  white,  and  pied,  and 

blue; 
And  a  light  spear  topped  with  a  cypress 

cone, 
Round  whose  rude  shaft  dark  ivy-tresses 

g^ew 
Yet  dripping  with  the  forest's  noonday 

dew. 
Vibrated,  as  the  ever-beating  heart 
Shook  the  weak  hand  that  grasped  it; 

of  that  crew 
He  came  the  last,  neglected  and  apart; 
A    herd-abandoned    deer    struck    by   the 

hunter's  dart. 


All  stood  aloof,  and  at  his  partial  moan 
Smiled  through  their  tears;  well  knew 

that  gentle  band 
Who  in  another's  fate  now  wept  his  own, 
As  in  the  accents  of  an  unknown  land 
He  sung  new  sorrow;  sad  Urania  scanned 
The   Stranger's   mien,   and   murmured: 

'  Who  art  thou  ?  ' 
He  answered  not,  but  with  a  sudden  hand 
Made  bare  his  branded  and  ensanguined 

brow. 
Which  was  like  Cain's  or  Christ's  —  oh  ! 

that  it  should  be  so  ! 

XXXV 

What  softer  voice  is  hushed  over  th© 
dead  ? 

Athwart  what  brow  is  that  dark  mantle 
thrown  ? 

What  form  leans  sadly  o'er  the  white 
death-bed, 

In  mockery  of  monumental  stone. 

The  heavy  heart  heaving  without  a  moan? 

If  it  be  He,  who,  gentlest  of  the  wise, 

Taught,  soothed,  loved,  honored  the  de« 
parted  one. 

Let  me  not  vex  with  inharmonious  sighs 
The  silence  of  that  heart's  accepted  sacri- 
fice. 


3U 


ADONAIS 


XXXVI 
Our  Adonais  has  drunk  poison  —  oh, 
What  deaf  and  viperous  murderer  could 

crown 
Life's  early  cup  with  such  a  draught  of 

woe  ? 
The    nameless   worm  would   now   itself 

disown; 
It  felt,  yet  could  escape  the  magic  tone 
Whose  prelude  held  all  envy,  hate  and 

wrong. 
But   what   was   howling  in  one   breast 

alone. 
Silent  with  expectation  of  the  song, 
Whose  master's  hand  is  cold,  whose  silver 

lyre  unstrung. 

XXXVII 

Live   thon,    whose   infamy   is   not    thy 

fame  ! 
Live  !  fear  no  heavier  chastisement  from 

me. 
Thou  noteless   blot  on  a    remembered 

name  ! 
But    be   thyself,   and  know   thyself  to 

be! 
And  ever  at  thy  season  be  thou  free 
To  spill  the  venom  when  thy  fangs  o'er- 

flow; 
Remorse  and  Self-contempt  shall  cling 

to  thee; 
Hot  Shame  shall  bum  upon  thy  secret 

brow. 
And  like  a  beaten  hound  tremble  thou  shalt 

—  as  now. 

XXXVIII 

Nor  let  us  weep  that  onr  delight    is 

fled 
Far  from  these  carrion  kites  that  scream 

below; 
He  wakes  or  sleeps  with  the  enduring 

dead; 
Thou  canst  not  soar  where  he  is  sitting 

now. 
Dust  to  the  dust !  but  the  pure  spirit 

shall  flow 
Back  to  the  burning  fountain  whence  it 

came, 
A  portion  of  the  Eternal,  which  must 

glow 
Through  time  and  change,  unquenchably 

the  same. 
Whilst  thy  cold  embers  choke  the  sordid 

hearth  of  shame. 


Peace,  peace  !  he  is  not  dead,  he  doth 

not  sleep  — 
He  hath  awakened  from  the  dream  of 

life  — 
*T  is  we,  who,  lost  in  stormy  visions,  keep 
With  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife. 
And  in  mad  trance  strike  with  our  spir- 
it's knife 
Invulnerable  nothings.     We  decay 
Like  corpses  in  a  cbamel;  fear  and  grief 
Convulse    us   and  consume  us  day  by 
day. 
And  cold  hopes  swarm  like  worms  within 
our  living  clay. 

XL 

He  has  outsoared   the   shadow  of   our 
night; 

Envy  and  calumny  and  hate  and  pain. 

And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  de- 
light. 

Can  tojich  him  not  and  torture  not  again; 

From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow 
stain 

He  is  secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn 

A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  gray 
in  vain; 

Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased  to 
burn, 
With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  unlamentcd 


He  lives,  he  wakes  —  't  is  Death  is  dead, 

not  he; 
Mourn  not  for  Adonais.  —  Thou  young 

Dawn, 
Turn  all  thy  dew  to  splendor,  for  from 

thee 
The  spirit  thou  lamentest  is  not  gone; 
Ye  cavernsand  ye  forests,  cease  to  moan  I 
Cease,  ye  faint  flowers  and  fountains,  and 

thou  Air, 
Which  like   a  mourning  veil  thy  scarf 

hadst  thrown 
O'er  the  abandoned  Earth,  now  leave  it 

bare 
Even  to  the  joyous  stars  which  smile  on  its 

despair  1 

xLn 

He  is  made  one  with  Nature:  there  is 

heard 
His  voice  in  all  her  music,  from  the  moao 


ADONAIS 


31S 


Of  thunder  to  the  song  of  night's  sweet 
bird; 

He  is  a  presence  to  be  felt  and  known 

In  darkness  and  in  light,  from  herb  and 
stone, 

Spreading  itself   where'er   that    Power 
may  move 

Which  has  withdrawn  hisbeingto  itsown; 

Which  wields  the  world  with  never-wea- 
ried love. 
Sustains  it  from  beneath,  and  kindles  it 
above. 

XLIII 

He  is  a  portion  of  the  loveliness 

Which   once   he  made   more  lovely;  he 

doth  bear 
His  part,  while  the  one  Spirit's  plastic 

stress 
Sweeps  through  the  dull  dense  world, 

compelling  there 
All  new  successions  to  the  forms  they 

wear, 
Torturing  the  unwilling  dross  that  checks 

its  flight 
To  its  own  likeness,  as  each  mass  may 

bear. 
And  bursting  in  its  beauty  and  its  might 
From  trees  and  beasts  and  men  into  the 

Heaven's  light. 

XLIV 

The  splendors  of  the  firmament  of  time 
May  be  eclipsed,  but  are  extinguislied 

not; 
Like  stars  to  their  appointed  height  they 

climb, 
And   death  is  a  low  mist  which  cannot 

blot 
The  brightness  it  may  veil.     When  lofty 

thought 
Lifts  a  young  heart  above   its  mortal 

lair. 
And  love  and  life  contend  in  it  for  what 
Shall  be  its  earthly  doom,  the  dead  live 

there 
And  move  like  winds  of  light  on  dark  and 

stormy  air. 

XLV 

The  inheritors  of  unfulfilled  renown 
Rose   from   their  thrones,  built  beyond 

mortal  thought. 
Far  in  the  Unapparent.     Chatterton 
Rose  pale,  —  his  solemn  agony  had  not 


Yet  faded  from  him ;  Sidney,  as  he  fought 
And  as  he  fell  and  as  he  lived  and  loved 
Sublimely  mild,  a  Spirit  without  spot. 
Arose;  and   Lucan,   by    his    death    ap- 
proved ; 
Oblivion  as  they  rose  shrank  like  a  thing 
reproved. 


And  many  more,  whose  names  on  earth 

are  dark 
But  whose  transmitted  effluence  cannot 

die 
So  long  as  fire  outlives  the  parent  spark, 
Rose,  robed  in  dazzling  immortality. 
'  Thou  art  become  as  one  of   us,'  they 

cry; 
'  It  was  for  thee  yon  kingless  sphere  has 

long 
Swung  blind  in  unascended  majesty. 
Silent  aloue  amid  an  Heaven  of  song. 
Assume  thy  winged  throne,  thou  Vesper  of 

our  throng  ! ' 

XLVII 

Who  mourns  for  Adonais  ?     Oh,  come 

forth, 
Fond  wretch  !  and  know  thyself  and  him 

aright. 
Clasp  with  thy  panting  soul  the  pendu- 
lous Earth; 
As  from  a  centre,  dart  thy  spirit's  light 
Beyond    all   worlds,   until   its    spacious 

might 
Satiate    the   void    circumference;    then 

shrink 
Even  to  a  point  within  our  day  and  night; 
And  keep  thy  heart  light  lest  it  make 

thee  sink 
When  hope  has  kindled  hope,  and  lured 

thee  to  the  brink. 

XLVIII 
Or  go  to  Rome,  which  is  the  sepulchre, 
Oh,  not   of   him,    but   of  our  joy;    't  is 

nought 
Tliat  ages,  empires,  and  religions,  there 
Lie    buried  in    the    ravage   they    have 

wrought; 
For  such  as  he   can  lend,  —  they  borrow 

not 
Glory   from   those  who  made  the  world 

their  prey; 
And    he    is  gathered    to  the  kings  of 

thought 


3i6 


ADONAIS 


Who  waged  contention  with  their  time's 
decay, 
And  of  the  past  are  all  that  cannot  pass 
away. 

XLIX 

Go  thou  to  Rome,  —  at  once  the  Para- 
dise, 

The  grave,  the  city,  and  the  wilderness; 

And    where  its    wrecks    like   shattered 
mountains  rise, 

And  flowering  weeds  and  fragrant  copses 
dress 

The  bones  of  Desolation's  nakedness. 

Pass,  till  the   Spirit  of  the  spot  shall 
lead 

Thy  footsteps  to  a  slope  of  green  access, 

Where,  like  an  infant's  smile,  over  the 
dead 
A  light  of  laughing  flowers  along  the  grass 
is  spread; 


And  gray  walls  moulder  round,  on  which 

dull  Time 
Feeds,  like  slow  fire  upon  a  hoary  brand ; 
And  one  keen  pyramid  with  wedge  sub- 
lime. 
Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who  planned 
This  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand 
Like  flame  transformed  to  marble;  and 

beneath, 
A  field  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  band 
Have  pitched  in   Heaven's   smile   their 
camp  of  death. 
Welcoming  him  we  lose  with  scarce  extin- 
guished breath. 

LI 

Here   pause:  these    graves  are  all  too 

young  as  yet 
To  have  outgrown  the  sorrow  which  con- 
signed 
Its  charge  to  each;  and  if  the  seal  is 

set. 
Here,  on  one  fountain  of  a  mourning 

mind. 
Break  it  not  thou  !  too  surely  shalt  thou 

find 
Thine  own  well  full,  if  thou  returnest 

home, 
Of  tears  and  gall.    From  the  world's 

bitter  wind 
Seek  shelter  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb. 
What  Adonais  is,  why  fear  we  to  become  ? 


The  One  remains,  the  many  change  and 

pass; 
Heaven's   light   forever   shines,  Earth's 

shadows  fly; 
Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-colored  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity, 
Until  Death  tramples  it  to  fragments.  — 

If  thou  wouldst  be  with  that  which  thou 

dost  seek  ! 
Follow    where    all    is    fled  !  —  Rome's 

azure  sky. 
Flowers,  ruins,  statues,  music,  words,  are 

weak 
The  glory  they  transfuse  with  fitting  truth 

to  speak. 

LIII 

Why  linger,  why  turn  back,  why  shrink, 

my  Heart  ? 
Thy    hopes  are  gone    before;  from  all 

things  here 
They  have  departed ;  thou  shouldst  now 

depart ! 
A  light  is    passed    from  the  revolving 

year. 
And  man,  and  woman;  and  what  still  is 

dear 
Attracts  to  crush,  repels  to  make  thee 

wither. 
The   soft    sky    smiles,  —  the   low  wind 

whispers  near; 
'T  is  Adonais  calls  !  oh,  hasten  thither. 
No  more  let  Life  divide  what  Death  can 

join  together. 

LIV 

That  Light  whose  smile  kindles  the  Uni- 
verse, 
That  Beauty  in  which  all  things  work 

and  move. 
That    Benediction  which    the  eclipsing 

Curse 
Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustaining 

Love 
Which  through  the  web  of  being  blindly 

wove 
By  man  and  beast  and  earth  and  air  and 

sea, 
Burns  bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mirrors 

of 
The  fire  for  which  all  thirst,  now  beams 

on  me, 
Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mortality. 


PROLOGUE 


317 


LV 

The  breath  whose  might  I  have  invoked 
in  song 

Descends  on  me;  my  spirit's  bark  is 
driven 

Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trem- 
bling throng 

Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest 
given; 


The   massy  earth  and  sphered  skies  are 

riven  ! 
I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully,  afar; 
Whilst,  burning  through  the  inmost  veil 

of  Heaven, 
The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star, 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  Eternal 

are. 


HELLAS 


A   LYRICAL   DRAMA 


MANTIS  "ElM"  'ESeAON  "ArONnN 

CEdip.  Colon. 


Hellas,  the  last  of  Shelley's  political  poems, 
was  written  at  Pisa  in  the  fall  of  182 1,  and 
published  the  next  spring  at  Loudon  by  OUier, 
who  made  some  omissions  in  the  notes  and 
preface  with  Shelley's  permission.  Edward 
Williams  suggfssted  the  title,  and  was  much 
interested  in  the  poem  as  it  grew.  Shelley  de- 
scribes it,  during  its  composition,  as  '  a  sort  of 
imitation  of  the  Persce  of  ^schylus,  full  of 
lyrical  poetry.  I  try  to  be  what  I  might 
have  been,  but  am  not  successful ; '  and  in 
mentioning  to  Gisborne  the  accuracy  of  the 
proof-reading  he  says,  —  'Am  I  to  thank  you 
for  the  revision  of  the  press  ?  or  who  acted  as 
midwife  to  this  last  of  my  orphans,  introducing 
it  to  oblivion,  and  me  to  my  accustomed  fail- 
ure ?  May  the  cause  it  celebrates  be  more 
fortunate  than  either  !  Tell  me  how  you  like 
Hellas,  and  give  me  your  opinion  freely.  It 
was  written  without  much  care,  and  in  one  of 
those  few  moments  of  enthusiasm  which  now 
seldom  visit  me,  and  which  make  me  pay  dear 
for  their  visits.' 

Mrs.  Shelley's  note  gives  an  excellent  account 
of  the  circumstances  amid  which  it  was  written, 
and  of  its  spirit : 

'  The  south  of  Europe  was  in  a  state  of  great 
political  excitement  at  the  beginning  of  the 
year  1821.  The  Spanish  Revolution  had  been 
a  signal  to  Italy  —  secret  societies  were  formed 
—  and  when  Naples  rose  to  declare  the  Con- 
stitution, the  call  was  responded  to  from 
Brundusium  to  the  foot  of  the  Alps.  To  crush 
these  attempts  to  obtain  liberty,  early  in  1821, 
the  Austrians  poured  their  armies  into  the 
Peninsula :  at  first  their  coming  rather  seemed 
to  add  energy  and  resolution  to  a  people  long 
enslaved.  The  Piedraontese  asserted  their 
freedom ;  Genoa  threw  o£E  the  yoke  of  the 
King  of  Sardinia  ;  and,  as  if  in  playful  imita- 
tion, the  people  of  the  little  state  of  Massa  and 


Carrara  gave  the  congS  to  their  sovereign  and 
set  up  a  republic. 

'  Tuscany  alone  was  perfectly  tranquil.  It 
was  said  that  the  Austrian  minister  presented 
a  list  of  sixty  Carbonari  to  the  gxaud-duke, 
urging  their  imprisonment ;  and  the  grand- 
duke  replied,  "  I  do  not  know  whether  these 
sixty  men  are  Carbonari,  but  I  know  if  I 
imprison  them,  I  shall  directly  have  sixty 
thousand  start  up."  But  though  the  Tuscans 
had  no  desire  to  disturb  the  paternal  govern- 
ment, beneath  whose  shelter  they  slumbered, 
they  regarded  the  progress  of  the  various 
Italian  revolutions  with  intense  interest,  and 
hatred  for  the  Austrian  was  warm  in  every 
bosom.  But  they  had  slender  hopes ;  they 
knew  that  the  Neapolitans  would  offer  no  fit 
resistance  to  the  regular  German  troops,  and 
that  the  overthrow  of  the  Constitution  in 
Naples  would  act  as  a  decisive  blow  against 
all  struggles  for  liberty  in  Italy. 

'  We  have  seen  the  rise  and  progress  of  re- 
form. But  the  Holy  Alliance  was  alive  and 
active  in  those  days,  and  few  could  dream  of 
the  peaceful  triumph  of  liberty.  It  seemed 
then  that  the  armed  assertion  of  freedom  in 
the  south  of  Europe  was  the  only  hope  of  the 
liberals,  as,  if  it  prevailed,  the  nations  of  the 
north  would  imitate  the  example.  Happily 
the  reverse  has  proved  the  fact.  The  coun- 
tries accustomed  to  the  exercise  of  the  privi- 
leges of  freemen,  to  a  limited  extent,  have 
extended,  and  are  extending  these  limits. 
Freedom  and  knowledge  have  now  a  chance  of 
procbeding  hand  in  hand ;  and  if  it  continue 
thus,  we  may  hope  for  the  durability  of  both. 
Then,  as  I  have  said,  in  1821,  Shelley,  as  well 
as  every  other  lover  of  liberty,  looked  upon  the 
struggles  in  Spain  and  Italy  as  decisive  of  the 
destinies  of  the  world,  probably  for  centuries 
to  come.     The  interest  he  took  in  the  progress 


3i8 


HELLAS 


of  affairs  was  intense.  When  Genoa  declared 
itself  free,  his  hopes  were  at  tlieir  highest. 
Day  after  day,  he  read  the  bulletins  of  the 
Austrian  army,  and  sought  eagerly  to  gather 
tokens  of  its  defeat.  He  heard  of  the  revolt 
of  Genoa  with  emotions  of  transport.  His 
vhole  heart  and  soul  were  in  the  triumph  of 
their  cause.  We  were  living  at  Pisa  at  that 
time  ;  and  several  well-informed  Italians,  at 
the  head  of  whom  we  may  place  the  celebrated 
VaccA,  were  accustomed  to  seek  for  sympathy 
in  their  hopes  from  Shelley  :  they  did  not  find 
such  for  the  despair  they  too  generally  experi- 
enced, founded  on  contempt  for  their  southern 
countrymen. 

'  While  the  fate  of  the  progress  of  the  Aus- 
trian armies  then  invading  Naples  was  yet  in 
suspense,  the  news  of  another  revolution  filled 
him  with  exultation.  We  had  formed  the  ac- 
quaintance at  Pisa  of  several  Constantinopol- 
itan  Greeks,  of  the  family  of  Prince  Caradja, 
formerly  Hospodar  of  Wallachia,  who,  hearing 
that  the  bowstring,  the  accustomed  finale  of 
his  viceroyalty,  was  on  the  road  to  him,  escaped 
with  his  treasures,  and  took  up  his  abode  in 
Tuscany.  Among  these  was  the  gentleman  to 
whom  the  drama  of  Hellas  is  dedicated.  Prince 
Mavrocordato  was  warmed  by  those  aspirations 
for  the  independence  of  his  country,  which 
filled  the  hearts  of  many  of  his  countrymen. 
He  often  intimated  the  possibility  of  an  insur- 
rection in  Greece ;  but  we  had  no  idea  of  its 
being  so  near  at  hand,  when,  on  the  1st  of 
April,  1821,  he  called  on  Shelley;  bringing 
the  proclamation  of  his  cousin.  Prince  Ipsi- 
lanti,  and,  radiant  with  exultation  and  delight, 
declared  that  henceforth  Greece  would  be 
free. 

'  Shelley  had  hymned  the  dawn  of  liberty  in 
Spain  and  Naples,  in  two  odes,  dictated  by  the 
warmest  enthusiasm  ;  —  he  felt  himself  natu- 
rally impelled  to  decorate  with  poetry  the 
uprise  of  the  descendants  of  that  people,  whose 
•works  he  regarded  with  deep  admiration  ;  and 
to  adopt  the  vaticinatory  character  in  prophe- 
sying their  success.  Hellas  was  written  in  a 
moment  of  enthusiasm.  It  is  curious  to  re- 
mark how  well  he  overcomes  the  difficulty  of 
forming  a  drama  out  of  such  scant  materials. 
His  prophecies,  indeed,  came  true  in  their 
general,  not  their  particular  purport.  He  did 
not  foresee  the  death  of  Lord  Londonderry, 
which  was  to  be  the  epoch  of  a  change  in  Eng- 
lish politics,  particularly  as  regarded  foreign 
affairs ;  nor  that  the  navy  of  his  country  would 
Sght  for  instead  of  against  the  Greeks:  and 
by  the  battle  of  Navarino  secure  their  enfran- 
chisement from  the  Turks.  Almost  against 
reason,  as  it  appeared  to  him,  he  resolved  to 
believe  that  Greece  would  prove  triumphant : 
and  in  this  spirit,  auguring  ultimate  good,  yet 


grieving  over  the  vicissitudes  to  be  endured  in 
the  interval,  he  composed  his  drama.  .  .  . 

'  Hellas  was  among  the  last  of  his  composi- 
tions, and  is  among  the  most  beautiful.  The 
choruses  are  singularly  imaginative,  and  melo- 
dious in  their  versification.  There  are  some 
stanzas  that  beautifully  exemplify  Shelley's 
peculiar  style.  .  .  . 

'  The  conclusion  of  the  last  chorus  is  among 
the  most  beautiful  of  his  lyrics  ;  the  imagery 
is  distinct  and  majestic  ;  the  prophecy,  such  as 
poets  love  to  dwell  upon,  the  regeneration  of 
mankind  —  and  that  regeneration  reflecting 
back  splendor  on  the  foregone  time,  from 
which  it  inherits  so  much  of  intellectual  wealth, 
and  memory  of  past  virtuous  deeds,  as  must 
render  the  possession  of  happiness  and  peace 
of  tenfold  value.' 

To 
HIS  EXCELLENCY 

PRINCE  ALEXANDER  MAVROCORDATO 

LATE    SECRETARY   FOR   FOREIGN   APPAntS 
TO  THE  HOSrODAR   OF   WALLACHIA 

THE  DRAMA  OF   HELLAS 

IS  INSCRIBED 

AS   AN   IMPERFECT  TOKEN 

OF  THE  ADUIBATION,   SYMPATHY,  AND  FRIENrSHIP 

OP 

THE  AUTHOE 
Pisa,  November  1, 1S21. 

PREFACE 

The  poem  of  Hdlas,  written  at  the  sugges- 
tion of  the  events  of  the  moment,  is  a  mere 
improvise,  and  derives  its  interest  (should  it 
be  found  to  possess  any)  solely  from  the  in- 
tense sympathy  which  the  Author  feels  with 
the  cause  he  would  celebrate. 

The  subject  in  its  present  state  is  insuscep- 
tible of  being  treated  otlierwise  than  lyrically, 
and  if  I  have  called  this  poem  a  drama  from 
the  circumstance  of  its  being  composed  in  dia- 
logue, the  license  is  not  greater  than  that  which 
has  been  assumed  by  other  poets  who  h.avo 
called  their  productions  epics,  only  because 
they  have  been  divided  into  twelve  or  twenty- 
four  books. 

The  PerscE  of  ^schylus  afforded  me  the  first 
model  of  my  conception,  although  the  decision 
of  the  glorious  contest  now  waging  in  Greece 
being  yet  suspended  forbids  a  catastrophe 
parallel  to  the  return  of  Xerxes  and  the  deso- 
lation of  the  Persians.  I  have,  therefore, 
contented  myself  with  exhibiting  a  series  of 
Ivric  pictures  and  with  having  wrought  upon 


AUTHOR'S   PREFACE 


319 


the  curtain  of  futurity,  which  falls  upon  the 
anfiuished  scene,  such  figures  of  indistinct  and 
visionary  delineation  as  suggest  the  final  tri- 
umph of  the  Greek  cause  as  a  portion  of  the 
cause  of  civilii;ation  and  social  improvement. 

The  drama  (if  drama  it  must  be  called)  is, 
however,  so  inartificial  that  I  doubt  v/hether, 
if  recited  on  the  Thespian  wagon  to  an  Athe- 
nian village  at  the  Dionysiaca,  it  would  have 
obtained  the  prize  of  the  goat.  I  shall  bear 
with  equanimity  any  punishment  greater  than 
the  loss  of  such  a  reward  which  the  Aristarchi 
of  the  hour  may  think  fit  to  inflict. 

The  only  goat-song  which  I  have  yet  at- 
tempted has,  I  confess,  in  spite  of  the  unfavor- 
able nature  of  the  subject,  received  a  greater 
and  a  more  valuable  j^ortion  of  applause  than 
I  expected  or  than  it  deserved. 

Common  fame  is  the  only  authority  which  I 
can  allege  for  the  details  which  form  the  basis 
of  the  poem,  and  I  must  trespass  upon  the  for- 
giveness of  mj-  readers  for  the  display  of 
newspaper  erudition  to  which  I  have  been  re- 
duced. Undoubtedly,  until  the  conclusion  of 
the  war,  it  will  be  impossible  to  obtain  an  ac- 
count of  it  sufl&ciently  authentic  for  historical 
materials  ;  but  poets  have  their  privilege,  and 
it  is  unquestionable  that  actions  of  the  most 
exalted  courage  have  been  perf oumed  by  the 
Greeks  —  that  they  have  gained  more  than 
one  naval  victory,  and  that  their  defeat  in 
Wallachia  was  signalized  by  circumstances  of 
heroism  more  glorious  even  than  victory. 

The  apathy  of  the  rulers  of  the  civilized 
world  to  the  astonishing  circumstance  of  the 
descendants  of  that  nation  to  which  they  owe 
their  civilization  —  rising  as  it  were  from  the 
ashes  of  their  ruin  —  is  something  perfectly 
inexplicable  to  a  mere  spectator  of  the  shows 
of  this  mortal  scene.  We  are  all  Greeks.  Our 
laws,  our  literature,  our  religion,  our  arts, 
have  their  root  in  Greece.  But  for  Greece, 
Rome,  the  instructor,  the  conqueror,  or  the 
metropolis  of  our  ancestors,  would  have  spread 
no  illumination  with  her  arms,  and  we  might 
still  have  been  savages  and  idolaters  ;  or,  what 
is  worse,  might  have  arrived  at  such  a  stagnant 
and  miserable  state  of  social  institution  as 
China  and  Japan  possess. 

The  human  form  and  the  human  mind  at- 
tained to  a  perfection  in  Greece  which  has 
impressed  its  image  on  those  faultless  produc- 
tions whose  very  fragments  are  the  despair  of 
modem  art,  and  has  propagated  impulses 
which  cannot  cease,  through  a  thousand  chan- 
nels of  manifest  or  imperceptible  operation,  to 
ennoble  and  delight  mankind  untU  the  ex- 
tinction of  the  race. 

The  modern  Greek  is  the  descendant  of  those 
glorious  beings  whom  the  imagination  almost 
refuses  to  figure  to  itself  as  belonging  to  our 


kind,  and  he  inherits  much  of  their  sensibility, 
their  rapidity  of  conception,  their  enthusiasm 
and  their  courage.  If  in  many  instances  he  is 
degraded  by  moral  and  political  slavery  to  the 
practice  of  the  basest  vices  it  engenders  —  and 
that  below  the  level  of  ordinary  degradation 

—  let  us  reflect  that  the  corruption  of  the  best 
produces  the  worst,  and  that  habits  which  sub- 
sist only  in  relation  to  a  peculiar  state  of  social 
institution  may  be  expected  to  cease  so  soon 
as  that  relation  is  dissolved.  In  fact,  the 
Greeks,  since  the  admirable  novel  of  A  nasta- 
sius  could  have  been  a  faithful  picture  of  their 
manners,  have  undergone  most  important 
changes  ;  the  flower  of  their  youth  returning  to 
their  country  from  the  universities  of  Italy, 
Germany  and  France  have  communicated  to 
their  fellow-citizens  the  latest  results  of  that 
social  perfection  of  which  their  ancestors  were 
the  original  source.  The  university  of  Chios 
contained  before  the  breaking  out  of  the  revo- 
lution eight  hundred  students,  and  among  them 
several  Germans  and  Americans.  The  muni- 
ficence and  energy  of  many  of  the  Greek 
piinces  and  merchants,  directed  to  the  innova- 
tion of  their  country  with  a  spirit  and  a  wis- 
dom which  has  few  examples,  is  above  all 
praise. 

The  English  permit  their  own  oppressors  to 
act  according  to  their  natural  sympathy  with 
the  Turkish  tvrant  and  to  brand  upon  their 
name  the  indelible  blot  of  an  alliance  with  the 
enemies  of  domestic  happiness,  of  Christianity 
and  civilization. 

Russia  desires  to  possess,  not  to  liberate 
Greece  ;  and  is  contented  to  see  the  Turks,  its 
natural  enemies,  and  the  Greeks,  its  intended 
slaves,  enfeeble  each  other  until  one  or  both 
fall  into  its  net.  The  wise  and  generous  policy 
of  England  would  have  consisted  in  establish- 
ing the  independence  of  Greece  and  in  main- 
taining it  both  against  Russia  and  the  Turk ; 

—  but  when  was  the  oppressor  generous  or 
just  ? 

Should  the  English  people  ever  become  free, 
they  will  reflect  upon  the  part  which  those 
Avho  presume  to  represent  their  will  have  played 
in  the  great  drama  of  the  revival  of  liberty, 
with  feelings  which  it  would  become  them  to 
anticipate.  This  is  the  age  of  the  war  of  the 
oppressed  against  the  oppressors,  and  every  one 
of  those  ringleaders  of  the  privileged  gangs  of 
murderers  and  swindlers,  called  sovereigns, 
look  to  each  other  for  aid  against  the  common 
enemy,  and  suspend  their  mutual  jealousies  in 
the  presence  of  a  mightier  fear.  Of  this  holy 
alliance  all  the  despots  of  the  earth  are  virtual 
members.  But  a  new  race  has  arisen  through- 
out Europe,  nursed  in  the  abhorrence  of  the 
opinions  which  are  its  chains,  and  she  will  con- 
tinue to  produce  fresh  generations  to  accom- 


320 


HELLAS 


plish  that  destiny  which  tyrants  foresee  and 
dread. 

The  Spanish  Peninsula  is  already  free. 
France  is  tranquil  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  par- 
tial exemption  from  the  abuses  which  its  un- 
natural and  feeble  government  are  vainly  at- 
tempting to  revive.  The  seed  of  blood  and 
misery  has  been  sown  in  Italy,  and  a  more  vig- 
orous race  is  arising  to  go  forth  to  the  harvest. 
The  world  waits  only  the  news  of  a  revolution 
of  Germany  to  see  the  tyrants  who  have  pinna- 

HELLAS 

DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

The  Prologue  :  — 

Herald  of  Etkrhitt. 

Christ. 

Satan. 

Mahoket. 

Chorus. 

The  Drama  :  — 
Mahmud. 
Hassan. 
Daood. 

Ahasuerus,  a  Jew. 
Phantom  of  Mahomet  the  Second. 
Chorus  of  Greek  Captive  Women. 
Messengers,  Slaves  and  Attendants. 

Scene.    Constantinople. 
Time.    Sunset. 


PROLOGUE  :  A  FRAGMENT 

HERALD  OF  ETERNITY 

It  is  the  day  when  all  the  sons  of  God 
Wait   in  the  roofless  senate-house,  whose 

floor 
Is  Chaos,  and  the  immovable  abyss 
Frozen  by  His  steadfast  word  to  hyaline 

The  shadow  of  God,  and  delegate 

Of  that  before  whose  breath  the  universe 

Is  as  a  print  of  dew. 

Hierarchs  and  kings 
Who  from  your  thrones  pinnacled  on  the 

past 
Sway  the  reluctant  present,  ye  who  sit 
Pavilioned  on  the  radiance  or  the  gloom   lo 
Of  mortal  thought,  which  like  an  exhala- 
tion 
Steaming  from  earth  conceals  the  of 

heaven 
Which  gave  it  birth,  assemble  here 

Before   your    Father's    throne;  the    swift 

decree 
Yet  hovers,  and  the  fiery  incarnation 


cled  themselves  on  its  supineness  precipitated 
into  the  ruin  from  which  they  shall  never  arise. 
Well  do  these  destroyers  of  mankind  know 
their  enemy,  when  they  impute  the  insurrec- 
tion in  Greece  to  the  same  spirit  before  which 
they  tremble  throughout  the  rest  of  Europe, 
and  that  enemy  well  knows  the  power  and 
the  cunning  of  its  opponents  and  watches  the 
moment  of  their  approaching  weakness  and  in- 
evitable division  to  wrest  the  bloody  sceptres 
from  their  grasp. 

Is  yet  withheld,  clothed  in  which  it  shall 

annul 
The  fairest  of  those  wandering  isles  that 

gem 
The  sapphire  space  of  interstellar  air. 
That  green   and  azure  sphere,  that  earth 

enwrapped  20 

Less  in  the  beauty  of  its  tender  light 
Than  in  an  atmosphere  of  living  spirit 
Which  interpenetrating  all  the    .  .  . 

it  rolls  from  realm  to  realm 
And  age  to  age,  and  in  its  ebb  and  flow 
Impels  the  generations 
To  their  appointed  place. 
Whilst  the  high  Arbiter 
Beholds   the   strife,  and  at  the   appointed 

time 
Sends  his  decrees  veiled  in  eternal  ...    30 

Within  the  circuit  of  this  pendant  orb 
There  lies  an  antique  region,  on  which  fell 
The  dews  of  thought  in  the  world's  golden 

dawn 
Earliest    and  most    benign,   and   from  it 

sprung 
Temples  and  cities  and  immortal  forms 
And  harmonies  of  wisdom  and  of  song. 
And  thoughts,  and  deeds  worthy  of  thoughts 

so  fair. 
And  when  the  sun  of  its  dominion  failed. 
And  when  the  winter  of  its  glory  came. 
The  winds  that  stripped  it   bare  blew  on, 

and  swept  40 

That  dew  into  the  utmost  wildernesses     • 
In   wandering   clouds  of   sunny  rain    that 

thawed 
The  unmaternal  bosom  of  the  North. 
Haste,  sons  of  God,  for  ye  beheld, 

Reluctant,  or  con.senting,  or  astonished, 
The  stern  decrees  go  forth,  which  heaped 

on  Greece 
Ruin  and  degradation  and  despair. 
A  fourth  now    waits  :   assemble,    sons  of 

God, 


PROLOGUE 


321 


To  speed,  or  to  prevent,  or  to  suspend, 
If,  as  ye  dream,  such  power  be  not  with- 
held, 50 
The  unaccomplished  destiny. 


The  curtain  of  the  Universe 

Is  rent  and  shattered. 
The  splendor-winged  worlds  disperse 

Like  wild  doves  scattered. 

Space  is  roofless  and  bare, 
And  in  the  midst  a  cloudy  shrine, 

Dark  amid  thrones  of  light. 
In  the  blue  glow  of  hyalme 
Golden  worlds  revolve  and  shine.  60 

In  flight 

From  every  point  of  the  Infinite, 
Like  a  thousand  dawns  on  a  single  night, 
The  splendors  rise  and  spread; 
And  through  thunder  and  darkness  dread 
Light  and  music  are  radiated, 
And,  in  their  pavilioned  chariots  led 
By  living  wings  high  overhead. 

The  giant  Powers  move,  6g 

Gloomy  or  bright  as  the  thrones  they  fill. 

A  chaos  of  light  and  motion 
Upon  that  glassy  ocean. 

The  senate  of  the  Gods  is  met. 
Each  in  his  rank  and  station  set; 

There  is  silence  in  the  spaces  — 
Lo  !  Satan,  Christ,  and  Mahomet 

Start  from  their  places  1 


Almighty  Father ! 
Low-kneeling  at  the  feet  of  Destiny 

There  are  two  fountains  in  which  spirits 

weep  80 

When  mortals  err.  Discord  and   Slavery 

named. 
And  with  their  bitter  dew  two  Destinies 
Filled  each  their  irrevocable  urns;  the  third, 
Fiercest  and  mightiest,  mingled  both,  and 

added 
Chaos  and  Death,  and  slowOblivion'slymph, 
And  hate  and  terror,  and  the  poisoned  rain 

The  Aurora  of  the  nations.     By  this  brow 
Whose  pores  wept  tears  of  blood,  by  these 
wide  wounds, 


By  this  imperial  crown  of  agony. 
By  infamy  and  solitude  and  death,  90 

For  this  I  underwent,  and  by  the  pain 
Of  pity  for  those  who  would  for  me 

The  unremembered  joy  of  a  revenge, 
For  this  I  felt  —  by  Plato's  sacred  light. 
Of  which  my  spirit  was  a  burning  morrow  — 
By  Greece  and  all  she  cannot  cease  to  be. 
Her  quenchless  words,  sparks  of  immortal 

truth, 
Stars  of  all  night  —  her  harmonies    and 

forms. 
Echoes  and  shadows  of  what  Love  adores 
In   thee,   I  do   compel    thee,   send  forth 

Fate,  100 

Thy  irrevocable  child:  let  her  descend 
A  seraph-wingfed  victory  [arrayed] 
In  tempest  of  the  omnipotence  of  God 
Which  sweeps  through  all  tilings. 
From  hollow  leagues,  from  Tyranny  which 

arms 
Adverse  miscreeds  and  emulous  anarchies 
To  stamp,  as  on  a  winged  serpent's  seed. 
Upon  the   name   of   Freedom;    from  the 

storm 
Of  faction,  which  like  earthquake  shakes 

and  sickens 
The  solid  heart  of  enterprise;  from  all    no 
By  which  the   holiest  dreams   of  highest 

spirits 
Are  stars  beneath  the  dawn  .  .  . 

She  shall  arise 
Victorious  as  the  world  arose  from  Chaos  ! 
And  as  the  Heavens  and  the  Earth  arrayed 
Their  presence  in  the  beauty  and  the  light 
Of  thy  first  smile,  O  Father,  as  they  gather 
The  spirit  of  thy  love  which  paves  for  them 
Their  path  o'er  the  abyss,  till  every  sphere 
Shall  be  one  living  Spirit,  so  shall  Greece  — 


Be  as  all  things  beneath  the  empyrean  120 
Mine  !  Art  thou  eyeless  like  old  Destiny, 
Thou  mockery-king,  crowned  with  a  wreath 

of  thorns  ? 
Whose  sceptre  is  a  reed,  the  broken  reed 
Which  pierces  thee  !  whose  throne  a  chair 

of  scorn; 
For  seest  thou  not  beneath  this  crystal  floor 
The  innumerable  worlds  of  golden  light 
Which  are  my  empire,  and  the  least  of 

them 
which  thou  wouldst  redeem  from  me  ? 
Know'st  thou  not  them  my  portion  ? 


322 


HELLAS 


Or  wouldst  rekindle  the  strife  ?      130 

Which  our  great  Father  then  did  arbitrate 
When  he  assigned  to  his  competing  sons 
Each  his  apportioned  realm  ? 

Thou  Destiny, 
Thou  who  art  mailed  in  the  omnipotence 
Of   Him   who  sends   thee  forth,   whate'er 

thy  task, 
Speed,  spare  not  to  accomplish,  and  be  mine 
Thy  trophies,  whether  Greece  again  become 
The   fountain  in   the   desert   whence    the 

eartli 
Shall  drink  of  freedom,  which  shall  give  it 

strength 
To  suffer,  or  a  gvilf  of  hollow  death  140 

To  swallow  all  delight,  all  life,  all  hope. 
Go,  thou  Vicegerent  of  my  will,  no  less 
Thau  of  the  Father's;  but  lest  thou  shouldst 

faint. 
The  wing(id  hounds.  Famine  and  Pestilence, 
Shall   wait   on    thee,   the   hundred-forked 

snake, 
Insatiate  Superstition,  still  shall 
The  earth  behind  thy  steps,  and  War  shall 

hover 
Above,  and  Fraud  shall  gape  below,  and 

Change 
Shall  flit  before  thee  on  her  dragon  wings. 
Convulsing  and  consuming,  and  I  add      150 
Three  vials  of  the  tears  whioli  demons  weep 
When  virtuous  spirits  through  the  gate  of 

Death 
Pass  triumphing  over  the  thorns  of  life. 
Sceptres  and  crowns,  mitres  and  swords  and 

snares. 
Trampling  in  scorn,  like  Him  and  Socrates. 
The   first   is   Anarchy;   wlien   Power   and 

Pleasure, 
Glory  and  science  and  security, 
On  Freedom  hang  like  fruit  on  the  green 

tree, 
Then  pour  it  forth,  and  men  shall  gather 

aslies. 
The  second  Tyranny  — 

CHRIST 

Obdurate  spirit ! 

Then  seest  bnt  the  Past  in  the  To-come.  161 

Pride  is  thy  error  and  thy  punishment. 

Boast  not  thine  empire,  dream  not  that  thy 
worlds 

Are  more  than  furnace-sparks  or  rainbow- 
drops 

Before  the  Power  that  wields  and  kindles 
them. 


True  greatness  asks  not  space,  true  excel- 
lence 
Lives  in  the  Spirit  of  all  things  that  live. 
Which  lends  it  to  the  worlds  thou  callest 
thine. 


Haste  thou  and  fill  the  waning  crescent 
With  beams  as  keen  as  those  which  pierced 

the  shadow  170 

Of  Christian  night  rolled  back   upon  the 

West 
When  the   orient  moon  of  Islam  rode  in 

triumph 
From  Tmolus  to  the  Acrocerannian  snow. 

Wake,  thou  Word 
Of  God,  and  from  the  throne  of  Destiny 
Even  to  the  utmost  limit  of  thy  way 
May  Triumph 

Be  thou  a  curse  on  them  whose  creed 
Divides  and  multiplies  the  most  high  God. 


HELLAS 

Scene  —  A  Terrace,  on  the  Seraglio.  Mahmitd 
(sleeping) ;  an  Indian  Slave  sitting  beside  his 
Couch. 

CHOKUS  OF  GREEK  CAPTIVE  WOMEN 

We  strew  these  opiate  flowers 

On  thy  restless  pillow; 
They  were  stripped  from  orient  bowers. 
By  the  Indian  billow. 
Be  thy  sleep 
Calm  and  deep, 
Like  theirs  who  fell  —  not  ours  who  weep  ! 


Away,  unlovely  dreams  ! 

Away,  false  shapes  of  sleep  ! 
Be  his,  as  Heaven  seems,  ic 

Clear,  and  bright,  and  deep  ! 
Soft  as  love,  and  calm  as  death. 
Sweet  as  a  summc  night  without  a  breatfi. 


Sleep,  sleep  !  our  song  is  laden 

With  the  soul  of  slumber; 
It  was  sung  by  a  Samian  maiden, 


HELLAS 


323 


Whose  lover  was  of  the  uuiuber 
Who  now  keep 
That  calm  sleep 
Whence  none  may  wake,  where  none  shall 
weep.  20 


I  touch  thy  temples  pale  ! 

I  breathe  my  soul  on  thee  ! 
And  conkl  my  prayers  avail, 
All  my  joy  should  be 
Dead,  and  I  would  live  to  weep, 
So   thou   mightst   win  one   hour  of   quiet 
sleep. 

CHORUS 

Breathe  low,  low, 
The  spell  of  the  mighty  mistress  now  ! 
When  Conscience  lulls  her  sated  snake. 
And  Tyrants  sleep,  let  Freedom  wake.  30 
Breathe  low  —  low. 
The   words,   which,  like   secret  fire,  shall 

flow 
Through   the  veins  of   the  frozen  earth  — 
low,  low  ! 

SEJUCHORUS   I 

Life  may  change,  but  it  may  fly  not; 
Hope  may  vanish,  but  can  die  not; 
Truth  be  veiled,  but  still  it  bunieth; 
Love  repulsed,  —  but  it  returneth. 

6EMICHORCS   u 

Yet  were  life  a  charnel,  where 
Hope  lay  coffined  with  Despair; 
Yet  were  truth  a  sacred  lie.  40 

Love  were  lust  — 

SEMICHORUS   I 

If  Liberty 
Lent  not  life  its  soul  of  light, 
Plope  its  iris  of  delight, 
,  Truth  its  prophet's  robe  to  wear, 
Love  its  power  to  give  and  bear. 


In  the  great  morning  of  the  world. 
The  spirit  of  God  with  might  unfurled 
The  flag  of  Freedom  over  Chaos, 

And  all  its  banded  anarchs  fled. 
Like  vultures  frighted  from  Imaus    50 

Before  an  earthquake's  tread. 
So  from  Time's  tempestuous  dawn 
Freedom's  splendor  burst  and  shone; 
Thermopylse  and  Marathon 


Caught,  like  mountains  beacon-lighted, 
The   springing    Fire;     the    winged 
glory 
On  Philippi  half-alighted. 

Like  an  eagle  on  a  promontory. 
Its  unwearied  wings  could  fan 
The  quenchless  ashes  of  Milan.  60 

From  age  to  age,  from  man  to  man 
It  lived;  and  lit  from  land  to  laud 
Florence,  Albion,  Switzerland. 

Then  night  fell;  and,  as  from  night, 
Reassuming  fiery  flight, 
From  the  West  swift  Freedom  came, 
Against   the   course  of  heaven  and 
doom, 
A  second  sun  arrayed  in  flame. 
To  burn,  to  kindle,  to  illume. 
From  far  Atlantis  its  young  beams     70 
Chased  the  shadows  and  the  dreams. 
France,  with  all  her  sanguine  steams, 
Hid,  but  quenciied  it  not;  again 
Through  clouds  its  shafts  of  glory  rain 
From  utmost  Germany  to  Spain. 

As  an  eagle  fed  with  morning 

Scorns  the  embattled  tempest's  warning, 

When  she  seeks  lier  aerie  hanging 

In  the  mountain-cedar's  hair. 
And  her  brood  expect  the  clanging         80 

Of  her  wings  through  the  wild  air, 
Sick  with  famine;  —  Freedom  so 
To  what  of  Greece  remaineth  now 
Returns;  her  hoary  ruins  glow 
Like  orient  mountains  lost  in  day; 

Beneath  the  safety  of  her  wings 
Her  renovated  nurslings  play. 

And  in  the  naked  lightnings 
Of  truth  they  purge  their  dazzled  eyes. 
Let  Freedom  leave,  where'er  she  flies,  9« 
A  desert,  or  a  paradise; 

Let  the  beautiful  and  the  brave 

Share  her  glory,  or  a  grave. 

SEMICHORC9   I 

With  the  gifts  of  gladness 
Greece  did  thy  cradle  strew; 

SEjncHORus  n 
With  the  tears  of  sadness 

Greece  did  thy  shroud  bedew; 

SEMICHORUS   I 

With  an  orphan's  affection 

She  followed  thy  bier  through  time: 


324 


HELLAS 


SEMICHOBUS  U 

And  at  thy  resurrection  loo 

Keappearetb,  like  tliou,  sublime  ! 

SEMICHOBUS   I 

If  Heaven  should  resume  thee, 
To  Heaven  shall  her  spirit  ascend; 

BEMICHOKUS   U 

If  Hell  should  eutomb  thee, 

To  Hell  shall  her  high  hearts  bend. 

SEMICHORUS   I 

If  Annihilation  — 

SEMICHORUS   U 

Dust  let  her  glories  be ; 
And  a  name  and  a  nation 

Be  forgotten.  Freedom,  with  thee  ! 

INDIAK 

His  brow  grows  darker  —  breathe  not  — 
move  not !  no 

He  starts  —  he  shudders;  ye  that  love  not. 
With  your  panting  loud  and  fast 
Have  awakened  him  at  last. 

MAHMUD  (starting  from  his  sleep) 

Man  the  Seraglio-guard  !  make  fast  the 
gate. 

What !  from  a  cannonade  of  three  short 
hours  ? 

'TIS  false  !  that  breach  towards  the  Bos- 
phorus 

Cannot  be  practicable  yet  —  who  stirs  ? 

Stand  to  the  match,  that,  when  the  foe  pre- 
vails, 

One  spark  may  mix  in  reconciling  ruin 

The  conqueror  and  the  conquered  !  Heave 
the  tower  120 

Into  the  gap  —  wrench  off  the  roof. 

Enter  Hassan 

Ha  I  what ! 
The  truth  of  day  lightens  upon  my  dream, 
And  I  am  Mahmud  still. 


Your  Sublime  Highness 
Is  strangely  moved. 

MAHMUD 

The  times  do  cast  strange  shadows 
On  those  who  watch  and  who  must  rule 
their  course, 


Lest  they,  being  first  in  peril  as  iu  glory. 
Be  whelmed  in  the  fierce  ebb :  —  and  these 

are  of  them. 
Thrice  has  a  gloomy  vision  hunted  me 
As  thus  from  sleep  into  the  troubled  day; 
It  shakes  me  as  the  tempest  shakes  the 

sea,  130 

Leaving  no  figure  upon  memory's  glass. 
Would  that  —  no  matter.     Thou  didst  say 

thou  knewest 
A  Jew,  whose  spirit  is  a  chronicle 
Of  strange  and  secret  and  forgotten  things. 
I  bade  thee  summon  him;  't  is  said  his  tribe 
Dream,  and  are  wise  interpreters  of  dreams. 


The  Jew  of  whom  I  spake  is  old,  so  old 
He  seems  to  have  outlived  a  world's  decay; 
The   hoary   mountains    and   the   wrinkled 

ocean 
Seem  younger  still  than  he;  his  hair  and 

beard  140 

Are  whiter  than  the  tempest-sifted  snow; 
His  cold  pale  limbs  and  pulseless  arteries 
Are  like  the  fibres  of  a  cloud  instinct 
With  light,  and  to  the  soul  that  qmckens 

them 
Are  as  the  atoms  of  the  mountain-drift 
To   the    winter   wind;    but   from   his   eye 

looks  forth 
A  life  of  unconsum^d  thought  which  pierces 
The   present,  and   the  past,  and   the   to- 
come. 
Some  say  that  this  is  he  whom  the  great 

prophet 
Jesus,  the  son  of  Joseph,  for  his  mockery. 
Mocked  with  the  curse  of  immortalitj'.    151 
Some  feign  that  he  is  Enoch;  others  dream 
He  was  pre-adamite,  and  has  survived 
Cycles  of  generation  and  of  ruin. 
The  sage,  in  truth,  by  dreadful  abstinence, 
And  conquering  penance  of  the  mutinous 

flesh, 
Deep  contemplation,  and  unwearied  study, 
In  years  outstretched  beyond  the  date  of 

man. 
May  have  attained  to  sovereignty  and  sci- 
ence 
Over  those  strong  and  secret  things  and 

thoughts  160 

Which  others  fear  and  know  not. 


With  this  old  Jew. 


I  would  talk 


HELLAS 


325 


Thy  will  is  even  now 
Made  known  to  him,  where  he  dwells  in  a 

sea-cavern 
'Mid  the  Demonesi,  less  accessible 
Than  thou  or  God  !     He  who  would  ques- 
tion him 
Must  sail  alone  at  sunset,  where  the  stream 
Of   Ocean   sleeps  around   those   foamless 

isles. 
When  the  young  moon  is  westering  as  now, 
And  evening  airs  wander  upon  the  wave ; 
And  when  the  pines  of  that  bee-pasturing 
isle,  170 

Green  Erebiuthus,  quench  the  fiery  shadow 
Of  its  gilt  prow  within  the  sapphire  water. 
Then  must  the  lonely  helmsman  cry  aloud, 
Ahasuerus  !  and  the  caverns  round 
Will  answer,  Ahasuerus  !     If  his  prayer 
Be  granted,  a  faint  meteor  will  arise, 
Lighting  him  over  Marmora,  and  a  wind 
Will  rush  out  of  the  sighing  pine  forest. 
And  with  the  wind  a  storm  of  harmony 
Unutterably  sweet,  and  pilot  him  j8o 

Through    the   soft    twilight    to  the   Bos- 

phorus: 
Thence,  at  the  hour  and  place  and  circum- 
stance 
Fit  for  the  matter  of  their  conference. 
The  Jew  appears.    Few  dare,  and  few  who 

dare 
Win  the   desired  communion  —  but    that 

shout 
Bodes  — 

[A  shout  within. 


Evil,  doubtless;  like  all  human  sounds. 
Let  me  converse  with  spirits. 


That  shout  again. 


HAHMUD 

This  Jew  whom  thou  hast  summoned  — 


HASSAN 


MAHMUD 


Will  be  here  — 


When  the  omnipotent  hour,  to  which  are 

yoked 
He,   I,   and    all    things,   shall    compel  — 

enough.  190 


Silence    those   mutineers  —  that    drunken 

crew 
That  crowd  about  the  pilot  in  the  storm. 
Ay  !  strike  the  foremost  shorter  by  a  head  ! 
They  weary  me,  and  I  have  need  of  rest. 
Kings  are  like  stars  —  they  rise  and  set, 

they  have 
The  worship  of  the  world,  but  no  repose. 
[Exeunt  severally. 


Worlds  on  worlds  are  rolling  ever 

From  creation  to,  decay, 
Like  the  bubbles  on  a  river. 

Sparkling,  bursting,  borne  away,      aoo 
But  they  are  still  immortal 
Who,  through  birth's  orient  portal 
And  death's  dark  chasm  hurrying  to  and 
fro. 
Clothe  their  unceasing  flight 
In  the  brief  dust  and  light 
Gathered   around    their  chariots  as  they 
go; 
New  shapes  they  still  may  weave, 
New  gods,  new  laws  receive. 
Bright  or  dim  are  they,  as  the  robes  they 
last 
On  Death's  bare  ribs  had  cast.  210 

A  power  from  the  unknown  God, 

A  Promethean  conqueror,  came  ; 
Like  a  triumphal  path  he  trod 
The  thorns  of  death  and  shame. 
A  mortal  shape  to  him 
Was  like  the  vapor  dim 
Which   the   orient    planet   animates    with 
light; 
Hell,  Sin  and  Slavery  came, 
Like  bloodhounds  mild  and  tame. 
Nor  preyed   until    their  lord   had  taken 
flight;  220 

The  moon  of  Mahomet 
Arose,  and  it  shall  set; 
While  blazoned  as  on  heaven's   immortal 
noon 
The  cross  leads  generations  on. 

Swift  as  the  radiant  shapes  of  sleep 

From  one,  whose  dreams  are  Paradise, 
Fly,  when   the   fond   wretch   wakes   to 
weep, 
And  day  peers  forth  with  her  blank 

eyes; 
So  fleet,  so  faint,  so  fair. 
The  Powers  of  earth  and  air  230 


326 


HELLAS 


Fled  from  the  folding  star  of  Bethlehem ; 

Apollo,  Pan,  and  Love, 

And  even  Olympian  Jove, 
Grew  weak,  for  killing  Truth  had  glared 
on  them ; 

Our  hills  and  seas  and  streams, 

Dispeopled  of  their  dreams, 
Their  waters  turned  to  blood,  their  dew  to 
tears. 

Wailed  for  the  golden  years. 

Enter  Mahmud,  Hassan,  Daood,  and  others 

MAHMUD 

More  gold  ?  our  ancestors  bought  gold  with 
victory,  239 

And  shall  I  sell  it  for  defeat  ? 


Clamor  for  pay. 


The  Jauizars 


Go,  bid  them  pay  themselves 

With  Christian  blood !  Ai-e  there  no  Gre- 
cian virgins 

Whose  shrieks  and  spasms  and  tears  they 
may  enjoy  ? 

No  infidel  children  to  impale  on  spears  ? 

No  hoary  priests  after  that  Patriarch 

Who  bent  the  curse  against  his  country's 
heart. 

Which  clove  his  own  at  last  ?  Go  !  bid 
them  kill; 

Blood  is  the  seed  of  gold. 

DAOOD 

It  hns  been  sown. 
And  j'et  the  harvest  to  the  sickle-men  249 
Is  as  a  grain  to  each. 

MAHMTTD 

Then  take  this  signet. 
Unlock  the  seventh  chamber,  in  which  lie 
The  treasures  of  victorious  Solyman, 
An  empire's  spoil  stored  for  a  day  of  ruin. 
O  spirit  of  my  sires,  is  it  not  come  ? 
The  prey-birds  and  the  wolves  are  gorged 

and  sleep; 
But  these,  who  spread  their  feast  on  the 

red  earth. 
Hunger   for   gold,  which   fills   not.  —  See 

them  fed; 
Then  lead  them  to  the  rivers  of  fresh  death. 

[Exit  Daood. 


Oh,  miserable  dawn,  after  a  night 

More    glorious    than    the    day    which    it 

usurped  !  260 

O  faith  in  God  !     O  power  on  earth  !     O 

word 
Of  the  great  Prophet,  whose  o'ershadowing 

wings 
Darkened  the   thrones   and  idols  of    the 

West, 
Now  bright !  —  for  thy  sake  cursed  be  the 

hour. 
Even  as  a  father  by  an  evil  child. 
When  the  orient   moon  of  Islam  rolled  in 

triumph 
From  Caucasus  to  white  Ceraunia  1 
Ruin  above,  and  anarchy  below; 
Terror  without,  and  treachery  within; 
The  chalice  of  destruction  full,  and  all     270 
Thirsting   to   drink;    and   who  among    us 

dares 
To  dash   it  from  his  lips  ?  and  where  is 

Hope  ? 

HASSAN 

The  lamp  of  our  dominion  still  rides  high; 

One  God  is  God  —  Mahomet  is  his  Pro- 
phet. 

Four  hundred  thousand  Moslems,  from  the 
limits 

Of  utmost  Asia,  irresistibly 

Throng,  like  full  clouds  at  the  Sirocco's  cry, 

But  not  like  them  to  weep  their  strength 
in  tears; 

They  bear  destroying  lightning,  and  their 
step 

Wakes  earthquake,  to  consume  and  over- 
whelm, 2S0 

And  reign  in  ruin.     Phrygian  Olympus, 

Tmolus,  and  Latmos,  and  Mycale,  roughen 

With  horrent  arms;  and  lofty  ships,  even 
now. 

Like  vapors  anchored  to  a  mountain's  edge. 

Freighted  with  fire  and  whirlwind,  wait  at 
Scala 

The  convoy  of  the  ever- veering  wind. 

Samos  is  drunk  with  blood;  the  Greek  has 
paid 

Brief  victory  with  swift  loss  and  long  de- 
spair. 

The  false  Moldavian  serfs  fled  fast  and  far 

When  the  fierce  shout  of  Allah-i!la-Allah 

Rose  like  the  war-cry  of  the  northern 
wind,  291 

Which  kills  the  sluggish  clouds,  and  leaves 
a  fiock 


HELLAS 


327 


Df  wild  swans  struggling  with  the  naked 

storm. 
So  were  the  lost  Greeks  on  the  Danube's 

day  ! 
If  night  is  mute,  yet  the  returning  sun 
Kindles  the  voices  of  the  morning  birds; 
Nor  at  thy  bidding  less  exultingly 
Than  birds  rejoicing  in  the  golden  day 
The  Anarchies  of  Africa  unleash 
Their  tempest-winged  cities  of  the  sea,    300 
To  speak  in  thunder  to  the  rebel  world. 
Like   sulphurous  clouds  half-shattered  by 

the  storm, 
They  sweep   the   pale   ^goan,  while  the 

Queen 
Of  Ocean,  bound  upon  her  island  throne, 
Far  in   the  West,  sits  mourning  that  her 

sons, 
Who  frown  on  Freedom,  spare  a  smile  for 

thee. 
Russia  still  hovers,  as  an  eagle  might 
Within   a  cloud,  near  which  a  kite   and 

crane 
Hang  tangled  in  inextricable  fight. 
To  stoop  upon  the  victor;  for  she  fears    310 
The  name  of  Freedom,  even  as  she  hates 

thine. 
But  recreant    Austria    loves   thee  as  the 

Grave 
Loves  Pestilence,  and  her  slow  dogs  of  war. 
Fleshed   with    the    chase,    come  up   from 

Italy, 
And  howl  upon  their  limits;  for  they  see 
The   panther.   Freedom,  fled   to    her    old 

cover. 
Amid  seas  and  mountains,  and  a  mightier 

brood 
Crouch    round.     What    Anarch    wears    a 

crown  or  mitre, 
Or  bears  the  sword,  or  grasps  the  key  of 

gold. 
Whose  friends  are  not  thy  friends,  whose 

foes  thy  foes  ?  320 

Our  arsenals  and  our  armories  are  full; 
Our  forts   defy  assault;  ten  thousand  can- 
non 
Lie  ranged  upon  the  beach,  and   hour  by 

hour 
Their  earth-convulsing  wheelp  affright  the 

city; 
The  galloping  of  fiery  steeds  makes  pale 
The   Christian  merchant;  and  the   yellow 

Jew 
Hides   his   hoard  deeper  in  the  faithless 

earth. 


Like   clouds,  and  like  the  shadows  of  the 

clouds, 
Over  the  hills  of  Anatolia, 
Swift  in  wide  troops  the  Tartar  chivalry  330 
Sweep;   the    far-flashing   of    their    starry 

lances 
Reverberates  the  dying  light  of  day. 
We  have  one  God,  one   King,  one  Hope, 

one  Law; 
But  many-headed  Insurrection  stands 
Divided  in  itself,  and  soon  must  fall. 


Proud  words,  when  deeds  come  short,  are 

seasonable. 
Look,  Hassan,  on  yon  crescent  moon,  em- 
blazoned 
Upon  that  shattered  flag  of  fiery  cloud 
Which  leads   the  rear  of    the   departing 

day. 
Wan  emblem  of  an  empire  fading  now    340 
See  how  it  trembles  in  the  blood-red  air. 
And  like  a  mighty  lamp  whose  oil  is  spent. 
Shrinks  on  the  horizon's  edge,  while,  from 

above. 
One  star  with  insolent  and  victorious  light. 
Hovers  above  its  fall,  and  with  keen  beams 
Like  arrows  through  a  fainting  antelope, 
Strikes  its  weak  form  to  death. 


HASSAK 

Even  as  that  moon 


Renews  itself - 


Shall  we  be  not  renewed! 
Far  other  bark  than  ours  were  needed  now 
To  stem  the  torrent  of  descending  time;  350 
The  spirit   that  lifts  the  slave  before  his 

lord 
Stalks  through  the  capitals  of  armfed  kings. 
And  spreads  his  ensign  in  the  wilderness; 
Exults   in   chains;    and,   when    the    rebel 

falls, 
Cries  like  the  blood  of  Abel  from  tlie  dust; 
And  the  inheritors  of  the  earth,  like  beasts 
When  earthquake  is  unleashed,  with  idiot 

fear 
Cower  in  their  kingly  dens —  as  I  do  now. 
What   were    Defeat,   when   Victory   must 

appall  ? 
Or  Danger,  when  Security  looks  pale  ?    360 
How  said  the  messenger,  who  from  the  fort 
Islanded  in  the  Danube  saw  the  battle 
Of  Bucharest  ?  that  — 


328 


HELLAS 


HASSAN 

Ibrahim's  scimitar 
Drew  with  its  gleam  swift  victory  from 

heaven 
To  burn  before  him  in  the  night  of  battle  — 
A  light  aud  a  destruction. 


Was  ours;  but  how  ? 


Ay  !  the  day 


HASSAN 

The  light  Wallachians, 
The  Amaut,  Servian,  and  Albanian  allies, 
Fled  from  the  glance  of  our  artillery 
Almost  before  the  thunder-stone  alit;       370 
One  half  the  Grecian  army  made  a  bridge 
Of  safe   and   slow  retreat    with  Moslem 

dead; 
The  other  — 

JOAHMtrD 

Speak  —  tremble  not. 

HASSAN 

Islanded 

By  victor  myriads  formed  in  hollow  square 

With  rough  and  steadfast  front,  and  thrice 
flung  back 

The  deluge  of  our  foaming  cavalry; 

Thrice  their  keen  wedge  of  battle  pierced 
our  lines. 

Our  baffled  army  trembled  like  one  man 

Before  a  host,  and  gave  them  space;  but 
soon 

From  the  surrounding  hills  the  batteries 
blazed,  380 

Kneading  them  down  with  fire  and  iron 
rain. 

Yet  none  approached;  till,  like  a  field  of 
corn 

Under  the  hook  of  the  swart  sickle-man. 

The  band,  entrenched  in  mounds  of  Turk- 
ish dead, 

Grew  weak  and  few.  Then  said  the  Pacha, 
'  Slaves, 

Render  yourselves  —  they  have  abandoned 
you  — 

What  hope  of  refuge,  or  retreat,  or  aid  ? 

We  grant  your  lives.'  —  *  Grant  that  which 
is  thine  own  I ' 

Cried  one,  and  fell  upon  his  sword  and 
died  ! 

Another  — '  God,  and  man,  and  hope  aban- 
don me;  390 


But  I  to  them  aud  to  myself  remain 
Constant;'   he   bowed    bis  head    and  his 

heart  burst. 
A  third   exclaimed,   'There  is  a  refuge, 

tyrant, 
Where  thou  darest  not  pursue;  and  canst 

not  harm, 
Shouldst  thou  pursue;  there  we  shall  meet 

again.' 
Then   held  his  breath,  and,  after  a  brief 

spasm. 
The  indignant  spirit  cast  its  mortal  garment 
Among  the   slain  —  dead  earth  upon   the 

earth  ! 
So  these  survivors,  each  by  different  ways. 
Some  strange,  all  sudden,  none  dishonor- 
able, 400 
Met  in  triumphant  death;  and,  when  our 

army 
Closed  in,  while  yet  wonder,  and  awe,  and 

shame 
Held  back  the  base  hyenas  of  the  battle 
That  feed  upon  the  dead  and  fly  the  living, 
One  rose  out  of  the  chaos  of  the  slain ; 
And  if  it  were  a  corpse  which  some  dread 

spirit 
Of  the  old  saviors  of  the  land  we  rule 
Had  lifted  in  its  anger,  wandering  by; 
Or  if  there  burned  within  the  dying  man 
Unquenchable  disdain  of  death,  and  faith 
Creating  what  it  feigned,  —  I  cannot  tell; 
But  he   cried,  '  Phantoms  of  the   free,  we 

come  !  412 

Armies  of  tlie  Eternal,  ye  who  strike 
To  dust  the  citadels  of  sanguine  kings, 
And  shake  the  souls  throned  on  their  stony 

hearts, 
And  thaw   their  frost-work  diadems  like 

dew; 
O  ye  who  float  around  this  clime,  and  weave 
The  garment  of  the  glory  which  it  wears, 
Whose  fame,  though  earth  betray  the  dust 

it  clasped. 
Lies  sepulchred  in  monumental  thought;  430 
Progenitors  of  all  that  yet  is  great. 
Ascribe  to  your  bright  senate,  oh,  accept 
In  your  high  ministrations,  us,  your  sons  — 
Us   first,   and    the   more   glorious    yet   to 

come  I 
And  ye,  weak  conquerors  !  giants,  who  look 

pale 
When  the  crushed  worm   rebels   beneath 

your  tread  — 
The  vultures,  and  the  dogs,  your  pensioners 

tame, 


HELLAS 


329 


Are  overgorged;  but,  like  oppressors,  still 
They  crave  the  relic  of  Destruction's  feast. 
The  exhalations  and  the  thirsty  winds  430 
Are   sick  with  blood;  the  dew  is  foul  with 

death ; 
Heaven's   light  is  quenched  in  slaughter; 

thus  where'er 
Upon   your  camps,   cities,    or   towers,   or 

fleets, 
The   obscene  birds  the  reeking  remnants 

cast 
Of  these  dead  limbs,  —  upon  your  streams 

and  mountains. 
Upon  your  fields,  your  gardens,  and  your 

housetops,  — 
Where'er  the   winds  shall  creep,   or  the 

clouds  fly, 
Or  the   dews  fall,  or  the  angry  sun  look 

down 
With  poisoned  light  —  Famine,  and  Pesti- 
lence, 439 
And  Panic,  shall  wage  war  upon  our  side  ! 
Nature  from  ail  her  boundaries  is  moved 
Against  ye;  Time  has   found  ye  light  as 

foam. 
The  Earth  rebels;  and  Good  and  Evil  stake 
Their  empire  o'er  the  unborn  world  of  men 
On  this  one  cast;  but  ere  the  die  be  thrown, 
The  renovated  genius  of  our  race, 
Proud  umpire   of   the   impious   game,  de- 
scends, 
A  seraph-winged  Victory,  bestriding 
The  tempest  of  the  Omnipotence  of  God, 
Which  sweeps  all  things  to  their  appointed 

doom,  450 

And  you  to  oblivion  ! '  —  More  he  would 

have  said. 
But  — 

HAHHUD 

Died  —  as  thou  shouldst  ere  thy  lips  had 
painted 
Their  ruin  in  the  hues  of  our  success. 
A  rebel's  crime,  gilt  with  a  rebel's  tongue  ! 
Your  heart  is  Greek,  Hassan. 

HASSAN 

It  may  be  so: 
A  spirit  not  my  own  wrenched  me  within. 
And  I  have  spoken  words  I  fear  and  hate; 
Yet  would  I  die  for  — 

MAHHUD 

Live  !  oh,  live  !  outlive 
Me  and  this    sinking    empire.     But   the 
fleet  — 


HASSAN 

Alas! 

MAEMUD 

The  fleet  which,  like  a  flock  of  clouds 
Chased  by   the  wind,  flies  the   insurgent 

banner !  461 

Our   winged   castles  from  their  merchant 

ships  ! 
Our    myriads    before    their  weak    pirate 

bands ! 
Our  arms  before  their  chains  !  our  years  of 

empire 
Before  their  centuries  of  servile  fear  ! 
Death  is   awake  t     Repulse  is  on  the  wa- 
ters; 
They  own   no  more   the   thunder-bearing 

banner 
Of  Mahmud,  but,  like   hounds   of  a  base 

breed. 
Gorge  from  a  stranger's   hand,  and  rend 

their  master. 


Latmos,  and  Ampelos,  and  Phause,  saw  470 
The  wreck  — 

MAHMCD 

The  caves  of  the  Icarian  isles 
Told  each  to  the  other  in  loud  mockery, 
And  with   the   tongue   as   of  a  thousand 

echoes. 
First   of    the   sea-convulsing  fight  —  and 

then  — 
Thou  darest  to  speak  —  senseless  are  the 

mountains; 
Interpret  thou  their  voice  I 

HASSAN 

My  presence  bore 
A  part  in  that  day's  shame.     The  Grecian 

fleet 
Bore  down  at  daybreak  from  the  north,  and 

hung 
As  multitudinous  on  the  ocean  line 
As   cranes   upon    the   cloudless    Thracian 

wind.  48c 

Our    squadron,   convoying    ten    thousand 

men. 
Was  stretching  towards  Nauplia  when  the 

battle 
Was  kindled. 

First  through  the  hail  of  our  artillery 
The  agile  Hydriote  barks  with  press  of  sail 
Dashed;  ship  to  ship,  cannon   to  cannon, 

man 


330 


HELLAS 


To  man,  were  grappled  in  the  embrace  of 

war, 
Inextricable  but  by  death  or  victory. 
The  tempest  of  the  raging  fight  convulsed 
To  its  crystalline  depths  that  stainless  sea, 
And  shook  heaven's  roof  of  golden  morn- 
ing clouds  491 
Poised  on  an  hundred  azure  mountain  isles. 
In  the  brief  trances  of  the  artillery 
One  cry  from  the  destroyed  and  the  de- 
stroyer 
Rose,  and  a  cloud  of  desolation  wrapped 
The  unforeseen  event,  till  the  north  wind 
Sprung  from  the  sea,  lifting  the  heavy  veil 
Of  battle-smoke  —  then  victory  —  victory  ! 
For,  as  we   thought,  three   frigates   from 

Algiers 
Bore  down  from  Naxos  to  our  aid,  but  soon 
The  abhorred  cross  glimmered  behind,  be- 
fore, 501 
Among,  around  us;  and  that  fatal  sign 
Dried  with  its  beams  the  strength  in  Mos- 
lem hearts. 
As  the  sun  drinks  the  dew.  ■ —  What  more  ? 

We  fled  ! 
Our  noonday  path  over  the  sanguine  foam 
Was  beaconed  —  and  the  glare  struck  the 

sun  pale  — 
By  our  consuming  transports;  the  fierce 

light 
Made  all  the  shadows  of  our  sails  blood- 
red, 
And  every  conntenance  blank.    Some  ships 

lay  feeding 
The  ravening  fire  even  to  the  water's  level: 
Some  were  blown  np;  some,  settling  heav- 
ily, _  _  S'l 
Sunk;  and  the  shrieks  of  our  companions 

died 
Upon  the  wind  that  bore  ns  fast  and  far. 
Even  after  they  were  dead.    Nine  thousand 

perished  ! 
We  met  the  vultures  Icgioned  in  the  air, 
Stemming  the  torrent  of  the  tainted  wind; 
They,  screaming  from  their  cloudy  moun- 
tain peaks, 
Stooped    through   the   sulphurous   battle- 
smoke,  and  perched 
Each  on   the    weltering  carcass   that  we 

loved, 
Like  its  ill  angel  or  its  daran6d  soul,       520 
Riding  upon  the  bosom  of  the  sea. 
We  saw  the  dog-fish  hastening  to   their 

feast. 
Joy  waked  the  voiceless  people  of  the  sea, 


And  ravening  Famine  left  his  ocean-cave 

To  dwell  with  War,  with  us,  and  with  De- 
spair. 

We  met  night  three  hours  to  the  west  of 
Patuios, 

And  with  night,  tempest  — 

MAHMCD 

Cease  ! 
Enter  a  Messenger 

MESSENGER 

Your  Sublime  Highness, 
That  Christian  hound,  the  Muscovite  am- 
bassador, 
Has  left  the  city.     If  the  rebel  fleet 
Had  anchored  in  the  port,  had  victory     530 
Crowned  the  Greek  legions  in  the  Hippo- 
drome, 
Panic  were  tamer.    Obedience  and  Mutiny, 
Like  giants  in  contention  planet-struck. 
Stand  gazing  on  each  other.    There  is  peace 
In  Stamboul. 

MAHSrUD 

Is  the  grave  not  calmer  still  ? 
Its  ruins  shall  be  mine. 

HASSAN 

Fear  not  the  Russian ; 

The  tiger  leagues  not  with  the  stag  at  bay 

Against  the  hunter.  Cunning,  base,  and 
cruel, 

He  crouches,  watching  till  the  spoil  be  won. 

And  must  be  paid  for  his  reserve  in  blood. 

After  the  war  is  fought,  yield  the  sleek 
Russian  541 

That  which  thou  canst  not  keep,  his  de- 
served portion 

Of  blood,  which  shall  not  flow  through 
streets  and  fields. 

Rivers  and  seas,  like  that  which  we  may 
win, 

But  stagnate  in  the  veins  of  Christian 
slaves  ! 

Enter  Second  Messenger 

SECOND  MESSENGER 

Nauplia,  Tripolizza,  Mothon,  Athens, 

Navarin,  Artas,  Monembasia, 

Corinth   and   Thebes,  are   carried  by  as- 

sault; 
And  every  Islamite  who  made  his  dogs 
Fat  with  the  flesh  of  Galilean  slaves        55a 


HELLAS 


33^ 


Passed  at  the  edge  of  the  sword;  the  lust 

of  blood, 
Which     made    our     warriors    drunk,    is 

quenched  in  death; 
But  like  a  fiery  plague  breaks  out  anew 
In  deeds  which  make  the  Christian  cause 

look  pale 
In  its  o\vn  light.     The  garrison  of  Patras 
Has  store  but  for  ten  days,  nor  is  there 

hope 
But  from  the  Briton;   at  once  slave  and 

tyrant, 
His  wishes  still  are  weaker  than  his  fears, 
Or  he  would  sell  what  faith  may  yet  re- 
main 
From   the  oaths  broke   in  Genoa  and   in 

Norway;  560 

And  if  you  buy  liim  not,  your  treasury 
Is  empty  even  of  promises  —  his  own  coin. 
The  freedman  of  a  western  poet  chief 
Holds  Attica  with  seven  thousand  rebels. 
And  has  beat  back  the  Pacha  of  Negropout; 
The  aged  Ali  sits  in  Yanina, 
A  crownless  metaphor  of  empire; 
His   name,  that   shadow  of  his  withered 

might, 
Holds  our  besieging  army  like  a  spell 
In  prey  to  famine,  pest,  and  mutiny;        570 
He,  bastioned  in  his  citadel,  looks  forth 
Joyless  upon  the  sapphire  lake  that  mirrors 
The  ruins  of  the  city  where  he  reigned, 
Childless  and  sceptreless.     The  Greek  has 

reaped 
The  costly  harvest  his  own  blood  matured. 
Not  the  sower,  Ali  —  who  has  bought  a 

truce 
From  Ypsilanti,  with  ten  camel-loads 
Of  Indian  gold. 

Enter  a  Third  Messenger 

MAHMUD 

What  more  ? 

THIRD   MESSENGER 

The  Christian  tribes 
Of  Lebanon  and  the  Syrian  wilderness 
Are  in  revolt;  Damascns,  Hems,  Aleppo,  580 
Tremble;  the  Arab  menaces  Medina; 
The  ^thiop  has  entrenched  himself  in  Sen- 

naar, 
And  keeps  the  Egyptian  rebel  well  em- 
ployed, 
Who  denies  homage,  claims  investiture 
As  price  of  tardy  aid.     Persia  demands 


The  cities  on  the  Tigris,  and  the  Georgians 
Refuse   their   living  tribute.      Crete   and 

Cyprus, 
Like  mouutain-twins  that  from  each  other's 

veins 
Catch    the   volcano   fire  and    earthquake 

spasm. 
Shake  in  the  general  fever.     Through  the 

city,  590 

Like   birds  before   a  storm,  the   Santous 

shriek. 
And  prophesyings  horrible  and  new 
Are  heard  among  the  crowd;  that  sea  of 

men 
Sleeps  on  the  wrecks  it  made,  breathless 

and  still. 
A  Dervise,  learned  in  the  Koran,  preaches 
That  it  is  written  how  the  sins  of  Islam 
Must  raise  up  a  destroyer  even  now. 
The  Greeks  expect  a  Saviour  from  the  west. 
Who  shall  not  come,  men  say,  in  clouds 

and  glory, 
But  in  the  Omnipresence  of  that  Spirit  600 
In  which  all  live  and  are.     Ominous  signs 
Are  blazoned  broadly  on  the  noonday  sky; 
One   saw  a  red  cross   stamped  upon  the 

sun; 
It  has  rained  blood;  and  monstrous  births 

declare 
The  secret  wrath  of  Nature  and  her  Lord. 
The  army  encamped  upon  the  Cydaris 
Was  roused  last  night  by  the  alarm  of  bat- 
tle. 
And  saw  two  hosts  conflicting  in  the  air,  — 
The  shadows  doubtless  of  the  unborn  time 
Cast  on  the  mirror  of  the  night.     While 

yet  610 

The   fight   hung  balanced,   there   arose  a 

storm 
Which  swept  the  phantoms  from   among 

the  stars. 
At  the  third  watch  the  Spirit  of  the  Plague 
Was  heard  abroad    flapping  among    the 

tents; 
Those  who  relieved  watch  found  the  senti- 
nels dead. 
The  last  news  from  the  camp  is  that  a 

thousand 
Have  sickened,  and  — 

Enter  a  Fourth  Messenger 

MAHMUD 

And  thou,  pale  ghost,  dim  shadow 
Of  some  untimely  rumor,  speak  1 


332 


HELLAS 


FOURTH  MESSENGER 

One  comes 

Fainting  with  toil,  covered  with  foam  and 
blood ; 

He  stood,  he  says,  on  Chelonites'  620 

Promontory,  which  o'erlooks  the  isles  that 
groan 

Under  the  Briton's  frown,  and  all  their  wa- 
ters 

Then  trembling  in  the  splendor  of  the 
moon; 

When,  as  the  wandering  clouds  unveiled  or 
hid 

Her  boundless  light,  he  saw  two  adverse 
fleets 

Stalk  through  the  night  in  the  horizon's 
glimmer. 

Mingling  fierce  thunders  and  sulphureous 
gleams, 

And  smoke  which  strangled  every  infant 
wind 

That  soothed  the  silver  clouds  through  the 
deep  air. 

At  length  the  battle  slept,  but  the  Sirocco 

Awoke,  and  drove  his  flock  of  thunder- 
clouds 63 1 

Over  the  sea-horizon,  blotting  out 

All  objects  —  save  that  in  the  faint  moon- 
glimpse 

He  saw,  or  dreamed  he  saw,  the  Turkish 
admiral 

And  two  the  loftiest  of  our  ships  of  war 

With  the  bright  image  of  that  Queen  of 
Heaven, 

Who  hid,  perhaps,  her  face  for  grief,  re- 
versed ; 

And  the  abhorrfed  cross  — 

Enter  an  Attendant 

ATTEKDANT 

Your  Sublime  Highness, 
The  Jew,  who  — 


Could  not  come  more  seasonably. 
Bid  him  attend.     I  '11  hear  no  more  !  too 

long  640 

We  gaze  on  danger  through  the  mist  of 

fear. 
And  multiply  npon  our  shattered  hopes 
The  images  of  ruin.     Come  what  will  I 
To-morrow  and  to-morrow  are  as  lamps 
Set  in  our  path  to  light  us  to  the  edge 


Through  rough  and  smooth;  nor  can  we 

suffer  aught 
Which  he  inflicts  not  in  whose  hand  we  are. 

[Exeunt. 

SEMICHORUS   I 

Would  I  were  the  winged  cloud 
Of  a  tempest  swift  and  loud  ! 

I  would  scorn  650 

The  smile  of  morn. 
And  the  wave  where  the  moonrise  is  born  ! 

I  would  leave 

The  spirits  of  eve 
A  shroud  for  the  corpse  of  the  day  to  weave 
From  other  threads  than  mine  ! 
Bask  in  the  deep  blue  noon  divine 

Who  would,  not  I. 

SEMICHORUS  n 

Whither  to  fly  ? 

SEMICHORUS  I 

Where  the  rocks  that  gird  the  ^gean     660 
Echo  to  the  battle  paean 
Of  the  free, 
I  would  flee, 
A  tempestuous  herald  of  victory  t 
My  golden  rain 
For  the  Grecian  slain 
Should  mingle  in   tears  with   the   bloody 
main ; 
And  my  solemn  thunder-knell 
Should  ring  to  the  world  the  passing-bell 
Of  tyranny !  670 

SEMICHORUS  n 

Ah  king  !  wilt  thou  chain 
The  rack  and  the  rain  ? 
Wilt  thou  fetter  the  lightning  and  hurri- 
cane ? 

The  storms  are  free. 
But  we 


O  Slavery  !  thou  frost  of  the  world's  prime. 

Killing  its  flowers  and  leaving  its  thorns 

bare  ! 

Thy  touch  has  stamped  these  limbs  with 

crime. 

These  brows  thy  branding  garland  bear; 

But  the  free  heart,  the  impassive  soul, 

Scorn  thy  control  I  68' 

SEMICHORUS  I 

Let  there  be  light  I  said  Liberty; 
And  like  sunrise  from  the  sea 


HELLAS  •  333 


Athens  arose  !  — Around  her  born, 
Shone  like  mountains  in  the  morn 
Glorious  states;  —  and  are  they  now 
Ashes,  wrecks,  oblivion  ? 


SEMICHOBUS  n 


Go 


Where  Thermae  and  Asopus  swallowed 
Persia,  as  the  sand  does  foam ; 

Deluge  upon  deluge  followed,  690 

Discord,  Macedon,  and  Rome; 

And,  lastly,  thou  ! 

SEMICHOBUS  I 

Temples  and  towers, 

Citadels  and  marts,  and  they 
Who  live  and  die  there,  have  been  ours. 

And  may  be  thine,  and  must  decay; 
But  Greece  and  lier  foundations  are 
Built  below  the  tide  of  war. 
Based  on  the  crystalline  sea 
Of  thought  and  its  eternity; 
Her  citizens,  imperial  spirits,  700 

Rule  the  present  from  the  past; 
On  all  this  world  of  men  inherits 

Their  seal  is  set. 

SEMICHOBUS  II 

Hear  ye  the  blast, 
Whose  Orphic  thunder  thrilling  calls 
From  ruin  her  Titanian  walls  ? 
Whose  spirit  shakes  the  sapless  bones 

Of  Slavery  ?   Argos,  Corinth,  Crete, 
Hear,  and  from  their  mountain  thrones 

The  dsemons  and  the  nymphs  repeat 
The  harmony. 

BBMICHORUS  I 

I  hear,  I  hear  !         710 

SEMICHOBUS  II 

The  world's  eyeless  charioteer. 

Destiny,  is  hurrying  by  ! 
What   faith   is  crushed,  what  empire 

bleeds 
Beneath  her  earthquake-footed  steeds  ? 
What  eagle-wingfed  Victory  sits 
At  her  right  hand  ?  what  Shadow  flits 
Before  ?  what  Splendor  rolls  behind  ? 

Ruin  and  Renovation  cry, 

Who  but  we  ? 

SEMICHOBUS  I 

I  hear,  I  hear  I 
The  hiss  as  of  a  rushing  wind,  720 


The  roar  as  of  an  ocean  foaming. 
The  thunder  as  of  earthquake  coming. 

I  hear,  I  hear ! 
The  crash  as  of  an  empire  falling. 
The  shrieks  as  of  a  people  calling 
Mercy  !  Mercy  !  —  How  they  thrill ! 
Then  a  shout  of  «  Kill,  kill,  kill  ! ' 
And  then  a  small  still  voice,  thus  — 

SEMICHOBUS  II 

For 
Revenge  and  Wrong  bring  forth  their  kind ; 

The  foul  cubs  like  their  parents  are;  730 
Their  den  is  in  the  guilty  mind. 

And  Conscience  feeds  them  with  despair; 

SEMICHOBUS  I 

In  sacred  Athens,  near  the  fane 

Of  Wisdom,  Pity's  altar  stood; 
Serve  not  the  unknown  God  in  vain, 
But  pay  that  broken  shrine  again 
Love  for  hate,  and  tears  for  blood. 

Enter  Mahmud  and  Ahasuebus 

MAHMUD 

Thou  art  a  man,  thou  sayest,  even  as  we. 


ahasuebus 


No  more  f 


mahmud 
But  raised  above  thy  fellow-men 
By  thought,  as  I  by  power. 


ahasuebus 


Thou  sayest  so. 


Thou  art  an  adept  in  the  difficult  lore     741 
Of   Greek   and    Frank   philosophy;    thou 

numberest 
The  flowers,  and  thou  measurest  the  stars; 
Thou  severest  element  from  element; 
Thy  spirit  is  present  in  the  past,  and  sees 
The  birth  of  this  old  world  through  all  its 

cycles 
Of  desolation  and  of  loveliness. 
And  when  man  was  not,  and  how  man  be- 
came 
The  monarch  and  the  slave  of  this  low 

sphere. 
And  all  its  narrow  circles  —  it  is  much.  750 
I  honor  thee,  and  would  be  what  thou  art 
Were  I  not  what  I  am;  but  the  unborn 
hour, 


334 


HELLAS 


Cradled  in  fear  and  hope,  conflicting  storms, 
Who  shall  unveil  ?     Nor  thou,  nor  I,  nor 

any 
Mighty  or  wise.     I  apprehended  not 
What  thou  hast  taught  me,  but  I  now  per- 
ceive 
That  thou  art  no  interpreter  of  dreams; 
Thou  dost  not  own  that  art,  device,  or  God, 
Can  make  the  future  present  —  let  it  come  ! 
Moreover  thou  disdainest  us  and  ours  !   760 
Thou  art  as  God,  whom  thou  contemplatest. 

AHASUEKUS 

Disdain  thee  ?  —  not  the    worm    beneath 

thy  feet ! 
The  Fathomless  has  care  for  meaner  things 
Than    thou    canst   drfiam,  and    has  made 

pride  for  those 
Who  would  be  what  they  may  not,  or  would 

seem 
That  which  they  are  not.     Sultan  !  talk  no 

more 
Of  thee  and  me,  the  future  and  the  past; 
But  look  on  that  which  cannot  change  — 

the  One, 
The  unborn  and  the  undying.     Earth  and 

Ocean, 
Space,  and   the   isles  of  life  or  light  that 

gem  77° 

The  sapphire  floods  of  interstellar  air. 
This  firmament  pavilioned  upon  chaos. 
With  all  its  cressets  of  immortal  fire. 
Whose  outwall,  bastionfed  impregnably 
Against  the   escape   of   boldest   thoughts, 

repels  them 
As  Calpe  the  Atlantic  clouds  —  this  Whole 
Of  suns,  and  worlds,  and  men,  and  beasts, 

and  flowers, 
With  all  the  silent  or  tempestuous  workings 
By  which  they  have  been,  are,  or  cease  to 

be. 
Is  but  a  vision;  all  that  it  inherits  780 

Are    motes   of    a  sick  eye,  bubbles,   and 

dreams; 
Thought  is  its  cradle  and  its  grave,  nor  less 
The  future  and  the  past  are  idle  shadows 
Of  thought's  eternal  flight  —  they  have  no 

being; 
Nought  is  but  that  which  feels  itself  to  be. 

HAHIIUD 

What  meanest  thou  ?  thy  words   stream 

like  a  tempest 
Of  dazzling  mist  within  iny  brain  —  they 

shake 


The  earth  on  which  I  stand,  and  hang  like 

niglit 
On   Heaven   above   me.     What  can   they 

avail  ? 
They  cast   on   all  things,  surest,  brightest, 

best,  —  790 

Doubt,  insecurity,  astonishment. 

AHASUERUS 

Mistake  me  not !     All  is  contained  in  each. 

Dodona's  forest  to  an  acorn's  cup 

Is  that  which  has  been  or  will  be,  to  that 

Which  is  —  the  absent  to  the  present. 
Thought 

Alone,  and  its  quick  elements.  Will,  Pas- 
sion, 

Reason,  Imagination,  cannot  die; 

They  are  what  that  which  they  regard  ap- 
pears. 

The  stuff  whence  mutability  can  weave 

All  that  it  hath  dominion  o'er  —  worlds, 
worms,  800 

Empires,  and  superstitions.  What  has 
thought 

To  do  with  time,  or  place,  or  circumstance  ? 

Wouldst  thou  behold  the  future  ?  —  ask 
and  have  ! 

Knock  and  it  shall  be  opened  —  look,  and 
lo! 

The  coming  age  is  shadowed  on  the  past 

As  on  a  glass. 


Wild,  wilder  thoughts  convulse 
My  spirit.     Did  not  Mahomet  the  Second 
Win  Stamboul  ? 

AHASUERUS 

Thou  Avouldst  ask  that  giant  spirit 
The  written   fortunes   of  thy   house    and 

faith. 
Thou  wouldst  cite  one  out  of  the  grave  to 

tell  8  to 

How  what  was  born  in  blood  must  die. 


Have  power  on  me  I     I  see  — 


Thy  words 


AHASUERUS 

What  hearest  thou  ? 


A  far  whisper  — 


TeiTible  silence. 


HELLAS 


335 


AHASUERUS 

What  succeeds  ? 

MAHMUD 

The  sound 
As  of  the  assault  of  an  imperial  city, 
The  hiss  of  inextinguishable  fire, 
The  roar  of  giant  cannon;  the  earth-quak- 

Fall  of  vast  bastions  and  precipitous  towers, 
The  shock  of  crags  shot  from  strange  en- 
ginery. 
The  clash  of  wheels,  and  clang  of  armed 
hoofs  820 

And  crash  of  brazen  mail,  as  of  the  wreck 
Of  adamantine  mountains;  the  mad  blast 
Of   trumpets,   and    the   neigh    of    raging 

steeds. 
And   shrieks  of  women   whose  thrill   jars 

the  blood. 
And  one   sweet  laugh,   most  horrible   to 

hear. 
As  of  a  joyous  infant  waked,  and  playing 
With  its  dead  mother's  breast;  and  now 

more  loud 
The  mingled  battle-cry  —  ha  !  hear  I  not 
'Ev  rovT(f  viKTi.     AUah-illah- Allah  ! 

AHASUERUS 

The    sulphurous    mist     is     raised  —  thou 
seest  — 

MAHMUD 

A  chasm, 
As  of  two   mountains,  in  the  wall  of  Stam- 
boul ;  83 1 

And  in  that  ghastly  breach  the  Islamites, 
Like  giants  on  the  ruins  of  a  world. 
Stand  in  the  light  of  sunrise.     In  the  dust 
Glimmers  a  kiugless  diadem,  and  one 
Of  regal  port  has  cast  himself  beneath 
The  stream  of  war.     Another  proudly  clad 
In  golden  arms  spurs  a  Tartarian  barb 
Into  the  gap,  and  with  his  iron  mace 
Directs  the  torrent  of  that  tide  of  men,  840 
And  seems  —  he  is  —  Mahomet ! 

AHASUERUS 

What  thou  seest 
Is  but  the  ghost  of  thy  forgotten  dream ; 
A  dream  itself,  yet  less,  perhaps,  than  that 
Thou  call'st  reality.     Thou  mayst  behold 
How  cities,  on   which    empire    sleeps    en- 
throned. 
Bow  their  towered  crests  to  mutability. 


Poised  by  the  flood,  e'en  on  the  height  thott 

boldest. 
Thou  mayst  now  learn  how  the  full  tide  of 

power 
Ebbs  to  its  depths.     Inheritor  of  glory 
Conceived  in  darkness,  born  in  blood,  and 

nourished  85a 

With  tears  and  toil,  thou  seest  the  mortal 

throes 
Of  that   whose  birth  was  but  the  same. 

The  Past 
Now  stands  before  thee  like  an  Incarnation 
Of  the  To-come;  yet  wouldst  thou  commune 

with 
That  portion  of  thyself  which  was  ere  thou 
Didst  start  for  this  brief  race  whose  crown 

is  death. 
Dissolve  with  that  strong  faith  and  fervent 

passion. 
Which  called  it  from  the  uncreated  deep, 
Yon   cloud   of  war   with   its   tempestuous 

phantoms 
Of  raging  death;  and  draw   with   mighty 

will  860 

The  imperial  shade  hither. 

[Exit  Ahasuekus. 


Approach ! 

PHANTOM 

I  come 
Thence  whither  thou  must  go  !    The  grave 

is  fitter 
To  take  the  living  than  give  up  the  dead; 
Yet  has  thy  faith  prevailed,  and  I  am  here. 
The  heavy  fragments  of  the  power  which 

fell 
When   I   arose,  like   shapeless   crags  and 

clouds. 
Hang  round  my  throne  on  the  abyss,  and 

voices 
Of  strange  lament  soothe  my  supreme  re- 
pose, 
Wailing  for  glory  never  to  return. 
A  later  empire  nods  in  its  decay;  870 

Tlie  autumn  of  a  greener  faith  is  come; 
And  wolfish  change,  like  winter,  howls  to 

strip 
The   foliage   in   which   Fame,   the   eagle, 

built 
Her  aerie,  while  Dominion  whelped  below. 
The  storm  is  in  its  branches,  and  the  frost 
Is  on  its  leaves,  and  the  blank  deep  expects 
Oblivion  on  oblivion,  spoil  on  spoil, 


336 


HELLAS 


Ruin  on  ruin.     Thou  art  slow,  my  son; 

The  Anarchs  of  the  world  of  darkness  keep 

A  throne  for  thee,  round  which  tliine  em- 
pire lies  880 

Boundless  and  mute;  and  for  thy  subjects 
thou, 

Like  us,  shalt  rule  the  ghosts  of  murdered 
life, 

The  phantoms  of  the  powers  who  rule  thee 
now  — 

Mutinous  passions  and  conflicting  fears. 

And  hopes  that  sate  themselves  on  dust  and 
'  die, 

Stripped  of  their  mortal  strength,  as  thou 
of  thine. 

Islam  must  fall,  but  we  will  reign  together 

Over  its  ruins  in  the  world  of  death; 

And  if  the  trunk  be  dry,  yet  shall  the  seed 

Unfold  itself  even  in  the  shape  of  that    890 

Which  gathers  birth  in  its  decay.  Woe  ! 
Woe! 

To  the  weak  people  tangled  in  the  grasp 

Of  its  last  spasms  ! 


Spirit,  woe  to  all ; 

Woe  to  the  wronged  and  the  avenger ! 
Woe 

To  the  destroyer,  woe  to  the  destroyed  ! 

W^oe  to  the  dupe,  and  woe  to  the  deceiver  ! 

Woe  to  the  oppressed,  and  woe  to  the  op- 
pressor ! 

Woe  both  to  those  that  suffer  and  inflict; 

Those  who  are  born,  and  those  who  die  ! 
But  say, 

Imperial  shadow  of  the  thing  I  am,         900 

W^hen,  how,  by  whom.  Destruction  must 
accomplish 

Her  consummation  ? 

PHANTOM 

Ask  the  cold  pale  Hour, 
Rich  in  reversion  of  impending  death, 
When  he  shall  fall  upon  whose  ripe  gray 

hairs 
Sit  Care,  and  Sorrow,  and  Infirmity  — 
The  weight  which  Crime,  whose  wings  are 

plumed  with  years. 
Leaves  in  his  flight  from  ravaged  heart  to 

heart 
Over  the  heads  of  men,  under  which  bur- 
den 
They  bow    themselves    unto    the    grave. 

Fond  wretch  ! 
He  leans  upon  his  crutch,  and  talks  of  years 


To  come,  and  how  in  hours  of  youth  re- 
newed 911 
He  will  renew  lost  joys,  and  — 

VOICE  (without) 

Victory  !  victory  ! 
[The  Phantom  vanishes. 

MAHMUD 

What  sound  of  the  importunate  earth  has 

broken 
My  mighty  trance  ? 

VOICE  (without) 

Victory  !  victory  ! 

MAHMCD 

Weak    lightning    before   darkness !    poor 

faint  smile 
Of  dying  Islam  !     Voice  which  art  the  re- 
sponse 
Of  hollow   weakness !      Do  I   wake   and 

live? 
Were  there  such  things  ?  or  may  the  un- 
quiet brain, 
Vexed  by  the  wise  mad   talk  of  the   old 

Jew, 
Have  shaped  itself  these  shadows  of  its 
fear  ?  930 

It   matters  not !  —  for  nought  we  see  or 

dream. 
Possess,  or  lose,  or  grasp  at,  can  be  worth 
More  than  it  gives  or  teaches.    Come  what 

may, 
The  future  must  become  the  past,  and  I 
As  they  were,  to  whom  once  this  present 

hour. 
This  gloomy  crag  of  time  to  which  I  cling. 
Seemed  an  Elysian  isle  of  peace  and  joy 
Never  to  be  attained.  —  I  must  rebuke 
This  drunkenness  of  triumph  ere  it  die. 
And  dying,  bring  despair.     Victory  !  poor 
slaves  !  930 

[Exit  Mahmtjd. 

VOICE  (without) 

Shout  in  the  jubilee  of  death  !  the  Greeks 

Are  as  a  brood  of  lions  in  the  net 

Round   which   the   kingly  hunters  of   the 

earth 
Stand  smiling.     Anarchs,  ye  whose  daily 

food 
Are  curses,  groans,  and  gold,  the  fruit  of 

death. 
From  Thule  to  the  girdle  of  the  world, 


HELLAS 


337 


Come,  feast  !   the  board  groans  with  the 

flesh  of  men; 
The  cup  is  foaming  with  a  nation's  blood; 
Famine  and  Thirst  await  1  eat,  drink,  and 

die! 

SEMICHORCrS  I 

Victorious  Wrong,  with  vulture  scream, 

Salutes   the  risen  sun,  pursues  the   flying 

day !  941 

I  saw  her  ghastly  as  a  tyrant's  dream, 

Perch  on  the  trembling  pyramid  of  night, 

Beneath  which  earth  and  all  her  realms 

pavilioned  lay 
In  visions  of  the  dawning  undelight. 

Who  shall  impede  her  flight  ? 
Who  rob  her  of  her  prey  ? 

VOICE  (without) 

Victory,  victory  !    Russia's  famished  eagles 

Dare  not  to  prey  beneath  the  crescent's 
light. 

Impale  the  remnant  of  the  Greeks !  de- 
spoil !  950 

Violate  !  make  their  flesh  cheaper  than 
dust ! 

SEMICHOBUS  II 

Thou  voice  which  art 
The  herald  of  the  ill  in  splendor  hid  ! 

Thou  echo  of  the  hollow  heart 
Of  monarchy,  bear  me  to  thine  abode 
When  desolation  flashes  o'er  a  world  de- 
stroyed. 
Oh,  bear  me  to  those  isles  of  jagged  cloud 
Which   float    like    mountains   on   the 
earthquake,  mid  958 

The  momentary  oceans  of  the  lightning; 
Or  to  some  toppling  promontory  proud 
Of  solid  tempest,  whose  black  pyramid. 
Riven,   overhangs   the   founts   intensely 
brightning 
Of  those  dawn-tinted  deluges  of  fire 
Before  their  waves  expire. 
When  heaven  and  earth  are  light,  and  only 
light 

In  the  thunder-night ! 

VOICE  (without) 
Victory,  victory  !  Austria,  Russia,  England, 
And  that  tame  serpent,  that  poor  shadow, 

France, 
Cry  peace,   and   that   means   death    when 

monarch s  speak. 
Ho,  there  !   bring   torches,   sharpen   those 

red  stakes  !  970 


These  chains  are  light,  fitter  for  slaves  and 

poisoners 
Than    Greeks.     Kill,   plunder,  burn !    let 

none  remain. 

SEMICHOBUS   I 

Alas  for  Liberty  ! 
If  numbers,  wealth,  or  unfulfilling  years, 
Or  fate,  can  quell  the  free  ! 
Alas  for  Virtue  !  when 
Torments,  or  contumely,  or  the  sneers 

Of  erring  judging  men 
Can  break  the  heart  where  it  abides  ! 
Alas  !  if  Love,  whose  smile  makes  this  ob- 
scure world  splendid,  980 
Can  change,  with  its  false  times  and  tides. 
Like  hope  and  terror  — 
Alas  for  Love  ! 
And  Truth,  who  wanderest  lone  and  unbe- 

friended, 
If  thou  canst  veil  thy  lie-consuming  mir- 
ror 
Before  the  dazzled  eyes  of  Error, 
Alas  for  thee  !  Image  of  the  Above  ! 

SEMICHORUS   II 

Repulse,  with  plumes  from  conquest  torn, 
Led  the  ten  thousand  from  the  limits  of 
the  morn 
Through  many  an  hostile  Anarchy  !     990 
At  length  they  wept  aloud  and  cried,  '  the 
sea  !  the  sea  ! ' 
Through  exile,  persecution,  and  despair, 
Rome   was,  and  young  Atlantis  shall 

become. 
The  wonder,  or  the  terror,  or  the  tomb. 
Of  all  whose  step  wakes   Power  lulled  in 
her  savage  lair. 
But  Greece  was  as  a  hermit  child. 

Whose  fairest  thoughts  and  limbs  were 
built 
To  woman's  growth  by  dreams  so  mild 
She  knew  not  pain  or  guilt; 
And  now,  O  Victory,  blush !  and  Empire, 
tremble,  icoo 

When  ye  desert  the  free  ! 
If  Greece  must  be 
A  wreck,  yet  shall  its  fragments  reassem- 
ble. 
And  build  themselves  again  impregnably 

In  a  diviner  clime. 
To  Amphionic  music,  on  some  Cape  sub- 
lime 
Which    frowns    above    the   idle   foam   of 
time. 


33^ 


HELLAS 


SEMICHORCS   I 

Let  the  tyrants  rule  the  desert  they  have 
made ; 
Let  the  free  possess  the  paradise  they 
claim ; 
Be   the   fortune  of  our  fierce   oppressors 
weighed  loio 

With   our  ruin,  our  resistance,  and  our 
name  ! 

SKMICHOUUS   11 

Our  dead  shall  be  the  seed  of  their  decay, 
Our  survivors  be  the  shadows  of  their 
pride, 

Our  adversity  a  dream  to  pass  away,  — 
Their  dishonor  a  remembrance  to  abide  ! 

"VOICE  (without) 
Victory  !  Victory  !  the  bought  Briton  sends 
The  keys  of  ocean  to  the  Islamite. 
Now  shall  the  blazon  of  the  cross  be  veiled. 
And  British  skill,  directing  Othman  might, 
Thunder-strike  rebel  victory.  Oh,  keep 
_  holy  I020 

This  jubilee  of  unrevengfed  blood  ! 
Kill,  crush,  despoil  !     Let  not  a  Greek  es- 
cape 1 

SEMICHORUS   I 

Darkness  has  dawned  in  the  East 

On  the  noon  of  time; 
The  death  birds  descend  to  their  feast, 

From  the  hungry  clime. 
Let  Freedom  and  Peace  flee  far 

To  a  sunnier  strand, 
And  follow  Love's  folding  star 

To  the  Evening  land  !  1030 

SEMICHORUS   It 

The  young  moon  has  fed 
Her  exhausted  horn 
With  the  sunset's  fire; 
The  weak  day  is  dead. 
But  the  night  is  not  born; 
And,  like  loveliness  panting  with  wild  de- 
sire, 
While  it  trembles  with  fear  and  delight, 
Hesperus  flies  from  awakening  night, 
And  pants  in  its  beauty  and  speed  with  light 
Fast-flashing,  soft  and  bright.  1040 

Thou  beacon  of  love  !  thou  lamp  of  the  free  ! 

Guide  us  far,  far  away, 
To  climes  where  now,  veiled  by  the  ardor 
of  day. 

Thou  art  hidden 


From  waves  on  which  weary  Noon 

Faints  in  her  summer  swoon, 

Between  kingless  continents,  sinless  as 

Eden, 
Around   mountains   and  islands  inviola- 

bly 
Pranked  on  the  sapphire  sea. 

SEMICHORUS   I 

Through  the  sunset  of  hope,  1050 

Like  the  shapes  of  a  dream, 
Wliat  Paradise  islands  of  glory  gleam  ! 

Beneath  Heaven's  cope, 
Their  shadows  more  clear  float  bv ; 
The   sound   of   their  oceans,  the  light  of 

their  sky, 
The  music  and  fragrance   their   solitudes 

breathe, 
•Burst  like  morning  on  dream,  or  like  Hea- 
ven on  death. 
Through  tlie  walls  of  our  prison; 
And  Greece,  which  was  dead,  is  arisen  ! 

CHORUS 

The  world's  great  age  begins  anew,        1060 

The  golden  years  return. 
The  earth  doth  like  a  snake  renew 

Her  winter  weeds  outworn; 
Heaven   smiles,    and    faiths   and    empires 

gleam,  ' 

Like  wrecks  of  a  dissolving  dream. 

A  brighter  Hellas  rears  its  mountains 

From  waves  serener  far; 
A  new  Peneus  rolls  his  fountains 

Against  the  morning-star. 
Where  faii-er  Tenipes  bloom,  there  sleep 
Young  Cyclads  on  a  sunnier  deep.  107 1 

A  loftier  Argo  cleaves  the  main, 

Fraught  with  a  later  prize; 
Another  Orpheus  sings  again. 

And  loves,  and  weeps,  and  dies. 
A  new  Ulysses  leaves  once  more 
Calypso  for  liis  native  shore. 

Oh,  write  no  more  the  tale  of  Troy, 
If  earth  Death's  scroll  nnist  be  ! 

Nor  mix  with  Laian  rage  the  joy  1080 

Which  dawns  upon  the  free; 

Although  a  subtler  Spliinx  renew 

Riddles  of  death  Thebes  never  knew. 

Another  Athens  shall  arise, 
And  to  remoter  time 


EARLY   POEMS 


339 


Bequeath,  like  sunset  to  the  skies, 

The  splendor  of  its  prime; 
And  leave,  if  nought  so  bright  may  live, 
All  earth  can  take  or  Heaven  can  give. 

Saturn  and  Love  their  long  repose       1090 
Shall  burst,  more  bright  and  good 

Than  ail  who  fell,  than  One  who  rose, 
Thau  many  unsubdued; 


Not  gold,  not  blood,  their  altar  dowers, 
But  votive  tears  and  symbol  flowers. 

Oh,  cease  !  must  hate  and  death  return  ? 

Cease  !  must  men  kill  and  die  ? 
Cease !  drain  not  to  its  dregs  the  urn 

Of  bitter  prophecy. 
The  world  is  weary  of  the  past,  noo 

Oh,  might  it  die  or  rest  at  last ! 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


EARLY   POEMS 
1813-1815 

The  Miscellaneous  Poems,  with  some  excep- 
tions, were  published  either  by  Shelley,  in  his 
successive  volumes,  or  by  Mrs.  Shelley,  in 
Posthumous  Poems,  1S24,  and  the  two  editions 
of  1S39.  A  few  first  appeared  elsewhere  and 
were  included  in  the  collected  editions  by  Mrs. 
Shelley,  and  still  others  have  from  time  to 
time  found  their  way  to  the  public.  The  origi- 
nal issue  of  each  poem  is  here  stated  in  the  in- 
troductory note,  and  its  history  so  far  as  known 
is  given.  By  far  the  greater  portion  of  Shelley's 
shorter  poems  is  parsonal,  and  many  of  them 
are  addressed  to  his  friends  and  companions  or 
those  who  made  up  the  domestic  circle  in  his 
wanderings ;  even  those  which  ara  most  en- 
tirely poems  of  nature  are,  with  few  exceptions, 
charged  with  his  moods,  and  governed  by  pass- 
ing circumstances  ;  as  a  whole,  therefore,  they 
require,  for  full  understanding,  intimacy  with 
the  events  of  his  private  life,  and  the  I'eader 
must  be  referred  to  the  Life  of  the  poet  for 
such  a  narrative  as  could  not  be  condensed  in- 
telligibly into  brief  introductory  notes,  with 
respect  both  to  persons  and  facts.  Mrs. 
Shelley's  biographical  notes,  however,  have 
been  largely  used  to  preface  the  poems  of  each 
year  because  of  their  extraordinary  truth  to  the 
feeling  and  atmosphere  of  Shelley's  Italian 
life.     The  few  political  poems  are  sufficiently 


explained  by  reference  to  current  events ;  in 
most  of  these  Shelley  owes  the  manner  to 
Coleridge's  example. 

Tradition  has  established  Queen  Mab  at  the 
head  of  Shelley's  mature  work,  and  in  accord- 
ance with  it  all  poems  earlier  than  Queen  Mab 
are  included  under  Juvenilia.  A  more  just  sense 
would  have  given  this  honor  to  Alastor,  and 
have  relegated  the  poems  of  1815  to  the  period 
of  immaturity,  to  which  with  all  the  events 
relating  to  them  they  together  with  Queen  Mab 
belong.  It  is,  however,  not  deemed  wise  to 
attempt  to  disturb  the  traditionary  arrange- 
ment at  so  late  a  time. 

The  Early  Poems  mainly  relate  to  Shelley's 
domestic  history.  A  few  only  sliow  his  politi- 
cal interest.  Mrs.  Shelley  describes  the  sum- 
mer of  I8I.5  as  one  of  rest,  but  it  was  excep- 
tional, as  these  years  were  the  most  troubled 
of  his  life.    Her  record  begins  with  181.5. 

'  He  never  spent  a  season  more  tranquilly 
than  the  summer  of  181.5.  He  had  just  recov- 
ered from  a  sevei-e  pulmonary  attack ;  the 
weather  was  warm  and  pleasant.  He  lived 
near  Windsor  Forest,  and  his  life  was  spent 
under  its  shades,  or  on  the  water  ;  meditating 
subjects  for  verse.  Hitherto,  he  had  chiefly 
aimed  at  extending  his  political  doctrines  ;  and 
attempted  so  to  do  by  appeals,  in  prose  essays, 
to  the  people,  exhorting  them  to  claim  their 
rights ;  but  he  had  now  begun  to  feel  that  the 
time  for  action  was  not  ripe  in  England,  and 
that  the  pen  was  the  only  instrument  where- 
with to  prepare  the  way  for  better  things.' 


EVENING 


TO   HARRIET 


Composed  at  Bracknell,  July  31,  1813,  for 
the  birthday  (August  1 )  of  Harriet,  his  first 
wife,  on  the  completion  of  her  eighteenth  year. 
Published  by  Dowden,  Life  of  Shelley,  1887. 


O  THOU  bright  Sun  !  beneath  the  dark  blue 
line 

Of  v/estern  distance  that  sublime  de- 
scendest. 

And,  gleaming  lovelier  as  thy  beams  de- 
cline, 

Thy  million  hues  to  every  vapor  lend 
est, 


340 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


And,  over  cobweb   lawn  and  grove    and 
stream 
Sheddest  the  liquid  magic  of  thy  light, 
Till  calm  Earth,  with  the  parting  splen- 
dor bright, 
Shows    like   the  vision  of    a  beauteous 
dream; 
What  gazer  now  with  astronomic  eye 
Could  coldly  count  the  spots  within  thy 

sphere  ? 
Such  were  thy  lover,  Harriet,  could  he  fly 
The  thoughts  of  all  that  makes  his  passion 
dear. 
And,  turning   senseless  from  thy  warm 

caress. 
Pick  flaws  in  our  close-woven  happiness. 

TO    lANTHE 

Elizabeth  lanthe,  Shelley's  first  child,  was 
bom  June,  1813.  Published  by  Dowden,  Life 
of  Shelley,  1887. 

I  LOVE  thee,  Baby  !  for  thine  own  sweet 
sake; 

Those   azure  eyes,  that  faintly  dimpled 
cheek. 

Thy  tender  frame,  so  eloquently  weak. 

Love  in  the  sternest  heart  of  hate  might 
wake; 
But  more   when    o'er  thy    fitful  slumber 
bending 

Thy  mother  folds   thee  to  her  wakeful 
heart. 

Whilst  love   and    pity,   in   her  glances 
blending, 

All  that  thy  passive  eyes  can  feel   im- 
part: 
More,  when  some  feeble  lineaments  of  her. 

Who  bore  thy  weight  beneath  her  spot- 
less bosom, 

As  with  deep  love  I  read  thy  face,  re- 
cur, — 
More   dear  art  thou,  O   fair  and    fragile 
blossom ; 

Dearest  when  most  thy  tender  traits  ex- 
press 

The  image  of  thy  mother's  loveliness. 

STANZA 

WRITTEN  AT   BRACKNELL 

'fhe  stanza  apparently  refers  to  Mrs.  Boin- 
ville,  from  whose  bouse  Shelley  writes  to  Hogg, 


March  16, 1814 :  '  I  have  written  nothing  but 
one  stanza,  which  has  no  meaning,  and  tliat  I 
have  only  written  in  thought.  This  is  the 
vision  of  a  delirious  and  distempered  dream, 
which  passes  away  at  the  cold  clear  light  o£ 
morning.  Its  surpassing  excellence  and  ex- 
quisite perfections  have  no  more  reality  than 
the  color  of  an  autumnal  sunset.'  Published 
by  Hogg,  Life  of  Shelley.     1858. 

Thy  dewy  looks  sink  in  my  breast; 

Thy  gentle  words  stir  poison  there; 
Thou  hast  disturbed  the  only  rest 

That  was  the  portion  of  despair  ! 
Subdued  to  Duty's  hard  control, 

I  could  have  borne  my  wayward  lot: 
The  chains  that  bind  this  ruined  soul 

Had  cankered  then  —  but  crushed  it  not. 

TO 

AAKPT5I  AlOISn  nOTMON  'AnOTMON. 

Mrs.  Shelley  states  that  Coleridge  is  the  per- 
son addressed  :  '  The  poem  beginning  '"  Oh, 
there  are  spirits  in  the  air  "  was  addressed  in 
idea  to  Coleridge,  whom  he  never  knew ;  and 
at  whose  character  he  could  only  g^ess  imper- 
fectly, through  his  writings  and  accounts  he 
heard  of  him  from  some  who  knew  him  well. 
He  regarded  his  change  of  opinions  as  rather 
an  act  of  will  than  conviction,  and  believed 
that  in  his  inner  heart  he  would  be  haunted  by 
what  Shelley  considered  the  better  and  holier 
aspirations  of  his  j-outh.'  Dowden  questions 
'  whether  it  was  not  rather  addressed  in  a  de- 
spondent mood  by  Shelley  to  his  own  spirit.' 
This  suggestion  was  first  advanced  by  Bertram 
Dobell,  in  his  reprint  of  Alaslor,  and  supported 
by  the  assent  of  Rossetti  there  given  ;  that  it 
is  correct  is  reasonably  certain.  Published 
with  AlastCYT,  1816. 

Oh,  there  are  spirits  of  the  air, 

And  genii  of  the  evening  breeze, 
And  gentle  ghosts,  with  eyes  as  fair 

As  star-beams  among  twilight  trees  ! 
Such  lovely  ministers  to  meet 
Oft  hast  thou  turned  from  men  thy  lonely 
feet. 

With    mountain    winds,    and    babbling 
springs, 
And  moonlight  seas,  that  are  the  voice 
Of  these  inexplicable  things. 

Thou  didst  hold  commune,  and  rejoice 
When  they  did  answer  thee ;  but  they 
Cast,  like  a  worthless  boon,  thy  love  away. 


EARLY  POEMS 


34i 


And  thou  hast  sought  in  starry  eyes 
Beams    that  were  never  meant    for 
thine, 
Another's  wealth;  —  tame  sacrifice 

To  a  foucl  faith  !  still  dost  thou  pine  ? 
Still  dost  thou  hope  that  greeting  hands, 
Voice,  looks  or  lips,  may  answer  thy  de- 
mands? 

Ah,  wherefore  didst  thou  build  thine  hope 

On  the  false  earth's  inconstancy  ? 
Did  thine  own  mind  afford  no  scope 

Of  love,  or  moving  thoughts  to  thee. 
That  natural  scenes  or  human  smiles 
Could  steal  the  power  to  wind  thee  in  their 
wiles  ? 

Yes,  all  the  faithless  smiles  are  fled^ 
Whose    falsehood   left    thee   broken- 
hearted; 
The  glory  of  the  moon  is  dead; 

Night's  ghost  and  dreams  have  now 
departed ; 
Thine  own  soul  still  is  true  to  thee. 
But  changed  to  a  foul  fiend  through  misery. 

This  fiend,  whose  ghastly  presence  ever 
Beside  thee  like  thy  shadow  hangs. 

Dream  not  to  chase ;  —  the  mad  endeavor 
Would  scourge  tliee  to  severer  pangs. 

Be  as  thou  art.     Thy  settled  fate. 
Dark  as  it  is,  all  change  would  aggravate. 


TO 

This  poem  is  placed  conjecturally  by  Mrs. 
Shelley  with  the  poems  of  1817  ;  but  Dowden 
suggests  that  it  was  addressed  to  Mary  Godwin 
in  June,  1814.  Harriet  answers  as  well  or 
better  to  the  situation  described.  Published 
by  Mrs.  Shelley,  2d  ed.,  1839. 

Yet  look  on  me  —  take   not   thine   eyes 
away, 
Which  feed  upon  the  love  within  mine 
own. 
Which  is  indeed  but  the  reflected  ray 
Of   thine   own   beauty   from   my   spirit 

thrown. 
Yet  speak  to  me  —  thy  voice  is  as  the 
tone 
Of  my  heart's  echo,  and  I  think  I  hear 

That  thou  yet  lovest  me;  yet  thou  alone 
Like  one  before  a  mirror,  without  care 


Of  aught  but  thine  own  features,  imaged 

there ; 
And  yet  I  wear  out  life  in  watching  thee; 
A  toil  so  sweet  at  times,  and  thou  indeed 
Art  kind  when  I  am  sick,  and  pity  me. 

STANZAS.    APRIL,  1814 

Described  by  Dowden  as  '  a  fragment  of 
transmuted  biography  ; '  he  ascribes  Shelley's 
mood  to  his  bidding  farewell  to  the  BoinvUles 
on  his  return  to  his  own  home.  The  incident 
that  occasioned  the  verses  has  not  been  re- 
corded. It  was  composed  at  Bracknell,  and 
published  with  Alastor,  1816. 

Away  !  the  moor  is  dark  beneath  the  moon, 
Rapid  clouds  have  drunk  the  last  pale 
beam  of  even. 
Away  !   the  gathering  winds  will  call  the 
darkness  soon, 
And  profoundest   midnight   shroud   the 
serene  lights  of  heaven. 
Pause  not  !  the  time  is  past !  every  voice 
cries,  Away  ! 
Tempt  not  witli  one  last  tear  thy  friend's 
ungentle  mood; 
Thy  lover's  eye,  so  glazed  and  cold,  dares 
not  entreat  thy  stay; 
Duty  and  dereliction  guide  thee  back  to 
solitude. 

Away,  away  !  to  thy  sad  and  silent  home; 
Pour  bitter  tears  on  its  desolated  hearth; 
Watch  the  dim  shades  as  like  ghosts  they 
go  and  come, 
And  complicate  strange  webs  of  melan- 
choly mirth. 
The  leaves  of  wasted  autumn  woods  shall 
float  around  thine  head; 
The  blooms  of  dewy  spring  shall  gleam 
beneath  thy  feet; 
But  thy  soul  or  this  world  must  fade  in  the 
frost  that  binds  the  dead, 
Ere    midnight's    frown    and   morning's 
smile,  ere  thou  and  peace,  may  meet. 

The  cloud-shadows   of    midnight    possess 
their  own  repose. 
For  the  weary  winds  are  silent,  or  the 
moon  is  in  the  deep; 
Some  respite   to  its   turbulence  unresting 
ocean  knows ; 
Whatever  moves,  or  toils,  or  grieves, 
hath  its  appointed  sleep. 


342 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Thou  in  the  grave  shalt  rest  —  yet  till  the 
phantoms  flee, 
Which  that  house  and  heath  and  garden 
made  dear  to  thee  erewhile, 
Thy   remembrance,   and   repentance,    and 
deep  musings  are  not  free 
From  the  music  of  two  voices,  and  the 
light  of  one  sweet  smile. 


TO   HARRIET 

Dowden,  "who  published  the  poem  in  Life  of 
Shelley,  1887,  describes  it  as  '  the  first  of  a  few 
[five]  short  pieces  added  in  Harriet's  haud- 
writing  to  the  MS.  collection  of  poems  pre- 
pared for  publication  in  the  early  days  of  the 
preceding  year.'  It  was  composed  in  May, 
1814. 

Thy  look  of  love  has  power  to  calm 
The  stormiest  passion  of  my  soul; 

Thy  gentle  words  are  drops  of  balm 
In  life's  too  bitter  bowl; 

No  grief  is  mine,  but  that  alone 

These  choicest  blessings  I  have  known. 

Harriet  !  if  all  who  long  to  live 
In  the  warm  sunshine  of  thine  eye. 

That  price  beyond  all  pain  must  give,  — 
Beneath  thy  scorn  to  die; 

Then  hear  thy  chosen  own  too  late 

His  heart  most  worthy  of  thy  hate. 

Be  thou,  then,  one  among  mankind 
Whose  heart  is  harder  not  for  state, 

Thou  only  virtuous,  gentle,  kind. 
Amid  a  world  of  hate; 

And  by  a  slight  endurance  seal 

A  fellow-being's  lasting  weal. 

For  pale  with  anguish  is  his  cheek, 

His  breath  comes  fast,  his  eyes  are  dim. 

Thy  name  is  struggling  ere  he  speak, 
Weak  is  each  trembling  limb; 

In  mercy  let  him  not  endure 

The  misery  of  a  fatal  cure. 

Oh,  trust  for  once  no  erring  guide  I 
Bid  the  remorseless  feeling  flee; 

*T  is  malice,  't  is  revenge,  't  is  pride, 
'T is  anything  but  thee; 

Oh,  deign  a  nobler  pride  to  prove, 

And  pity  if  thou  canst  not  love. 


TO      MARY     WOLLSTONECRAFT 
GODWIN 

Composed  in  June,  1814,  and   published  by 
Mrs.  Shelley,  Posthumous  Poems,  I'SIA. 


Mine  eyes  were  dim  with  tears  unshed; 

Yes,  1  was  firm^ — thus  wert  not  thou; 
My  bafHed  looks  did  fear  yet  dread 

To  meet  thy  looks  —  I  could  not  know 
How  anxiously  they  sought  to  shine 
With  soothing  pity  upon  mine. 


To  sit  and  curb  the  soul's  mute  rage 
Which  preys  upon  itself  alone; 

To  curse  the  life  which  is  the  cage 

Of  fettered  grief  that  dares  not  groan. 

Hiding  from  many  a  careless  eye 

The  scorned  load  of  agony; 

III 
Whilst  thou  alone,  then  not  regarded. 

The  thou  alone  should  be,  — 

To  spend  years  thus,  and  be  rewarded. 

As  thou,  sweet  love,  requited  me 
When  none  were  near  —  Oh,  I  did  wake 
From  torture  for  that  moment's  sake. 


Upon  my  heart  thy  accents  sweet 
Of  peace  and  pity  fell  like  dew 

On  flowers  half  dead;  tliy  lips  did  meet 
IVIine  tremblingly;  thy  dark  eyes  thrcv. 

Their  soft  persuasion  on  my  brain. 

Charming  away  its  dream  of  pain. 


We  are  not  happy,  sweet !  our  state 
Is  strange  and  full  of  doubt  and  fear; 

More  need  of  words  that  ills  abate ;  — 
Reserve  or  censure  come  not  near 

Our  sacred  friendship,  lest  there  be 

No  solace  left  for  thee  and  me. 

VI 

Gentle  and  good  and  mild  thou  art. 
Nor  can  I  live  if  thou  appear 

Aught  but  thyself,  or  turn  thine  heart 
Away  from  me,  or  stoop  to  wear 

The  mask  of  scorn,  although  it  he 

To  hide  the  love  thou  feel'st  for  me. 


EARLY   POEMS 


343 


MUTABILITY 

Published  with  Alastor,  1816. 

We  are  as  clouds  that  veil  the  midnight 
luoon; 
How  restlessly  they  speed,  and  gleam, 
and  quiver, 
Streaking   the   darkness   radiantly  !  —  yet 
soon 
Night   closes  round,   and   they  are   lost 
forever: 

Or  like   forgotten  lyres  whose   dissonant 
strings 
Give  various  response  to  each  varying 
blast, 
To  whose   frail   frame    no   second   motion 
brings 
One  mood  or  modulation  like  the  last. 

We  rest  —  a  dream  has  power  to  poison 
sleep; 
We  rise  —  one  wandering  thought  pol- 
lutes tlie  day; 
We  feel,  conceive  or  reason,  laugh  or  weep; 
Embrace   foud  woe,  or   cast   our  cares 
away: 

It  is  the  same  !  —  for,  be  it  joy  or  sorrow, 
The  path  of  its  departure  still  is  free; 

Llan's   yesterday   may   ne'er   be   like   his 
morrow; 
Nought  may  endure  but  Mutability. 

ON    DEATH 

Published  with  Alastor,  1816.  An  earlier 
version  is  among'  the  EsJaile  MSS.  in  the  collec- 
tion Shelley  intended  to  issue  with  Queen  Mab 
in  1813,  and  the  poem  is  the  only  one  preserved 
by  him  out  of  that  collection. 

There  is  no  work,  nor  dsvioe,  nor  knowledge,  nor 
wisdom,  in  the  grave,  whither  tliou  goest.  —  Ecclesi- 

ASTES. 

The  pale,  the  cold,  and  the  moony  smile 
Which   the   meteor  beam  of  a  starless 
niglit 
Sheds  on  a  lonely  and  sea-girt  isle. 

Ere  the  dawning  of  morn's  undoubted 
light. 
Is  the  flame  of  life  so  fickle  and  wan 
That  flits  round  our  steps  till  their  strength 
is  gone. 


O  man  !  hold  thee  on  in  courage  of  soul 
Through     the    stormy    shades    of    thy 

worldly  way. 
And  the  billows  of  cloud  that  around  thee 

roll 
Shall  sleep  in  the  light  of  a  wondrous 

day, 
Where  hell  and  heaven  shall  leave  thee 

free 
To  the  universe  of  destiny. 

Til  is  world  is  the  nurse  of  all  we  know. 
This  world  is  the  mother  of  all  we  feel; 

And  the  coming  of  death  is  a  fearful  blow 
To  a  brain  uneucompassed  with  nerves  of 
steel. 

When  all  that  we  know,  or  feel,  or  see, 

Shall  pass  like  an  unreal  mystery. 

Tlie  secret  things  of  the  grave  are  there. 

Where  all  but  this  frame  must  surely  be, 
Though  the  fine-wrought  eye  and  the  won- 
drous ear 
No  longer  will  live  to  hear  or  to  see 
All  that  is  great  and  all  that  is  strange 
In     the    boundless     realm    of     unending 
change. 

Who  telleth  a  tale  of  unspeaking  death  ? 

Who  lifteth  the  veil  of  what  is  to  come  ? 
Who  painteth  the  shadows  that  are  beneath 
The  wide-winding  caves  of  the  peopled 
tomb  ? 
Or  uniteth  the  hopes  of  what  shall  be 
With  the  fears  and  the  love  for  that  which 
we  see  ? 


A  SUMMER   EVENING  CHURCH- 
YARD 

LECHLADE,   GLOUCESTERSHIRE 

Composed  September,  181.5,  while  on  a  voy- 
age up  the  Thames  with  Peacock.  Published 
with  Alastor,  1816. 

The  wind  has  swept  from  the  wide  atmo- 
sphere 
Each  vapor  that  obscured   the  sunset's 
ray ; 
And   pallid    Evening    twines  its   beaming 
hair 
In   duskier  braids   around   the   languid 
eyes  of  Day, 


344 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Silence  and  Twilight,  unbeloved  of  men, 
Creep  hand  in  hand  from  yon  obscurest 
glen. 

They  breathe   their  spells  toward  the  de- 
parting day. 
Encompassing  the  earth,  air,  stars  and 
sea; 

Light,  sound  and  motion   own  the  potent 
sway, 
Responding  to  the  charm  with  its  own 
mystery. 

The  winds  are  still,   or  the  dry  church- 
tower  grass 

Knows  not  their  gentle  motions  as  they 
pass. 

Thou  too,  aerial  Pile,  whose  pinnacles 
Point  from  one  shrine  like  pyramids  of 

fire, 
Obeyest    in    silence    their    sweet    solemn 

spells. 
Clothing  in  hues  of  heaven  thy  dim  and 

distant  spire. 
Around    whose   lessening     and     invisible 

height 
Gather  among  the   stars    the    clouds    of 

night. 

The  dead  are  sleeping  in  their  sepulchres; 
And,  mouldering  as  they  sleep,  a  thrill- 
ing sound, 

Half  sense,  half  thought,  among  the  dark- 
ness stirs, 
Brftathed  from  their  wormy  beds  all  liv- 
ing things  around ; 

And   mingling    with    the   still   night   and 
mute  sky 

Its  awful  hush  is  felt  iuaudibly. 

Thus   solemnized   and    softened,  death  is 
mild 
And  terrorless  as  this  serenest  night ; 
Here  could  I  hope,  like  some  inquiring  child 
Sporting  on  graves,  that  death  did  hide 
from  human  sight 
Sweet  secrets,  or  beside  its  breathless  sleep 
That  loveliest  dreams  perpetual  watch  did 
keep. 

TO   WORDSWORTH 

This  poem  reflects  the  contemporary  feeling 
of  the  radicals  toward  Wordsworth's  conserva- 
tive  politics.    Published  with  Alastor,  1816. 


Poet  of  Nature,  thou  hast  wept  to  know 

That  things  depart  which  never  may  re- 
turn; 

Childhood  and   youth,     friendship    and 
love's  first  glow. 

Have  fled  like  sweet  dreams,  leaving  thee 
to  mourn. 
These    common  woes  I  feel.     One  loss  is 
mine, 

Which   thou  too  feel'st,  yet  I  alone  de- 
plore ; 

Thou  wei  t  as  a  lone  star  whose  light  did 
shine 

On  some  frail  bark  in  winter's  midnight 
roar; 
Thou    hast    like    to    a    rock-built  refuge 
stood 

Above  the  blind  and  battling  multitude; 

In  honored  poverty'  thy  voice  did  weave 
Songs  consecrate  to  truth  and  liberty ;  — 

Deserting   these,   thou    leavest    me    to 
grieve. 

Thus  having  been,  that   thou  shouldst 
cease  to  be. 


FEELINGS  OF  A  REPUBLICAN 
ON  THE  FALL  OF  BONAPARTE 

Published  with  Alastor,  1816. 

I  HATED  thee,  fallen  tyrant  !  I  did  groan 
To  think  that  a  most  unambitious  slave, 
Like  thou,  shouldst  dance  and  revel  on 

the  grave 
Of  Liberty.     Thou   mightst  have  built 

thy  throne 
Where  it  had  stood  even  now:  thou  didst 

prefer 
A  frail  and  bloody  pomp  which  time  has 

swept 
In  fragments  towards  oblivion.     Massa- 
cre, 
For   this  I  prayed,  would  on   thy   sleep 

have  crept, 
Treason   and  Slavery,   Rapine,  Fear,  and 

Lust, 
And  stifled  thee,  their  minister.     I  know 
Too  late,  since  thou  and  France  are  in 

the  dust, 
That  Virtue  owns  a  more  eternal  foe 
Than   Force    or    Fraud:     old    Custom, 

Legal  Crime, 
And  bloody  Faith,  the  foulest  birth  of 

time. 


POEMS   WRITTEN   IN   1816 


345 


LINES 

This  poem  apparently  refers  to  the  death  of 
Harriet,  in  November,  1810,  and  was  published 
by  Hunt  in  The  Literary  Pocket-Book,  1823. 

The  cold  earth  slept  below; 
Above  the  cold  sky  shone; 

And  all  around, 

With  a  chilling  sound. 
From  caves  of  ice  and  fields  of  snow 
The  breath  of  night  like  death  did  flow 

Beneath  the  sinking  moon. 

Tlie  wintry  hedge  was  black; 
The  green  grass  was  not  seen; 

The  birds  did  rest 

On  the  bare  thorn's  breast, 
Whose  roots,  beside  the  pathway  track, 
Had  bound  their  folds  o'er  many  a  crack 

Which  the  frost  had  made  between. 

Thine  eyes  glowed  in  the  glare 
Of  the  moon's  dying  light; 
As  a  fen-fire's  beam 
On  a  sluggish  stream 
Gleams  dimly  —  so  the  moon  shone  there, 
And  it  yellowed  the  strings  of  thy  tangled 
hair, 
That  shook  in  the  wind  of  night. 

The  moon  made  thy  lips  pale,  belovfed; 
The  wind  made  thy  bosom  chill; 

The  night  did  shed 

On  thy  dear  head 
Its  frozen  dew,  and  thou  didst  lie 
Where  the  bitter  breath  of  the  naked  sky 

Might  visit  thee  at  will. 


POEMS   WRITTEN  IN   1816 
THE   SUNSET 

This  poem  seems  to  contain  elements  of 
memory  as  well  as  of  imagination.  It  was 
composed  at  Bishopsgate  in  the  spring,  and 
published  in  part  by  Hunt,  The  Literary 
Pocket-Book,  1823,  and  entire  by  Mrs.  Shel- 
ley, Posthumous  Poems,  182-i. 

There  late  was  One  within  whose  subtle 

being. 
As  light  and  wind  within  some  delicate 

cloud 


That  fades  amid  the  blue  noon's  burning 

sky, 
Genius  and  death  contended.     None  may 

know 
The  sweetness  of  the  joy  which  made  his 

breath 
Fail,  like  the  trances  of  the  summer  air, 
When,  with  the  lady  of  his  love,  who  then 
First  knew  the  unreserve  of  mingled  being, 
He  walked  along  the  pathway  of  a  field. 
Which  to  the  east  a  hoar  wood  shadowed 

o'er,  10 

But  to  the  west  was  open  to  the  sky. 
There  now  the  sun  had  sunk;  but  lines  of 

gold 
Hung  on   the   ashen  clouds,  and  on  th<d 

points 
Of  the  far  level  grass  and  nodding  flowers, 
And  the  old  dandelion's  hoary  beard, 
And,  mingled  with  the  shades  of  twilight, 

lay 
On  the  brown  massy  woods;   and   in   the 

east 
The  broad  and  burning  moon  lingeringly 

rose 
Between  the  black  trunks  of  the  crowded 

trees. 
While  the  faint  stars  were  gathering  over- 
head. 20 
'  Is  it  not  strange,  Isabel,'  said  the  youth, 
'  I  never  saw  the  sim  ?    We  will  walk  here 
To-morrow;  thou  shalt  look  on  it  with  me.' 

That  night  the  youth  and  lady  mingled  lay 
In  love  and  sleep;  but  when  the  morning 

came 
The  lady  found  her  lover  dead  and  cold. 
Let  none  believe  that  God  in  mercy  gave 
That  stroke.     The  lady  died  not,  nor  grew 

wild,  28 

But  year  by  year  lived  on;  in  truth  I  think 
Her  gentleness  and  patience  and  sad  smiles, 
And  that  she  did  not  die,  but  lived  to  tend 
Her  aged  father,  were  a  kind  of  madness. 
If  madness  't  is  to  be  unlike  the  world. 
For  but  to  see  her  were  to  read  the  tale 
Woven   by   some   subtlest   bard  to  make 

hard  hearts 
Dissolve  away  in  wisdom-working  grief. 
Her  eyes  were  black  and  lustreless  and  wan, 
Her  eyelashes  were  worn  away  with  tears, 
Her  lips  and  cheeks  were  like  things  dead 

—  so  pale; 
Her  hands  were  thin,  and   through   their 

wandering  veins  4a 


346 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


And  weak  articulations  might  be  seen 
Day's  ruddy  light.     The  tomb  of  thy  dead 

self 
Which  one  vexed  ghost  inhabits,  night  and 

day, 
Is    all,  lost    child,   that  now  remains   of 

thee! 

'Inheritor  of  more  than  earth  can  give. 
Passionless  calm  and  silence  uureproved,  — 
Whether  the  dead  find,  oh,  not  sleep,  but 

rest. 
And   are   the  uncomplaining  things   they 

seem. 
Or  live,  or  drop  in  the  deep  sea  of  Love; 
Oh,  that,  like  thine,  mine  epitaph  were  — 

Peace  ! '  5° 

This  was  the  only  moan  she  ever  made. 

HYMN   TO   INTELLECTUAL 
BEAUTY 

Composed  in  Switzerland,  where  Shelley 
spent  the  summer,  and  conceived,  Mrs.  Shelley 
says,  during'  his  voyage  round  the  Lake  of  Ge- 
neva with  Lord  Byron.  It  was  published  by 
Hunt,  The  Examiner,  1817. 


The  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  Power 
Floats  though  unseen  among  us,  visit- 
ing 
This  various  world  with  as  inconstant 
wing 
As  summer  winds  that  creep  from  flower 
to  flower; 
Like  moonbeams   that   behind   some  piny 
mountain  shower. 
It  visits  with  inconstant  glance 
Each  human  heart  and  countenance; 
Like  hues  and  harmonies  of  evening. 
Like  clouds  in  starlight  widely  spread, 
Like  memory  of  music  fled. 
Like  aught  that  for  its  grace   may 
be 
Dear,  and  yet  dearer  for  its  mystery. 


Spirit  of  Beauty,  that  dost  consecrate 
With   thine   own   hues  all    thou  dost 

shine  upon 
Of  human  thought  or  form,  where  art 
thou  gone  ? 
Why  dost  thou  pass  away,  and  leave  onr 
state, 


This  dim  vast  vale  of  tears,  vacant  and 
desolate  ?  — 
Ask  why  the  sunlight  not  forever 
Weaves   rainbows  o'er  yon  mountain 
river; 
Why  aught  should  fail   and   fade   that 
once  is  shown; 
Why  fear  and  dream  and  death  and 

birtii 
Cast  on  the  daylight  of  this  earth 
Such   gloom;    why   man    has    such   a 
scope 
For  love    and    hate,   despondency  and 
hope. 

Ill 

No  voice  from  some  sublimer  world  hath 
ever 
To  sage  or  poet  these  responses  given; 
Therefore  the  names  of  Demon,  Ghost 
and  Heaven, 
Remain   the  records  of   their  vain   en- 
deavor — 
Frail  spells,  whose  uttered  charm  might 
not  avail  to  sever, 
From  all  we  hear  and  all  we  see. 
Doubt,  chance  and  mutability. 
Thy  light  alone,  like  mist  o'er  mountains 
driven, 
Or  music  by  the  night  wind  sent 
Through  strings  of  some  still  instru- 
ment. 
Or  moonlight  on  a  midnight  stream, 
Gives  grace  and  truth  to  life's  unquiet 
dream. 

IV 

Love,  Hope  and  Self-esteem,  like  clouds, 
depart. 
And   come,   for  some   uncertain  mo- 
ments lent. 
Man  were  immortal  and  omnipotent. 
Didst  thou,  unknown  and  awful  as  tliou 
art. 
Keep  with  thy  glorious   train   firm   state 
within  his  heart. 
Thou  messenger  of  sympathies 
That  wax  and  wane  iu  lovers'  eyes  ! 
Thou,  that  to  human  thought  art  nourish- 
ment. 
Like  darkness  to  a  dying  flame. 
Depart  not  as  thy  shadow  came  ! 
Depart   not,   lest    the    grave    should 
be. 
Like  life  and  fear,  a  dark  reality  ! 


POEMS  WRITTEN   IN   1816 


347 


While  yet  a  boy  I  sought  for  ghosts,  and 
sped 
Through  many   a  listening   chamber, 

cave  and  ruin, 
And  starlight  wood,  with  fearful  steps 
pursuing 
Hopes  of  high  talk  with  the  departed 
dead; 
I  called  on  poisonous  names  with  which  our 
youth  is  fed. 
I  was  not  beard  —  I  saw  them  not  — 
When,   musing  deeply  on  the  lot 
Of  life,  at  that  sweet  time  when  winds 
are  wooing 
All  vital  things  that  wake  to  bring 
News  of  birds  and  blossoming,  — 
Sudden  thy  shadow  fell  on  me; 
I   shrieked,   and   clasped   my   hands   in 
ecstasy  ! 

VI 
I    vowed    that    I   would    dedicate    my 
powers 
To  thee  and  thine  —  have  I  not  kept 

the  vow  ? 
With    beating   heart    and    streaming 
eyes,  even  now 
I  call  the  phantoms  of  a  thousand  hours 
Each  from  his  voiceless  grave:  they  have 
in  visioned  bowers 
Of  studious  zeal  or  love's  delight 
Outwatched    with     me     the    envious 
night  — 
They  know  that  never  joy  illumed  my 
brow 
Unlinked  with  hope  that  thou  wouldst 

free 
This  world  from  its  dark  slavery,  — 
That  thou,  O  awful  Loveliness, 
Wouldst  give  whate'er  these  words  can- 
not express. 

VII 

The    day    becomes    more    solemn    and 
serene 
When  noon  is  past;  there  is  a  harmony 
In  autumn,  and  a  lustre  in  its  sky. 
Which  through  the  summer  is  not  heard 
or  seen. 
As  if  it  could  not  be,  as  if  it  had  not  been  ! 
Thus  let  thy  power,  which   like  the 

truth 
Of  nature  on  my  passive  youth 
Descended,  to  my  onward  life  supply 


Its  calm,  —  to  one  who  worships  thee. 
And  every  form  containing  thee. 
Whom,  Spirit  fair,  thy  spells  did  bind 
To  fear  himself,  and  love  all  humankind. 


MONT   BLANC 

LINES    WRITTEN   IX    THE   VALE    OF    CHA- 
MOU-NI 

'  The  poem,'  Shelley  writes,  in  his  Preface  to 
History  of  a  Six  Weeks  Tour,  1817,  where  it 
appeared,  '  was  composed  under  the  immediate 
impression  of  the  deep  and  powerful  feelings 
excited  by  the  objects  which  it  attempts  to  de- 
scribo  ;  and,  as  an  undisciplined  overflowing  of 
the  soul,  rests  its  claim  to  approbation  on  an 
attempt  to  imitate  the  untamable  wildiiess  and 
inaccessible  solemnity  from  whieh  those  feel- 
ings sprang.' 

The,  '  objects '  referred  to,  Mrs.  Shelley 
nrtes,  were  Mont  Blanc  and  '  its  surrounding 
peaks  and  valleys,  as  he  lingered  on  the  Bridge 
of  Arve  on  his  way  through  the  Valley  »i 
Chamouni.' 


The  everlasting  nni  verse  of  things 

Flows  through  the  mind,  and  rolls  its  rapid 

waves, 
Now  dark,  now  glittering,  now  reflecting 

gloom. 
Now  lending  splendor,  where  from  secret 

springs 
The  source  of  human  thought  its  tribute 

brings 
Of  waters,  —  with  a  sound  but  half  its  own. 
Such  as  a  feeble  brook  will  oft  assume 
In  the  wild  woods,  among  the  mountains 

lone. 
Where  waterfalls  around  it  leap  forever. 
Where   woods  and   winds  contend,  and  a 

vast  river  lo 

Over  its  rocks  ceaselessly  bursts  and  raves. 


Thus  thou.  Ravine  of  Arve  —  dark,  deep 

Ravine  — 
Thou  many-colored,  many-voiced  vale. 
Over  whose  pines,  and  crags,  and  caverns 

sail 
Fast  cloud-shadows,  and  sunbeams  !  awful 

scene. 
Where  Power  in  likeness  of  the  Arve  comes 

down 
From  the  ice-gulfs  that  gird  his  secret  throne, 


348 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Bursting  through  these  dark  mountains  like 

the  iianie 
Of  lightning   through  the  tempest !  thou 

dost  lie,  — 
Thy  giant  brood  of  pines  around  thee  cling- 
ing, 20 
Children  of  elder  time,  in  whose  devotion 
The  chainless  winds   still  come  and  ever 

came 
To  drink   their  odors,  and  their  mighty 

swinging 
To  hear  —  an  old  and  solemn  harmony; 
Thine  earthly  rainbows  stretched  across  the 

sweep 
Of  the  ethereal  waterfall,  whose  veil 
Robes     some     unsculptured    image;     the 

strange  sleep 
Which  when  the  voices  of  the  desert  fail 
Wraps  all  in  its  own  deep  eternity; 
Thy  caverns  echoing  to  the  Arve's  commo- 
tion —  30 
A  loud,  lone   sound   no   other  sound  can 

tame. 
Thou  art  pervaded  with  that  ceaseless  mo- 
tion, 
Thou  art  the  path  of  that  imresting  sound, 
Dizzy  Ravine  !  and  when  I  gaze  on  thee, 
I  seem  as  in  a  trance  sublime  and  strange 
To  muse  on  my  own  separate  fantary, 
My  own,  my  human  mind,  which  passively 
Now  renders  and  receives  fast  influencings, 
Holding  an  unremitting  interchange 
With  the  clear  universe  of  things  around; 
One  legion  of  wild  thoughts,  whose  wan- 
dering wings  41 
Now  float  above   thy  darkness,  and  now 

rest, 
Where  that  or  thof.  art  no  unbidden  guest. 
In  the  still  cave  of  the  witch  Poesy, 
Seeking  among  the  shadows  that  pass  by  — 
Ghosts  of  all  things  that  are  —  some  shade 

of  thee, 
Some  phantom,  some  faint  image;  till  the 

breast 
From  which  they  fled  recalls  them,  thou 
art  there  1 

in 

Some  say  that  gleams  of  a  remoter  world 

Visit  the  soul  in  sleep,  —  that  death  is 
slumber,  3° 

And  that  its  shapes  the  busy  thoughts  out- 
number 

Of  those  who  wake  and  live.  I  look  on 
high; 


Has  some  unknown  Omnipotence  unfurled 
The  veil  of  life  and  death  ?  or  do  I  lie 
In  dream,  and  does  the  mightier  world  of 

sleep 
Spread  far  around  and  inaccessibly 
Its  circles  ?  for  the  very  spirit  fails, 
Driven  like  a  homeless  cloud  from  steep  to 

steep 
That  vanishes  among  the  viewless  gales  I 
Far,  far  above,  piercing  the  infinite  sky,  60 
Mont   Blanc   appears,  —  still,    snowy   and 

serene  — 
Its  subject  mountains  their  unearthly  forms 
Pile  around  it,  ice  and  rock;  broad  vales 

between 
Of  frozen  floods,  unfathomable  deeps, 
Blue  as  the  overhanging  heaven,  that  spread 
And  wind  among  the  accumulated  steeps; 
A  desert  peopled  by  the  storms  alone, 
Save  when  the  eagle  brings  some  hunter's 

bone. 
And  tlie  wolf  tracks  her  there.     How  hid- 
eously 
Its  shapes  are  heaped  around !  rude,  bare 
and  high,  70 

Ghastly,  and  scarred,  and  riven.  —  Is  this 

the  scene 
Where  the  old  Earthquake-daemon  taught 

her  young 
Ruin  ?     Were  these  their  toys  ?  or  did  a 

sea 
Of  fire  envelop  once  this  silent  snow  ? 
None  can  reply  —  all  seems  eternal  now. 
The  wilderness  has  a  mysterious  tongue 
Which   teaches  awful  doubt,  or  faith  sff 

mild, 
So  solemn,  so  serene,  that  man  may  be 
But  for  such  faith  with  Nature  reconciled; 
Thou  hast  a  voice,  great  Mountain,  to  re- 
peal 80 
Large  codes  of  fraud  and  woe;  not  under- 
stood 
By  all,  but  which  the  wise,  and  g^eat,  and 

good, 
Interpret,  or  make  felt,  or  deeply  feel. 

IV 

The  fields,  the  lakes,  the  forests  and  the 

streams, 
Ocean,  and  all  the  living  things  that  dwell 
Within   the   dffidal  earth,   lightning,   and 

rain, 
Earthquake,  and  fiery  flood,  and  hur^ncane, 
Tlie  torpor  of  the  year  when  feeble  dreams 
Visit  the  hidden  buds  or  dreamlens  sleep 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN   1817 


349 


Holds  every  future   leaf  and  flower,  the 

bound  90 

With  which  from  that  detested  trance  they 

leap, 
The  works  and  ways  of  man,  their  death 

and  birth, 
And  that  of  him  and  all  that  his  may  be,  — 
All  things  that  move  and  breathe  with  toil 

and  sound 
Are  born  and   die,   revolve,  subside   and 

swell ; 
Power  dwells  apart  in  its  tranquillity. 
Remote,  serene,  and  inaccessible;  — 
And  this,  the  naked  countenance  of  earth 
On  which   I  gaze,  even    these   primeval 

mountains, 
Teach  the  adverting  mind.     The  glaciers 

creep,  100 

Like  snakes  that  watch  their  prey,  from 

their  far  fountains, 
Slow  rolling  on ;  there  many  a  precipice 
Frost  and  the  Sun  in  scorn  of  mortal  power 
Have  piled  —  dome,  pyramid  and  pinnacle, 
A  city  of  death,  distinct  with  many  a  tower 
And  wall  impregnable  of  beaming  ice ; 
Yet  not  a  city,  but  a  flood  of  ruin 
Is  there,  that  from  the  boundaries  of  the 

sky 
Rolls  its  perpetual  stream;  vast  pines  are 

strewing 
Its  destined  path,  or  in  the  mangled  soil 
Branchless  and  shattered  stand;  the  rocks, 

drawn  down  m 

From  yon  remotest  waste,  have  overthrown 
The  limits  of  the  dead  and  living  world. 
Never  to  be  reclaimed.    The  dwelling-place 
Of  insects,  beasts  and  birds,  becomes  its 

spoil. 
Their  food  and  their  retreat  forever  gone; 
So  much  of  life  and  joy  is  lost.     The  race 
Of  man  flies  far  in  dread;  his  work  and 

dwelling 


Vanish,  like  smoke  before  the  tempest's 
stream. 

And  their  place  is  not  known.  Below, 
vast  caves  120 

Shine  in  the  rushing  torrents'  restless 
gleam. 

Which  from  those  secret  chasms  in  tumult 
welling 

Meet  in  the  Vale;  and  one  majestic  River, 

The  breath  and  blood  of  distant  lauds,  for- 
ever 

Rolls  its  loud  waters  to  the  ocean  waves. 

Breathes  its  swift  vapors  to  the  circling  air. 


Mont  Blanc  yet  gleams  on  high:  the  power 

is  there. 
The  still  aud  solemn  power  of  many  sights 
And  many  sounds,  and  much  of  life  and 

death. 
In    the   calm   darkness  of    the   moonless 

nights,  130 

In  the  lone  glare  of  day,  the  snows  descend 
IJpon  that  Mountain;  none  beholds  them 

there. 
Nor  when  the  flakes  burn  in  the  sinking  sun. 
Or    the   star-beams   dart    through    them; 

winds  contend 
Silently   there,  and   heap   the   snow,  with 

breath 
Rapid  and  strong,  but  silently  !     Its  home 
The  voiceless  lightning  in  these  solitudes 
Keeps  innocently,  and  like  vapor  broods 
Over  the   snow.     The  secret   strength  of 

things. 
Which  governs  thought,  and  to  the  infinite 

dome  140 

Of  heaven  is  as  a  law,  inhabits  thee  ! 
And  what  were  thou,  and  earth,  aud  stars, 

and  sea, 
If  to  the  human  mind's  imaginings 
Silence  and  solitude  were  vacancy  ? 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN   18 17 


Mrs.  Shelley,  in  her  note  on  the  poems  of 
this  year,  summarizes  Shelley's  life  at  the  time : 
'  The  very  illness  that  oppressed,  and  the  as- 
pect of  death  which  had  approached  so  near 
Shelley,  appears  to  have  kiudled  to  yet  keener 
life  the  spirit  of  poetry  in  his  heart.  The  rest- 
less thoughts  kept  awake  by  pain  clothed 
themselves  in  verse.  Much  was  composed  dur- 
ing this  year.  The  Revolt  of  Islam,  written 
and  printed,  was  a  great  effort  —  Bosalind  and 


Helen  was  begun  —  and  the  fragments  and 
poems  I  can  trace  to  the  same  period,  show 
how  full  of  passion  and  reflection  were  his  sol- 
itary hours. 

'  His  readings  this  year  were  chiefly  Greek. 
Besides  the  Hymns  of  Homer  and  the  Iliad, 
he  read  the  Dramas  of  ^schylus  and  Sopho- 
cles, the  Symposium  of  Plato,  and  Arrian's 
Historia  Indica.    In  Latin,  Apoleius  alone  is 


3SO 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


named.  In  English,  the  Bible  was  his  constant 
study  ;  he  read  a  great  portion  of  it  aloud  in 
the  evening.  Among  these  evening  readings, 
I  find  also  mentioned  the  Faery  Queen  ;  and 
other  modem  works,  the  production  of  his  con- 
temporaries, Coleridge,  Wordsworth,  Moore, 
and  Byron. 

'  His  life  was  now  8X>ent  more  in  thought  than 
action  —  he  had  lost  the  eager  spirit  which  be- 
lieved it  could  achieve  what  it  projected  for  the 
benefit  of  mankind.  And  yet  in  the  converse  of 
daily  life  Shelley  was  far  from  being  a  melan- 
choly man.  He  was  eloquent  when  philosophy, 
or  politics,  or  taste  were  the  subjects  of  con- 
versation. He  was  playful  —  and  indulged  in 
the  wild  spirit  that  mocked  itself  and  others 
—  not  in  bitterness,  but  in  sport.  The  Au- 
thor of  Nightmare  Abbey  [Peacock]  seized  on 
some  points  of  his  character  and  some  habits 


of  his  life  when  he  painted  Scythrop.  He  waa 
not  addicted  to  "  port  or  madeira,"  but  in  youth 
he  had  read  of  '*  Uluminati  and  Eleutherarchs," 
and  believed  that  he  possessed  the  power  of 
operating  an  immediate  change  in  the  minds 
of  men  and  the  state  of  society.  These  wild 
dreams  had  faded  ;  sorrow  and  adversity  had 
struck  home ;  but  he  struggled  with  despond- 
ency as  he  did  with  physical  pain.  There  are 
few  who  remember  him  sailing  paper  boats, 
and  watching  the  navigation  of  his  tiny  craft 
with  eagerness  —  or  repeating  with  wild  energy 
The  Ancient  Mariner,  and  Southey's  Old  Wo- 
man of  Berkeley  — but  those  who  do,  wUl  re- 
collect that  it  was  in  such,  and  in  the  creations 
of  his  own  fancy,  when  that  was  mast  daring 
and  ideal,  that  he  sheltered  himself  fiom  the 
storms  and  disappointments,  the  pain  and  sor- 
row, that  beset  his  life.' 


MARIANNE'S    DREAM 

The  dream  here  put  into  verse  was  told 
Shelley  by  Mrs.  Hunt,  the  '  Marianne  '  of  the 
poem.  It  was  composed  at  Marlow,  and  pub- 
lished by  Hunt,  ITie  Literary  Pocket-Book, 
1819. 


A  PALE  dream  came  to  a  Lady  fair, 
And  said,  *  A  boon,  a  boon,  I  pray ! 

I  know  the  secrets  of  the  air; 

And  things  are  lost  in  the  glare  of  day, 

Which  I  can  make  the  sleeping  see. 

If  they  will  put  their  trust  in  me. 


« And  thou  shalt  know  of  tilings  unknown, 
If  thou  wilt  let  me  rest  between 

The  veiny  lids  whose  fringe  is  thrown 
Over  thine  eyes  so  dark  and  sheen.' 

And  half  in  hope  and  half  in  fright 

The  Lady  closed  her  eyes  so  bright. 

Ill 

At  first  all  deadly  shapes  were  driven 
Tumultnously  across  her  sleep, 

And  o'er  the  vast  cope  of  bending  heaven 
All  ghastly-visaged  clouds  did  sweep; 

And  the  Lady  ever  looked  to  spy 

If  the  golden  sun  shone  forth  on  high. 


And,  as  towards  the  east  she  turned. 
She  saw  aloft  in  the  morning  air. 

Which  now  with  hues  of  sunrise  burned, 
A  great  black  Anchor  rising  there; 


And,  wherever  the  Lady  turned  her  eyes, 
It  hung  before  her  in  the  skies. 


The  sky  was  blue  as  the  summer  sea. 
The  depths  were  cloudless  overhead, 

The  air  was  calm  as  it  could  be, 

There  was  no  sight  or  sound  of  dread, 

But  that  black  Anchor  floating  still 

Over  the  piny  easteru  hill. 

VI 

The   Lady  grew  sick   with   a  weight    of 
fear 
To  see  that  Anchor  ever  hanging. 
And  veiled  her  eyes;  she  then  did  hear 
The  sound  as  of  a  dim  low  clanging, 
And  looked  abroad  if  she  might  know 
Was  it  aught  else,  or  but  the  flow 
Of  the   blood  in  her  own  veins,  to  and 
fro. 

VII 
There  was  a  mist  in  the  sunless  air, 

Whicli  shook  as  it  were  with  an  earth- 
quake's shock, 
But  the  very  weeds  that  blossomed  there 
Were  moveless,  and  each  mighty  rock 
Stood  ou  its  basis  steadfastly; 
The  Anchor  was  seen  no  more  on  high. 

VIII 

But  piled  around,  with  summits  hid 

In  lines  of  cloud  at  intervals, 
Stood  many  a  mountain  pyramid. 

Among  whose  everlasting  walls 


POEMS  WRITTEN   IN   1817 


351 


Two  mighty  cities  shone,  and  ever 
Through  the   red   mist   their    domes  did 
quiver. 


On    two    dread    mountains,    from    whose 
crest 

Might  seem  the  eagle  for  her  brood 
Would  ne'er  have  hung  her  dizzy  nest, 

Those  tower-encircled  cities  stood. 
A  vision  strange  such  towers  to  see, 
Sculptured  and  wrought  so  gorgeously, 
Where  human  art  could  never  be. 


And  columns  framed  of  marble  white, 

And  giant  fanes,  dome  over  dome 
Piled,  and  triumphant  gates,  all  bright 

With  workmanship,  which  could  not  come 
From  touch  of  mortal  instrument. 
Shot  o'er  the  vales,  or  lustre  lent 
From  its  own  shapes  magnificent. 

XI 

But  still  the  Lady  heard  that  clang 

Filling  the  wide  air  far  away; 
And  still  the  mist  whose  light  did  hang 

Among  the  mountains  shook  alway; 
So  that  the  Lady's  heart  beat  fast. 
As,  half  in  joy  and  half  aghast, 
Ou  those  high  domes  her  look  she  cast. 

XII 

Sudden  from  out  that  city  sprung 

A  light  that  made  the  earth  grow  red ; 

Two    flames    that    each     with    quivering 
tongue 
Licked  its  high  domes,  and  overhead 

Among  those  mighty  towers  and  fanes 

Dropped  fire,  as  a  volcano  rains 

Its  sulphurous  ruin  on  the  plains. 

XIII 

And  hark  !  a  rush,  as  if  the  deep 

Had  burst  its  bonds ;  she  looked  behind, 
And  saw  over  the  western  steep 

A  raging  flood  descend,  and  wind 
Through  that  wide  vale;  she  felt  no  fear. 
But  said  within  herself,  *  'T  is  clear 
These  towers  are  Nature's  own,  and  she 
To  save  them  has  sent  forth  the  sea.' 


And  now  those  ragging  billows  came 
Where  that  fair  Lady  sate,  and  she 


Was  borne  towards  the  showering  flame 

By  the  wild  waves  heaped  tumultuously; 
And,  on  a  little  plank,  the  flow 
Of  the  whirlpool  bore  her  to  and  fro. 

XV 
The  flames  were  fiercely  vomited 

From  every  tower  and  every  dome, 
And  dreary  light  did  widely  shed 

O'er  that  vast  flood's  suspended  foam, 
Beneath  the  smoke  which  hung  its  night 
On  the  stained  cope  of  heaven's  light. 

XVI 

The  plank  whereon  that  Lady  sate 

Was  driven  through  the  chasms,  about 
and  about, 
Between  the  peaks  so  desolate 

Of  the  drowning  mountains,  in  and  out, 
As  the  thistle-beard  on  a  whirlwind  sails  — 
While  the  flood  was  filling  those   hollow 
vales. 

XVII 

At  last  her  plank  an  eddy  crossed, 
And  bore  her  to  the  city's  wall. 

Which  now  the  flood  had  reached  almost; 
It  might  the  stoutest  heart  appall 

To  hear  the  fire  roar  and  hiss 

Through    the     domes    of     those    mighty 
palaces. 

XVIII 

The  eddy  whirled  her  round  and  round 
Before  a  gorgeous  gate,  wliich  stood 

Piercing  the  clouds  of  smoke  which  bound 
Its  aery  arch  with  light  like  blood ; 

She  looked  on  that  gate  of  marble  clear 

With  wonder  that  extinguished  fear; 

XIX 

For  it  was  filled  with  sculptures  rarest, 
Of  forms  most  beautiful  and  strange. 

Like  nothing  human,  but  the  fairest 
Of  wingfed  shapes,  whose  legions  range 

Throughout  the  sleep  of  those  that  are, 

Like  this  same  Lady,  good  and  fair. 


And  as  she  looked,  still  lovelier  grew 
Those  marble  forms;  —  the  sculptor  sure 

Was  a  strong  spirit,  and  the  hue 
Of  his  own  mind  did  there  endure, 

After  the  touch,  whose  power  had  braided 

Such  grace,  was  in  some  sad  change  faded 


352 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


She  looked,  —  the  flames  were  dim,  the 
flood 
Grew  tranquil  as  a  woodland  river 
Winding  through  hills  in  solitude; 

Those  marhle  shapes    then  seemed   to 
quiver, 
And  their  fair  limbs  to  float  in  motion, 
Like  weeds  imfolding  in  the  ocean; 


And    their  lips    moved;    one   seemed    to 
speak, 
When  suddenly  the  mountains  cracked. 
And    through    the  chasm    the    flood    did 
break 
With  an  earth-uplifting  cataract; 
The  statues  gave  a  joyous  scream, 
And  on  its  wings  the  pale  thin  dream 
Lifted  the  Lady  from  the  stream. 

XXIII 
The  dizzy  flight  of  that  phantom  pale 

Waked  the  fair  Lady  from  her  sleep, 
And  she  arose,  while  Trom  the  veil 

Of  her  dark  eyes  the  dream  did  creep ; 
And  she  walked  about  as  one  who  knew 
That  sleep  has  sights  as  clear  and  true 
As  any  waking  eyes  can  view, 

TO   CONSTANTIA 

SINGING 

This  poem  was  addressed  to  Miss  Clairraont, 
and  the  name  Constantia  was  probably  due  to 
Shelley's  admiration  for  the  character  of  Con- 
stantia Dudley,  in  Charles  Brockden  Brown's 
Ormond.  It  was  published  by  JSIrs.  Shelley, 
Posthumous  Poems,  1824. 


Thus  to  be  lost  and  thus  to  sink  and  die, 
Perchance   were   death   indeed  !  —  Con- 
stantia, turn  I 
In  thy  dark  eyes  a  power  like  light  doth 
lie. 
Even  though  the  sounds  which  were  thy 
voice,  which  burn 
Between  thy  lips,  are  laid  to  sleep; 

Within  thy  breath,  and  on  thy  hair,  like 
odor  it  is  yet. 
And  from  thy  touch  like  fire  doth  leap. 
Even  while  I  write,  my  burning  cheeks 
are  wet  — 


Alas,  that  the  torn  heart  can  bleed,  bat 
not  forget  I 

II 

A  breathless  awe,  like  the  swift  change 
Unseen  but  felt  in  youthful  slumbers. 
Wild,  sweet,  but  uucommunicably  strange; 
Thou   breathest   now  in  fast  ascending 
numbers. 
The  cope  of  heaven  seems  rent  and  cloven 

By  the  encliantment  of  thy  strain; 
And  on  my  shoulders  wings  are  woven 

To  follow  its  sublime  career 
Beyond  the  mighty  moons  that  wane 

Upon    the    verge    of    Nature's   utmost 

sphere, 
Till  the  world's  shadowy  walls  are  passed 
and  disappear, 

III 

Her  voice   is  hovering  o'er  my   soul  —  it 
lingers 
O'ershadowing  it  with  soft  and  lulling 
wings; 
The   blood   and   life   within   those    snowy 
fingers 
Teach    witchcraft  to  the    instrumental 
strings. 
My    brain     is    wild,    my    breath     comes 
quick  — 
The  blood  is  listening  in  my  frame, 
And  thronging  shadows,  fast  and  thick. 

Fall  on  my  overflowing  eyes; 
My  heart  is  quivering  like  a  flame; 

As  morning  dew,  that  in  the  sunbeam 

dies, 
I    am    dissolved    in    these     consuming 
ecstasies 

IV 
I  have  no  life,  Constantia,  now,  but  thee. 
Whilst,  like  the  world-surrounding  air, 
thy  song 
Flows   on,  and   fills   all   things  with  mel- 
ody. 
Now  is  thy  voice  a  tempest  swift  and 
strong. 
On  which,  like  one  in  trance  upborne. 

Secure  o'er  rocks  and  waves  I  sweep. 
Rejoicing  like  a  cloud  of  morn; 

Now  't  is  the  breath  of  summer  night, 
Which,  when  the  starry  waters  sleep. 
Round  western  isles,  with  incense-blossoms 

bright, 
Lingering,  suspends  my  soul  in  its  yoluptu< 
ous  flight. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  1817 


353 


TO   THE   LORD    CHANCELLOR 

The  decree  whicli  deprived  Shelley  of  the 
enstody  of  his  children  was  prouounced  in 
August.  Mrs.  Shelley  writes :  '  His  heart, 
attuned  to  every  kindly  affection,  was  full  of 
burning  love  for  liis  offspring.  No  words  can 
express  the  anguish  he  felt  when  his  elder  chil- 
dren were  torn  from  him.  In  his  firat  resent- 
ment against  the  Chancellor,  on  the  passing  of 
the  decree,  he  had  written  a  cxirse,  in  which 
there  breathes,  besides  haughty  indignation, 
all  the  tenderness  of  a  father's  love,  which 
could  imagine  and  fondly  dwell  upon  its  loss 
and  the  consequences.'  It  was  published  by 
Mrs.  Shelley,  in  her  first  collected  edition, 
1839. 

I 

Tht  country's  curse  is  on  thee,  darkest 
crest 
Of    that    foul,    kuotted,    many-headed 
worm 
Which    rends     our    Mother's    bosom !  — 
Priestly  Pest ! 
Masked  Resurrection  of  a  buried  Form  ! 


Thy  country's  curse  is  on  thee !     Justice 
sold, 
Truth    trampled,    Nature's    landmarks 
overthrown, 
And  heaps  of  fraud-accumnlated  gold. 
Plead,  loud  as  thunder,  at  Destruction's 
throne. 

Ill 
And,  whilst  that  sure  slow  Angel,  which 
aye  stands 
Watching  the  beck  of  Mutability, 
Delays  to  execute  her  high  commands, 
And,  though  a  nation  weeps,  spares  thine 
and  thee, 

IV 

Oh,  let  a  father's  curse  be  on  thy  soul, 
And  let  a  daughter's  hope   be  on  thy 
tomb; 
Be  both,  on  thy  gray  head,  a  leaden  cowl 
To  weigh  thee  down  to  thine  approach- 
ing doom ! 


I  curse    thee !     By  a    parent's  outraged 
love, 
By  hopes  long  cherished  and  too  lately 
lost,  — 


By   gentle    feelings    thou    couldst    never 
prove, 
By  griefs  which  thy  stem  nature  never 
crossed; 


By  those  infantine  smiles  of  happy  light. 
Which  were  a  fire  within   a  stranger's 
hearth, 
Quenched    even   when    kindled,  —  in   un- 
timely night. 
Hiding  the  promise  of  a  lovely  birth; 


By  those  unpractised  accents    of   young 
speech, 
Which   he  who  is  a  father  thought  to 
frame 
To  gentlest  lore,  such  as  the  wisest  teach  — 
Thou  strike  the  lyre  of  mind  !  —  oh,  grief 
and  shame  ! 

VIII 

By  all  the  happy  see  in  cliildren's  growth. 
That   undeveloped    flower   of    buddiiig 
years  — 
Sweetness  and  sadness  interwoven  both. 
Source  of  the  sweetest  hopes   and  sad- 
dest fears  — 

IX 
By  all  the  days  under  an  hireling's  care. 

Of  dull  constraint  and  bitter  heaviness,  — 
Oh,  wretched  ye  if  ever  any  were,  — 

Sadder  than  orphans,  yet  not  fatherless  ! 


By  the  false  cant  which  on  their  innocent 
lips 
Must  hang  like  poison   on   an  opening 
bloom. 
By   the    dark    creeds    which    cover   with 
eclipse 
Their  pathway  from  the  cradle  to  the 
tomb  — 

XI 
By   thy   most  impious    Hell,   and   all   its 
terror; 
By  all  the  grief,  the  madness,  and  the 
guilt 
Of  thine  impostures,  which  most  be  their 
error  — 
That  sand  on  which  thy  crumbling  Power 
is  built  — 


354 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


By  thy  complicity  with  lust  and  hate  — 
Thy  thirst  for  tears  —  thy  hunger  after 
gold  — 
The    ready   frauds   which    ever   on    thee 
wait  — 
The  servile  arts  in  which  thou  hast  grown 
old  — 

XIII 
By  thy  most  killing  sueer,   and    by   thy 
smile  — 
By  all  the  arts  and  snares  of  thy  black 
den, 
And  —  for  thou  canst  outweep  the  croco- 
dile- 
By   thy    false  tears  —  those   millstones 
braining  men  — 

XIV 
By  all  the   hate  which  checks   a  father's 
love  — 
By  all  the  scorn   which  kills  a  father's 
care  — 
By  those  most  impious  hands  which  dared 
remove 
Nature's  high  bounds  —  by  thee  —  and 
by  despair  — 


Yes,    the    despair    which    bids    a    father 
groan, 
And  cry,  '  My    children  are   no  longer 
mine  — 
The  blood  within  those  veins  may  be  mine 
own, 
But,   Tyrant,    their  polluted  souls  are 
thine ; ' — 

XVI 
I  curse  thee,  though  I  hate  thee  not.  —  O 
slave  ! 
If  thou  coiildst  quench  the  earth-consum- 
ing Hell 
Of  which  thou  art  a  demon,  on  thy  grave 
This  curse  should  be  a  blessing.     Fare 
thee  well  ! 

TO  WILLIAM   SHELLEY 

William  Shelley  was  bom  at  Bishopsgate, 
J.annary  24,  1810,  baptized  at  St.-Giles-in-the- 
Fields,  March  9,  1818,  died  at  Rome,  June  7, 
1819.  Mrs.  Shelley  notes :  '  At  one  time,  while 
the  qnestioQ  was  still  pending,  the  Chancellor 


had  said  some  words  that  seemed  to  intimate 
that  Shelley  should  not  be  permitted  the  care 
of  any  of  his  children,  and  for  a  moment  he 
feared  that  our  infant  son  would  be  torn  from 
us.  He  did  not  hesitate  to  resolve,  if  such 
were  menaced,  to  abandon  country,  fortune, 
everything,  and  to  escape  with  his  child  ;  and 
I  find  some  unfinished  stanzas  addressed  to  this 
son,  whom  afterwards  we  lost  at  Rome,  written 
under  the  idea  that  we  might  suddenly  be 
forced  to  cross  the  sea,  so  to  preserve  him. 
This  poem,  as  well  as  the  one  previously 
quoted,  were  not  written  to  exhibit  the  pangs 
of  distress  to  the  public  ;  they  were  the  sponta- 
neous outbursts  of  a  man  who  brooded  over  his 
wrongs  and  woes,  and  was  impelled  to  shed  the 
grace  of  his  genius  over  the  uncontrollable 
emotions  of  his  heart.'  The  poem  was  pub- 
lished by  Mrs.  Shelley,  in  part,  in  her  first  col- 
lected edition,  1839,  and  entire,  in  the  second,  of 
the  same  year. 


The  billows  on    the    beach    are    leaping 

around  it, 
The  bark  is  weak  and  frail, 
The  sea   looks  black,  and  the  clouds  that 

bound  it 
Darkly  strew  the  gale. 
Come  with  me,  thou  delightful  child. 
Come  with  me  —  though  the  wave  is  wild, 
And  the  winds  are  loose,  wo  must  not  stay, 
Or  the  slaves  of  the  law   may  rend  thee 

away. 

II 

They   have  taken  thy  brother  and  sister 

dear, 
They  have  made  them  unfit  for  thee; 
They  have  withered   the  smile  and  dried 

the  tear 
Which  should  have  been  sacred  to  me. 
To  a  blighting  faith  and  a  cause  of  crime 
They   have  bound  them  slaves  in  youthly 

prime, 
And  they  will  curse  my  name  and  thee 
Because  we  are  fearless  and  free.  i 

III 

Come  thou,  beloved  as  thou  art; 

Another  sleepeth  still 
Near  thy  sweet  mother's  anxious  heart, 

Which  thou  with  joy  shalt  fill,  — 
With  fairest  smiles  of  wonder  thrown 
On  that  wliich  is  indeed  our  own. 
And  which  in  distant  lands  will  be 
The  dearest  playmate  unto  thee. 


POEMS  WRITTEN   Ilsf   1817 


355 


IV 

Fear  not  the  tyrants  will  rtile  forever, 
Or  the  priests  of  the  evil  faitli; 

They   stand  on  the  brink  of  that  raging 
river 
Whose   waves   they   have   tainted   with 
death. 

It  is   fed  from  the  depth  of  a  thousand 
dells, 

Around  them  it  foams  and  rages  and  swells; 

And  their  swords  and  their  sceptres  1  float- 
ing see. 

Like  wrecks  on  the  surge  of  eternity. 


Rest,    rest,   and    shriek    not,  thou  gentle 
child  ! 

The  rocking  of  the  boat  thou  fearest, 
And  the  cold  spmy  and  the  clamor  wild  ?  — 

There  sit  between   us   two,  thou   dear- 
est— 
Me  and  thy  mother  —  well  we  know 
The  storm  at  which  thou  tremblest  so, 
With  all  its  dark  and  hungry  graves. 
Less  cruel  than  the  savage  slaves 
Who  hunt  us  o'er  these  sheltering  waves. 


This  hour  will  in  thy  memory 

Be  a  dream  of  days  forgotten  lona^; 
We  soon  shall  dwell  by  the  azure  sea 
Of  serene  and  golden  Italy, 
Or  Greece,  the  Mother  of  the  free; 

And  I  will  teach  thine  infant  tongue 
To  call  upon  those  heroes  old 
In  their  own  language,  and  will  mould 
Thy  growing  spirit  in  the  flame 
Of  Grecian  lore,  that  by  such  name 
A  patriot's  birthright  thou  mayst  claim  ! 

ON   FANNY   GODWIN 

Fanny  Godwin,  half-sister  of  Mary,  com- 
mitted suicide  by  taking  laudanum,  at  an  inn  in 
Swansea,  Octobsr  9,  1816.  Shelley  had  re- 
cently seen  her  in  London.  ITie  poem  was 
published  by  Mrs.  Shelley  in  her  first  col- 
lected edition,  1839. 

Her  voice  did  quiver  as  we  parted, 

Yet  knew  I  not  that  heart  was  broken 
From  which  it  came,  and  I  departed 
Heeding  not  the  words  then  spoken. 
Misery  —  O  Misery, 
This  world  is  all  too  wide  for  thee. 


LINES 

Composed  November  5,  and  published  by 
Mrs.  Shelley,  Posthumous  Poems,  1824. 


That  time  is  dead  forever,  child, 
Drowned,  frozen,  dead  forever  I 

We  look  on  the  past. 

And  stare  aghast 
At  the  spectres  wailing,  pale  and  ghast, 
Of  hopes  which  thou  and  I  beguiled 

To  death  on  life's  dark  river. 


Tlie  stream  we  gazed  on  then,  rolled  by; 
Its  waves  are  uureturuing; 

But  we  yet  stand 

In  a  lone  land, 
Like  tombs  to  mark  the  memory 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  which  fade  and  flee 

In  the  light  of  life's  dim  moruiug. 

DEATH 

Published     by    Mrs.    Shelley,    Posthumous 
Poems,  1824. 

They  die  —  the  dead  return  not.     Misery 

Sits  near  an  open  grave  and  calls  them 

over, 

A  Youth  with  hoary  hair  and  haggard  eye. 

They  are  the  names  of  kindred,  friend 

and  lover, 

Which    he   so  feebly  calls;   they  all  are 

gone  — 
Fond  wretch,  all  dead  !  those  vacant  names 
alone, 
This  most  familiar  scene,  my  pain, 
These  tombs,  —  alone  remain. 

Misery,  my  sweetest  friend,  oh,  weep  no 
more  ! 
Thou  wilt  not  be  consoled — I  wonder 
not! 
For  I  have  seen  thee  from  thy  dwelling's 
door 
Watch  the  calm  sunset  with  them,  and 
this  spot 
Was  even  as  bright  and  calm,  but  transi- 
tory, — 
And  now  thy  hopes  are  gone,  thy  hair  is 
hoary; 
This  most  familiar  scene,  my  pain, 
These  tombs,  —  alone  remain. 


356 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


SONNET.  —  OZYMANDIAS 

Published  by  Hunt,  The  Examiner,  1818. 

I  MET  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 

Who  said:  'Two  vast  aud  trunkless  legs  of 
stone 

Stand  in  the  desert.  Near  them,  on  the 
sand. 

Half  sunk,  a  shattered  visage  lies,  whose 
frown. 

And  wrinkled  lip,  and  sneer  of  cold  com- 
mand. 

Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions 
read 

Which  yet  survive,  stamped  on  these  life- 
less things, 

The  hand  that  mocked  them  and  the  heart 
that  fed. 

And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear  — 

**  My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings: 

Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  de- 
spair J  " 

Nothing  beside  remains.  Round  the  de- 
cay 

Of  that  colossal  wreck,  bonndless  and  bare 

The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away.' 


LINES   TO   A   CRITIC 
Published  by  Hunt,  The  Liberal,  1823. 

I 

Honey  from  silkworms  who  can  gather, 
Or  silk  from  the  yellow  bee  ? 

The  grass  may  grow  in  winter  weather 
As  soon  as  hate  in  me. 


Hate  men  who  cant,  and  men  who  pray, 
And  men  who  rail  like  thee; 

An  equal  passion  to  repay 
They  are  not  coy  like  me. 


Or  seek  some  slave  of  power  aud  gold, 
To  be  thy  dear  heart's  mate; 

Thy  love  will  move  that  bigot  cold 
Sooner  than  me  thy  hate. 


A  passion  like  the  one  I  prove 

Cannot  divided  be; 
I  hate  thy  want  of  truth  and  love  — 

How  should  I  then  liate  thee  ? 


POEMS  WRITTEN   IN   i8i8 


Mrs.  Shelley  describes  the  scenes  and  char- 
acter of  this  first  year  in  Italy  at  length :  '  I 
Capuccini  was  a  villa  built  on  the  site  of  a 
■Capuchin  convent,  demolished  when  the  French 
suppressed  religious  houses ;  it  was  situated  on 
the  very  overhanging  brow  of  a  low  biU  at  the 
foot  of  a  range  of  higher  ones.  The  house 
was  cheerful  and  pleasant ;  a  vine-trellised 
walk,  a  pergola,  as  it  is  called  in  Italian,  led 
from  the  hall  door  to  a  summer-house  at  the 
end  of  the  garden,  which  SheUey  made  his 
study,  and  in  which  he  began  the  Prometheus  ; 
and  here  also,  as  he  mentions  in  a  letter,  he 
wrote  Julian  and  Maddalo ;  a  slight  ravine, 
with  a  Toad  in  its  depth,  divided  the  garden 
from  tlie  hill,  on  which  stood  the  ruins  of  the 
ancient  castle  of  Este,  whose  dark  mjissive  wall 
gave  forth  an  echo,  and  from  whose  ruined 
crevices,  owls  and  bats  fUtt,ed  forth  at  night, 
as  the  «rescent  moon  sunk  behind  the  black 
and  lieavy  battlements.  We  looked  from  the 
j^arden  over  the  wide  plain  of  Lombardy, 
bounded  to  the  west  by  the  far  Apennines, 
•while  to  the  ea«t,  the  horizon  was  lost  in  misty 
distance.  After  the  picturesque  but  limited 
view  of  mountain,  ravine,  and  chestnut  wood 


at  the  baths  of  Lucca,  there  was  something 
infinitely  gratifying  to  the  eye  in  the  wide 
range  of  prospect  commanded  by  our  new 
abode. 

'  Our  first  misfortune,  of  the  kind  from  which 
we  soon  suflFered  even  more  severely,iiappened 
here.  Our  little  girl,  an  infant  in  whose  small 
features  1  fancied  that  I  traced  great  resem- 
blance to  her  father,  showed  symptoms  of  suf- 
fering from  the  heat  of  the  climate.  Teething 
increased  her  illness  and  danger.  We  were  at 
Este,  and  when  we  became  alarmed,  hastened 
to  Venice  for  the  best  advice.  When  we  ar- 
rived at  Fusina,  we  found  that  we  had  for- 
gotten our  passport,  and  the  soldiers  on  duty 
attempted  to  prevent  our  crossing  the  laguna ; 
but  they  could  not  resist  Shelley's  impetuosity 
at  such  a  moment.  We  had  scarcely  annved 
at  Venice,  before  life  fled  from  the  little  suf- 
ferer, and  we  returned  to  Este  to  weep  her 
loss. 

'  After  a  few  weeks  spent  in  this  retreat, 
which  were  interspersed  by  visits  to  Venice, 
we  proceeded  southwsu-d.  We  often  hear  of 
persons  disajipointed  by  a  first  visit  to  Italy. 
This  was  not  bhelley's  case  —  the  aspect  of  its 


POEMS   WRITTEN  IN   1818 


357 


nature,  its  sunny  sky,  its  majestic  storms ;  of 
the  luxuriant  yegetation  of  the  country,  and 
the  noble  niarble-built  cities,  enchanted  him. 
Tlie  sight  of  the  works  of  art  was  full  [of] 
enjoyment  and  wonder ;  he  had  not  studied 
pictures  or  statues  before ;  he  now  did  so 
with  the  eye  of  taste,  that  referred  not  to  the 
rules  of  schools,  but  to  those  of  nature  and 
truth.  The  first  entrance  to  Rome  opened  to 
him  a  scene  of  remains  of  antique  grandeur 
that  far  surpassed  his  expectations ;  and  the 
unspeakable  beauty  of  Naples  and  its  en- 
virons added  to  the  impression  he  received  of 
the  transcendent  and  glorious  beauty  of  Italy. 
As  I  have  said,  he  wrote  long  letters  during 
the  first  year  of  our  residence  in  this  country, 
and  these,  when  published,  will  be  the  best 
testimonials  of  his  appreciation  of  the  har- 
monious and  beautiful  in  art  and  nature,  and 
his  delicate  taste  in  discerning  and  describing 
them. 

'  Our  winter  was  spent  at  Naples.  Here  he 
wrote  the  fragments  of  Marenghi  and  The 
Woodman  and  the  Nightingale,  which  he  after- 
wards threw  aside.  At  this  time  Shelley  suf- 
fered greatly  in  health.  He  put  himself  under 
the  care  of  a  medical  man,  who  promised  great 
things,  and  made  hini  endure  severe  bodily 
pain,  without  any  good  results.  Constant  and 
poignant  physical  suffering  exhausted  him ; 
and  though  he  preserved  the  appearance  of 
cheerfulness,  and  often  greatly  enjoyed  our 
wanderings  in  the  environs  of  Naples,  and  our 

SONNET:   TO   THE   NILE 

This  is  the  sonnet  composed  in  competition 
with  Hunt  and  Keats,  on  the  same  subject 
February  4.  It  was  published  in  the  St.  James 
Magazine,  1876. 

Month  after  month  the  gathered  raius  de- 
scend 

Drenching  you  secret  Ethiopian  dells; 

And  from  the  desert's  ice-girt  pinnacles, 

Where  Frost  and  Heat  iu  strange  em- 
braces blend 
On  Atlas,  fields  of  moist   snow  half   de- 
pend; 

Girt  there  with  blasts  and  meteors,  Tem- 
pest dwells 

By  Nile's  aerial  urn,  with  rapid  spells 

Urging    those   waters   to   their   mighty 
end. 
O'er  Egypt's  land   of  Memory  floods  are 
level, 

And  they  are  thine,  O  Nile  !  —  and  well 
thou  knowest 


excursions  on  its  snnny  sea,  yet  many  hours 
were  passed  when  his  thoughts,  shadowed  by 
illness,  became  gloomy,  and  then  he  escaped 
to  solitude,  and  iu  verses,  which  he  hid  from 
fear  of  wounding  me,  poured  forth  morbid  but 
too  natural  bursts  of  discontent  and  sadness. 
One  looks  back  with  unspeakable  regret  and 
gnawing  remorse  to  such  periods ;  fancying 
that  had  one  been  more  alive  to  the  nature  of 
his  feelings,  and  more  attentive  to  soothe  them, 
such  would  not  have  existed  —  and  yet  en- 
joying, as  he  appeared  to  do,  every  sight  or 
influence  of  earth  or  sky,  it  was  difficult  to 
imagine  that  any  melancholy  he  showed  was 
aught  but  the  effect  of  the  constant  pain  to 
which  he  was  a  martyr. 

'  We  lived  in  utter  solitude  —  and  such  is 
often  not  the  nurse  of  cheerfulness  ;  for  then, 
at  least  with  those  who  have  been  exposed  to 
adversity,  the  mind  broods  over  its  sorrows  too 
intently  ;  while  the  society  of  the  enlightened, 
the  witty,  and  the  wise,  enables  us  to  forget 
ourselves  by  making  us  the  sharers  of  the 
thoughts  of  others,  which  is  a  portion  of  the 
philosophy  of  happiness.  Shelley  never  liked 
society  in  numbers,  it  harassed  and  wearied 
him ;  but  neither  did  he  like  loneliness,  and 
usually  when  alone  sheltered  himself  against 
memory  and  reflection,  in  a  book.  But  with 
one  or  two  whom  he  loved,  he  gave  way  to 
wild  and  joyous  spirits,  or  in  more  serious 
conversation  expounded  his  opinions  with  vi- 
vacity and  elocjueuce.' 

That  soul-sustaining  airs  and  blasts  of 

evil. 
And  fruits   and  poisons,   spring   where'er 

thou  flowest. 
Beware,  O  Man  !  for  knowledge  mast  to 

thee 
Like  the  great  flood  to  Egypt  ever  be. 


PASSAGE  OF   THE   APENNINES 

Composed  May  4,  and  published  by  Mrs. 
Shelley,  Posthumous  Poems,  1824. 

Listen,  listen,  Mary  mine. 
To  the  whisper  of  the  Apennine, 
It  bursts  on  the  roof  like  the  thunder's  roar, 
Or  like  the  sea  on  a  northern  shore. 
Heard  in  its  raging  ebb  and  flow 
By  the  captives  pent  in  the  cave  below. 
The  Apennine  in  the  light  of  day 
Is  a  mighty  mountain  dim  and  gray. 
Which  between  the  earth  and  sky  doth 
lay; 


358 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


But  when  night  comes,  a  chaos  dread 
On  the  dim  starlight  then  is  spread, 
And  the  Apenuiue  walks  abroad  with  the 
storm. 


THE   PAST 

Published    by    Mrs.     Shelley,    Posthumous 
Poems,  1824. 

Wilt  thou  forget  the  happy  hours 
Which  we  buried  in  Love's  sweet   bow- 
ers, 
Heaping  over  their  corpses  cold 
Blossoms  and  leaves  instead  of  mould  ? 
Blossoms  which  were  the  joys  that  fell. 
And  leaves,   the   hopes   that  yet   re- 
main. 

Forget  the  dead,  the  past  ?     Oh,  yet 
There  are  ghosts  that  may  take  revenge 

for  it; 
Memories  that  make  the  heart  a  tomb, 
Regrets   which  glide   through  the  spirit's 
gloom. 
And  with  ghastly  whispers  tell 
That  joy,  once  lost,  is  pain. 


ON   A   FADED   VIOLET 

Sent  by  Shelley,  in  a  letter,  to  Miss  Sophia 
Stacey,  March  7,  1820 :  '  I  promised  you  what 
I  caunot  perform  :  a  song  on  singing :  —  there 
are  only  two  subjects  remaining.  I  have  a  few 
old  stanzas  on  one  which,  though  simple  and 
rude,  look  as  if  they  were  dictated  by  the 
heart.  —  And  so  —  if  you  tell  no  one  whose  they 
are,  you  are  welcome  to  them.  Pardon  these 
dull  verses  from  one  who  is  dull  —  but  who  is 
not  the  less,  ever  yours,  P.  B.  S.'  It  was  pub- 
lished by  Hunt,  The  Literary  Pocket-Book, 
1821. 


The  odor  from  the  flower  is  gone, 

Which  like  thy  kisses  breathed  on  me ; 

The  color  from  the  flower  is  flown. 
Which  glowed  of  thee,  and  only  thee  ! 


A  shrivelled,  lifeless,  vacant  form. 
It  lies  on  my  abandoned  breast. 

And  mocks  the  heart,  which  yet  is  warm, 
With  cold  and  silent  rest. 


I  weep  —  ray  tears  revive  it  not; 

I  sigh  —  it  breathes  no  more  on  me; 
Its  mute  and  uncomplaining  lot 

Is  such  as  mine  should  be. 


LINES    WRITTEN   AMONG   THE 
EUGANEAN    HILLS 

Composed  at  Este,  in  October,  and  possibly 
revised  at  Naples  the  following  month.  The 
passage  on  Byron  was  inserted  after  the  poem 
had  gone  to  the  printer.  It  was  published 
with  Rosalind  and  Helen,  1811>,  and  in  the 
Preface  Shelley  says  it  '  was  written  after  a 
day's  excursion  among  those  lovely  mountains 
which  surround  what  wjis  once  the  retreat,  and 
where  is  now  the  sepulchre,  of  Petrarch.  If 
any  one  is  inclined  to  condemn  the  insertion  of 
the  introductory  lines,  which  image  forth  the 
sudden  relief  of  a  state  of  deep  despondency 
by  the  radiant  visions  disclosed  by  the  sudden 
burst  of  an  Italian  sunrise  in  autumn,  on  the 
highest  peak  of  those  deliglitful  mountains,  I 
can  only  offer  as  my  excuse,  that  they  were 
not  erased  at  the  request  of  a  dear  friend,  with 
whom  added  years  of  intercourse  only  add  to 
ray  apprehension  of  its  value,  and  who  would 
have  had  more  right  than  any  one  to  complain, 
that  she  has  not  been  able  to  extinguish  in  me 
the  very  power  of  delineating  sadness.' 

Many  a  green  isle  needs  must  be 

In  the  deep,  wide  sea  of  misery, 

Or  the  mariner,  worn  and  wan, 

Never  thus  could  voyage  on 

Day  and  night,  and  night  and  day. 

Drifting  on  his  dreary  way. 

With  the  solid  darkness  black 

Closing  round  his  vessel's  track; 

Whilst  above,  the  sunless  sky, 

Big  with  clouds,  hangs  heavily,  lo 

And  behind,  the  tempest  fleet 

Hurries  on  with  liglitning  feet. 

Riving  sail,  and  cord,  and  plank. 

Till  the  ship  has  almost  drank 

Deatli  from  the  o'er-brimniing  deep. 

And  sinks  down,  down  —  like  that  sleep 

When  the  dreamer  seems  to  be 

Weltering  through  eternity; 

And  the  dim  low  line  bifore 

Of  a  dark  and  distant  shore  so 

Still  recedes,  as  ever  still, 

Longing  with  divided  will 

But  no  power  to  seek  or  shun, 

He  is  ever  drifted  ou 


POEMS    WRITTEN   IN    1818 


359 


O'er  the  unreposing  wave 
To  the  haveu  of  the  grave. 
What,  if  there  no  friends  will  g^eet  ? 
What,  if  there  no  heart  will  meet 
His  with  love's  impatient  beat  ? 
Wander  wheresoe'er  he  may,  30 

Can  he  dream  before  that  day 
To  find  refuge  from  distress 
In  friendship's  smile,  in  love's  caress  ? 
Then  't  will  wreak  him  little  woe 
Whether  such  there  be  or  no. 
Senseless  is  the  breast,  and  cold, 
Which  relenting  love  would  fold; 
Bloodless  are  the  veins,  and  chill, 
Which  the  pulse  of  pain  did  fill; 
Every  little  living  nerve  40 

That  from  bitter  words  did  swerve 
Round  the  tortured  lips  and  brow, 
Arc  like  sapless  leaflets  now 
Frozen  upon  December's  bough. 

On  the  beach  of  a  ?Jorthern  sea 

Which  tempests  shake  eternally. 

As  once  the  wretch  there  lay  to  sleep. 

Lies  a  solitary  heap, 

One  white  skull  <and  seven  dry  bones, 

On  the  margin  of  the  stones,  50 

Where  a  few  gray  rushes  stand, 

Boundaries  of  the  sea  and  land: 

Nor  is  heard  one  voice  of  wail 

But  the  sea-mews,  as  they  sail 

O'er  the  billows  of  the  gale; 

Or  the  whirlwind  up  and  down 

Howling,  like  a  slaughtered  town 

When  a  king  in  glory  rides 

Through  the  pomp  of  fratricides. 

Those  unburied  bones  around  60 

There  is  many  a  mournful  sound; 

There  is  no  lament  for  him. 

Like  a  sunless  vapor,  dim, 

Who  once  clothed  with  life  and  thought 

What  now  moves  nor  murmurs  not. 

Ay,  many  flowering  islands  lie 

In  the  waters  of  wide  Agony. 

To  such  a  one  this  morn  w?„s  led 

My  bark,  by  soft  winds  piloted. 

Mid  the  mountains  Euganean  70 

I  stood  listening  to  the  pfean 

With  which  the  legioned  rooks  did  hail 

The  sun's  uprise  majestical; 

Gathering  round  with  wings  all  hoar, 

Through  the  dewy  mist  they  soar 

Like  gray  shades,  till  the  eastern  heaven 

Bursts,  and  then,  as  clouds  of  even, 


Flecked  with  fire  and  azure,  lie 

In  the  unfathomable  sky. 

So  their  plumes  of  purple  grain,  80 

Starred  with  drops  of  golden  rain, 

Gleam  above  the  sunlight  woods. 

As  in  silent  multitudes 

On  the  morning's  fitful  gale 

Through  the  broken  mist  they  sail. 

And  the  vapors  cloven  and  gleaming 

Follow  down  the  dark  steep  streaming, 

Till  all  is  bright,  and  clear,  and  still. 

Round  the  solitary  hill. 

Beneath  is  spread  like  a  green  sea         90 

The  waveless  plain  of  Lombardy, 

Bounded  by  the  vaporous  air, 

Islanded  by  cities  fair. 

Underneath  day's  azure  eyes, 

Ocean's  nursling,  Venice  lies, 

A  peopled  labyrinth  of  walls, 

Amphitrite's  destined  halls. 

Which  her  hoary  sire  now  paves 

V/ith  his  blue  and  beaming  waves. 

Lo  !  the  sun  upsprings  behind,  loc 

Broad,  red,  radiant,  half-reclined 

On  the  level  quivering  line 

Of  the  waters  crystalline; 

And  before  that  chasm  of  light, 

As  within  a  furnace  bright. 

Column,  tower,  and  dome  and  spire, 

Shine  like  obelisks  of  fire, 

Pointing  with  inconstant  motion 

From  the  altar  of  dark  ocean 

To  the  sapphire-tinted  skies;  jic 

As  the  flames  of  sacrifice 

From  the  marble  shrines  did  rise 

As  to  pierce  the  dome  of  gold 

Where  Apollo  spoke  of  old. 

Sun-girt  City  !  thou  hast  been 
Ocean's  child,  and  then  his  queen; 
Now  is  come  a  darker  day. 
And  thou  soon  must  be  his  prey. 
If  the  power  that  raised  thee  here 
Hallow  so  thy  watery  bier.  120 

A  less  drear  ruin  then  than  now, 
With  thy  conquest-branded  brow 
Stooping  to  the  slave  of  slaves 
From  thy  throne  among  the  waves, 
Wilt  thou  be,  when  the  sea-mew 
Flies,  as  once  before  it  flew, 
O'er  thine  isles  depopulate. 
And  all  is  in  its  ancient  state. 
Save  where  many  a  palace-gate 
With  green  sea-flowers  overgrown        13c 


360 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Like  a  rock  of  ocean's  own, 

Topples  o'er  the  abandoned  sea 

As  the  tides  change  sullenly. 

The  fisher  on  his  watery  way, 

Wandering  at  the  close  of  day. 

Will  spread  his  sail  and  seize  his  oar 

Till  he  pass  the  gloomy  shore. 

Lest  thy  dead  should,  from  their  sleep 

Bursting  o'er  the  starlight  deep. 

Lead  a  rapid  masque  of  death  140 

O'er  the  waters  of  his  path. 

Those  who  alone  thy  towers  behold 

Quivering  through  aerial  gold. 

As  I  now  behold  them  here. 

Would  imagine  not  they  were 

Sepulchres,  where  human  forms, 

Like  pollution-nourished  worms, 

To  the  corpse  of  greatness  cling. 

Murdered,  and  now  mouldering. 

But  if  Freedom  should  awake  150 

In  her  omnipotence,  and  shake 

From  the  Celtic  Anarch's  hold 

All  the  keys  of  dungeons  cold. 

Where  a  hundred  cities  lie 

Chained  like  thee,  ingloriously, 

Thou  and  all  thy  sister  band 

Might  adorn  this  sunny  land. 

Twining  memories  of  old  time 

With  new  virtues  :nore  sublime. 

If  not,  perish  thou  and  they  !  —  160 

Clouds  which  stain  truth's  rising  day 

By  her  sun  consumed  away  — 

Earth  can  spare  ye ;  while  like  flowers. 

In  the  waste  of  years  and  hours, 

From  your  dust  new  nations  spring 

With  more  kindly  blossoming. 

Perish  !  let  there  only  be 

Floating  o'er  thy  hearthless  sea, 

As  the  garment  of  thy  sky 

Clothes  the  world  immortally,  170 

One  remembrance,  more  sublime 

Than  the  tattered  pall  of  time, 

Which  scarce  hides  thy  visage  wan ;  — 

That  a  tempest-cleaving  Swan 

Of  the  songs  of  Albion, 

Driven  from  his  ancestral  streams 

By  the  might  of  evil  dreams. 

Found  a  nest  iu  thee;  and  Ocean 

Welcomed  him  with  such  emotion 

That  its  joy  grew  his,  and  sprung         180 

From  his  lips  like  music  flung 

O'er  a  miglity  thnuder-iit, 


Chastening  terror.     What  though  yet 
Poesy's  unfailing  River, 
Which  through  Albion  winds  forever 
Lashing  with  melodious  wave 
Many  a  sacred  poet's  grave. 
Mourn  its  latest  nursling  fled  ? 
What  though  thou  with  all  thy  dead 
Scarce  can  for  this  fame  repay  190 

.  Aught  thine  own  ?  oh,  rather  say 
Though  thy  sins  and  slaveries  foul 
Overcloud  a  sun-like  soul  ? 
As  the  ghost  of  Homer  clings 
Round  Scamander's  wasting  springs; 
As  divinest  Shakespeare's  might 
Fills  Avon  and  the  world  with  light 
Like  omniscient  power  which  he 
Imaged  'mid  mortality; 
As  the  love  from  Petrarch's  urn  2co 

Yet  amid  yon  bills  doth  burn, 
A  quenchless  lamp,  by  which  the  heart. 
Sees  things  unearthly ;  —  so  thou  art, 
Mighty  spirit  !  so  shall  be 
The  City  that  did  refuge  thee  ! 

Lo,  the  sun  floats  up  the  sky, 

Like  thought-winged  Liberty, 

Till  the  universal  light 

Seems  to  level  plain  and  height. 

From  the  sea  a  mist  has  spread,  210 

And  the  beams  of  morn  lie  dead 

On  the  towers  of  Venice  now. 

Like  its  glory  long  ago. 

By  the  skirts  of  that  gray  cloud 

Many-domfed  Padua  proud 

Stands,  a  peopled  solitude. 

Mid  the  harvest-shining  plain. 

Where  the  peasant  heaps  his  grain 

In  the  garner  of  his  foe. 

And  the  milk-white  oxen  slow  220 

With  the  purple  vintage  strain. 

Heaped  upon  the  creaking  wain. 

That  the  brutal  Celt  may  swill 

Drunken  sleep  with  savage  will; 

And  the  sickle  to  the  sword 

Lies  unchanged,  thougb  many  a  lord. 

Like  a  weed  whose  shade  is  poison. 

Overgrows  this  region's  foison. 

Sheaves  of  whom  are  ripe  to  come 

To  destruction's  harvest-home.  230 

Men  must  reap  the  things  they  sow. 

Force  from  force  must  ever  flo  vv. 

Or  worse;  but  'tis  a  bitter  woe 

That  love  or  reason  cannot  change 

The  despot's  rage,  the  slave's  revenge. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN    1818 


361 


Padua,  thou  within  whose  walls 

Those  mute  guests  at  festivals, 

Son  and  Mother,  Death  and  fcJin, 

Played  at  dice  for  Ezzelin, 

Till  Death  cried,  '  I  win,  I  win  ! '  240 

And  Sin  cursed  to  lose  the  wager, 

But  Death  promised,  to  assuage  her, 

That  he  would  petition  for 

Her  to  be  made  Vice-Emperor, 

When  the  destined  years  were  o'er, 

Over  all  between  the  Po 

And  the  eastern  Alpine  snow, 

Under  the  mighty  Austrian. 

Sin  smiled  so  as  Sin  only  can. 

And  since  that  time,  ay,  long  before,    230 

Both  have  ruled  from  sliore  to  shore  — 

That  incestuous  pair,  who  follow 

Tyrants  as  the  sun  the  swallow. 

As  Repentance  follows  Crime, 

And  as  changes  follow  Time. 

In  thine  halls  the  lamp  of  learning, 

Padua,  now  no  more  is  burning; 

Like  a  meteor  whose  wild  way 

Is  lost  over  the  grave  of  day, 

It  gleams  betrayed  and  to  betray.         260 

Once  remotest  nations  came 

To  adore  that  sacred  flame, 

When  it  lit  not  many  a  hearth 

On  this  cold  and  gloomy  earth; 

Now  new  fires  from  antique  light 

Spring  beneath  the  wide  world's  might; 

But  their  spark  lies  dead  in  thee. 

Trampled  out  by  tyranny. 

As  the  Norway  woodman  quells. 

In  the  depth  of  piny  dells,  270 

One  light  flame  among  the  brakes. 

While  the  boundless  forest  shakes. 

And  its  mighty  trunks  are  torn 

By  the  fire  thus  lowly  born ;  — 

The  spark  beneath  his  feet  is  dead. 

He  starts  to  see  the  flames  it  fed 

Howling  through  the  darkened  sky 

With  myriad  tongues  victoriously, 

And  sinks  down  in  fear;  —  so  thou, 

O  Tyranny  !  beholdest  now  280 

Light  around  thee,  and  thou  hearest 

The  loud  flames  ascend,  and  fearest. 

Grovel  on  the  earth  !  ay,  hide 

In  the  dust  thy  purple  pride  1 

Noon  descends  around  me  now. 
*T  is  the  noon  of  autumn's  glow, 
When  a  soft  and  purple  mist, 
Like  a  vaporous  amethyst, 


Or  an  air-dissolvfed  star 

Mingling  liglit  and  fragrance,  far         29c 

From  the  curved  horizon's  9uuud 

To  the  point  of  heaven's  profound 

Fills  the  overflowing  sky. 

And  the  plains  that  silent  lie 

Underneath;  the  leaves  unsodden 

Where  the  infant  frost  has  trodden 

With  his  morning-winged  feet, 

Whose  bright  print  is  gleaming  yet; 

And  the  red  and  golden  vines, 

Piercing  with  their  trellised  lines  300 

The  rough,  dark-skirted  wilderness; 

The  dun  and  bladed  grass  no  less, 

Pointing  from  this  hoary  tower 

In  the  windless  air;  the  flower 

Glimmering  at  my  feet;  the  line 

Of  the  olive-sandalled  Apennine 

In  the  south  dimly  islanded; 

And  the  Alps,  whose  snows  are  spread 

High  between  the  clouds  and  sun; 

And  of  living  things  each  one;  31a 

And  my  spirit,  which  so  long 

Darkened  this  swift  stream  of  song;  — 

Interpenetrated  lie 

By  the  glory  of  the  sky: 

Be  it  love,  light,  harmony. 

Odor,  or  the  soul  of  all 

Which  from  heaven  like  dew  doth  fall, 

Or  the  mind  which  feeds  this  verse 

Peopling  the  loue  universe. 

Noon  descends,  and  after  noon  320 

Autumn's  evening  meets  me  soon, 
Leading  the  infantine  moon 
And  that  one  star,  which  to  her 
Almost  seems  to  minister 
Half  the  crimson  light  she  brings 
From  the  sunset's  radiant  springs; 
And  the  soft  dreams  of  the  morn 
(Which  like  winged  winds  had  borne 
To  that  silent  isle,  which  lies 
Mid  remembered  agonies,  330 

The  frail  bark  of  this  lone  being) 
Pass,  to  other  sufferers  fleeing, 
And  its  ancient  pilot.  Pain, 
Sits  beside  the  helm  again- 
Other  flowering  isles  must  be 
In  the  sea  of  life  and  agony; 
Other  spirits  float  and  flee 
O'er  that  gulf:  even  now,  perhaps. 
On  some  rock  the  wild  wave  wraps. 
With  folding  wings  they  waiting  sit     340 
For  my  bark,  to  pilot  it 


363 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


To  some  calm  and  blooming  cove, 

Where  for  me,  and  those  1  love, 

May  a  wiuTllesj  bower  be  built, 

Far  from  passion,  pain,  and  guilt, 

In  a  dell  mid  lawny  hills, 

Which  the  wild  sea-nmrninr  fills, 

And  soft  sunshine,  and  the  sound 

Of  old  forests  echoing-  round. 

And  the  light  and  smell  divine  350 

Of  all  flowers  that  breathe  and  shine. 

We  may  live  so  happy  tliere, 

That  the  spirits  of  the  air. 

Envying  us,  may  even  entice 

To  our  healing  paradise 

The  polluting  multitude; 

But  their  rage  would  be  subdued 

By  that  clime  divine  and  calm, 

Aid  the  winds  whose  wings  rain  balm 

On  the  uplifted  soul,  and  leaves  360 

Under  which  the  bright  sea  heaves; 

While  each  breathless  interval 

In  their  whisperings  musical 

The  inspired  soul  supplies 

With  its  own  deep  melodies, 

And  the  love  which  heals  all  strife, 

Circling,  like  the  breath  of  life. 

All  things  in  that  sweet  abode 

With  its  own  mild  brotherhood. 

They,  not  it,  would  change;  and  soon  370 

Every  sprite  beneath  the  moon 

Would  repent  its  envy  vain, 

And  the  earth  grow  young  again. 


INVOCATION   TO   MISERY 

Published  by  Medwin,  The  AtheruBum,  1832. 
He  wove  about  it  a  mystery  of  a  lady  who 
followed  Shelley  to  Naples  and  there  died  in 
hopeless  love  for  him.  The  tale  has  never  been 
substantiated,  but  his  various  biographers  take 
note  of  it,  in  connection  with  his  depression  at 
Naples.  The  poem  itself  is  purely  ideal,  and 
such  as  he  might  have  written  at  any  time. 


CoMK,  be  happy  !  —  sit  near  me, 
Shadow-vested  Misery ; 
Coy,  unwilling,  silent  bride, 
Mourning  in  thy  robe  of  pride. 
Desolation  —  deified ! 


Come,  be  happy  !  —  sit  near  me. 
Sad  as  I  may  seem  to  thee. 


I  am  happier  far  than  thou, 
Lad^',  whose  imperial  brow 
Is  eudiademed  with  woe. 


Misery  !  we  have  known  each  other, 
Like  a  sister  and  a  brother 
Living  in  the  same  lone  home. 
Many  years  —  we  must  live  some 
Hours  or  ages  yet  to  come. 

IV 

'T  is  an  evil  lot,  and  yet 

Let  us  make  the  best  of  it; 

If  love  can  live  when  pleasure  dies, 

We  two  will  love  till  in  our  eyes 

This  heart's  Hell  seem  Paradise^ 


Come,  be  happy  !  —  lie  thee  down 
On  the  fresh  grass  newly  mown. 
Where  the  grasshopper  doth  sing 
Merrily  —  one  joyous  thing 
In  a  world  of  sorrowing. 


Tliere  our  tent  shall  be  the  willow. 

And  mine  arm  shall  be  thy  pillow; 

Sounds  and  odors,  sorrowful 

Because     they    once     were    sweet,    shall 

lull 
Us  to  slumber,  deep  and  dull. 


Ha  !  thy  frozen  pulses  flutter 
With  a  love  thou  darest  not  utter. 
Thou  art   murmuring  —  thou    art    weep- 
ing- 
Is  thine  icy  bosom  leaping 
While  my  burning  heart  lies  sleeping  ? 


Kiss  me;  —  oh  T  thy  lips  are  cold; 
Round  my  neck  thine  arms  enfold  • 
They  are  soft,  but  chQl  and  dead; 
And  thy  tears  upon  my  head 
Burn  like  points  of  frozen  lead. 

IX 
Hasten  to  the  bridal  bed  — 
Underneath  the  grave  'tis  spread: 
In  darkness  may  our  love  be  hid. 
Oblivion  be  our  coverlid  — 
We  may  rest,  and  none  forbid. 


POEMS  WRITTEN   IN    1818 


363 


Clasp  me,  till  our  hearts  be  grown 
Like  two  shadows  into  one; 
Till  this  dreadful  transport  may 
Like  a  vapor  fade  away 
In  the'sleep  that  lasts  alway. 


XI 


We  may  dream,  in  that  long  sleep, 
That  we  are  not  those  who  weep; 
E'en  as  Pleasure  dreams  of  thee, 
Life-deserting  Misery, 
Thou  mayst  dream  of  her  with  me. 


Let  us  laugh,  and  make  our  mirth, 

At  the  shadows  of  the  earth. 

As  dogs  bay  the  moonlight  clouds. 

Which,  like  spectres  wrapped  in  shrouds, 

Pass  o'er  night  in  multitudes. 

XIII 
All  the  wide  world  beside  U3 
Show  like  multitudinous 
Puppets  passing  from  a  scene; 
What  but  mockery  can  they  mean, 
Where  I  am  — where  thou  hast  been  ? 


STANZAS 

WRITTEN    IN    DEJECTION,    NEAR    NAPLES 

This  poem,  in  the  same  mood  as  the  preced- 
ing, was  composed  in  December,  and  published 
by  Mrs.  Shelley,  Posthumous  Poems,  1824. 


The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear, 

The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright; 
Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 

The  purple  noon's  transparent  might; 

The  breath  of  the  moist  earth  is  light 
Around  its  unexpanded  buds; 

Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight. 
The  winds,  the  birds,  the  ocean  floods, 
The  City's  voice  itself  is  soft   like  Soli- 
tude's. 


I  see  the  Deep's  untrampled  floor 

With    green    and    purple    sea-weeds 
strown ; 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore, 

Like  light  dissolved  in  star-showers, 
thrown; 


I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone  — 
The  lightning  of  the  noontide  ocean 

Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 
Arises  from  its  measured  motion. 
How  sweet !  did  any  heart  now  share  in  my 
emotion. 

Ill 
Alas  !  I  have  nor  hope  nor  health, 

Nor  peace  within  nor  calm  around. 
Nor  that  content  surpassing  wealth 
The  sage  in  meditation  found. 
And      walked     with      inward     glory 
crowned  — 
Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  lei- 
sure. 
Others  I  see  whom  these  surround  — 
Smiling   they  live,   and    call   life   plea- 
sure ;  — 
To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another 
measure. 


Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild. 

Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are ; 

I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child. 
And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 
Which  I  have  borne  and  yet  must  bear, 

Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me, 
And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 

My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  mo- 
notony. 


Some  might  lament  that  I  were  cold. 

As  I  when  this  sweet  day  is  gone. 
Which  my  lost  heart,  too  soon  grown  old, 

Insults  with  this  untimely  moan; 

They  might  lament  —  for  I  am  one 
Whom  men  love  not,  —  and  yet  regret, 

Unlike  this  day,  which,  when  the  sun 
Shall  on  its  stainless  glory  set. 
Will  linger,  though   enjoyed,  like   joy  in 
memory  yet. 

SONNET 

Published     by    Mrs.    Shelley,    Posthumous 
Poems,  1824. 

Lift  not  the  painted  veil  which  those  who 

live 
Call  Life ;  though  unreal  shapes  be  pictured 

there. 


364 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


And  it  but  mimic  all  we  would  believe 
With  colors  idly   spread,  —  behind,   lurk 

Fear 
And  Hope,  twin  Destinies,  who  ever  weave 
Their  shadows  o'er  the  chasm  sightless  and 

drear. 
I  knew  one  wlio  had  lifted  it  —  he  sought. 
For  bis  lost  heart  was  tender,  things  to 

love, 


But  found  them  not,  alas  !  uor  was  there 

aught 
The  world  contains  the  which  he  could  ap- 
prove. 
Through  the  unheeding  many  he  did  move, 
A  splendor  among  shadows,  a  bright*  blot 
Upon  this  gloomy  scene,  a  Spirit  that  strove 
For  truth,  and  like  the  Preacher  found  it 
not. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN   1819 


This  was  the  year  of  the  composition  of 
Prometheus  Unbound,  The  Cenci,  The  Mask  of 
Anarchy,  and  Peter  Bell  The  Third.    Its  his- 

LINES 

WRITTEN     DURING     THE      CASTLEREAGH 
ADMINISTRATION 

Published  by  Medwin,  The  Atherumm,  1832. 

I 
Corpses  are  cold  in  the  tomb  — 
Stones  on  the  pavement  are  dumb  — 
Abortions  are  dead  in  the  womb, 
And  their  mothers  look  pale,  like  the  death- 
white  shore 
Of  Albion,  free  no  more. 


Her  sons  are  as  stones  in  the  way  — 
They  are  masses  of  senseless  clay  — 
They    are    trodden    and    move    not 
away  — 
The  abortion  with  which  she  travaileth 
Is  Liberty,  smitten  to  death 

III 

Then  trample   and   dance,   thou   Op- 
pressor ! 

For  thy  victim  is  no  redresser  — 

Thou  art  sole  lord  and  possessor 
Of  her  corpses,   and  clods,  and  abortions 
—  they  pave 

Thy  path  to  the  grave. 

IV 

Hearest  thou  the  festival  din 
Of  Death  and  Destruction  and  Sin, 
And  Wealth  crying,  Havoc  !  within  ? 
'Tis   the   Bacchanal  triumph  that  makes 
truth  dumb, — 
Thine  Epithalamiura. 


tory  has  already  been  given  with  sufficient- 
fulness  under  these  titles,  from  Mrs.  Shelley's 
notes. 


Ay,  marry  thy  ghastly  wife  ! 
Let  Fear  and  Disquiet  and  Strife 
Spread  thy  couch  in  the  chamber  of 

Life; 
Marry  Ruin,  thou  Tyrant  1  and  Hell  be  thy 

guide 
To  the  bed  of  the  bride  ! 


SONG 

TO   THE   MEN   OF   ENGLAND 

This  poem,  like  all  the  proup,  is  to  be  ascribed 
to  Shelley's  renewed  political  excitement  ow- 
ing to  the  Manchester  Massacre.  It  was  pub- 
lished by  Mrs.  Shelley,  in  her  first  collected 
edition,  18o9. 


Men  of  England,  wherefore  plough. 
For  the  lords  who  lay  ye  low  ? 
Wherefore  weave  with  toil  and  care 
The  rich  robes  your  tyrants  wear  ? 


Wherefore  feed,  and  clothe,  and  save. 
From  the  cradle  to  the  grave. 
Those  ungrateful  drones  who  would 
Drain     your     sweat  —  nay,     drink     your 
blood  ? 

Ill 
Wherefore,  Bees  of  England,  forge 
Many  a  weapon,  chain,  and  scourge. 
That  these  stingless  drones  may  spoil 
The  forced  produce  of  your  toil  ? 


POEMS  WRITTEN   IN   1819 


365 


Have  ye  leisure,  comfort,  calm, 
Shelter,  food,  love's  gentle  balm  ? 
Or  what  is  it  ye  buy  so  dear 
With  your  pain  and  with  your  fear  ? 


The  seed  ye  sow,  another  reaps; 
The  wealth  ye  find,  another  keeps; 
The  robes  ye  weave,  another  wears; 
The  arras  ye  forge,  another  bears. 

VI 
Sow  seed,  —  but  let  no  tyrant  reap; 
Find  wealth,  —  let  no  impostor  heap; 
Weave  robes,  — let  not  the  idle  wear; 
Forge  arras,  —  in  your  defence  to  bear. 


Shrink  to  your  cellars,  holes,  and  cells; 

In  halls  ye  deck,  another  dwells. 

Why  shake  the  chains  ye  wrought  ?     Ye 

see 
The  steel  ye  tempered  glance  on  ye. 


With  plough    and   spade,    and    hoe    and 

loom. 
Trace  your  gi*ave,  and  build  your  tomb. 
And  weave  your  winding-sheet,  till  fair 
England  be  your  sepulchre. 


TO     SIDMOUTH     AND     CASTLE- 
REAGH 

Published  by  Medwin,  The  Athenaeum,  1832. 

I 

As  from  an  ancestral  oak 

Two  empty  ravens  sound  their  clarion, 
Yell  by  yell,  and  croak  by  croak. 
When  they  scent  the  noonday  smoke 

Of  fresh  human  carrion:  — 

II 

As  two  gibbering  night-birds  flit 
From  their  bowers  of  deadly  yew 

Through  the  night  to  frighten  it, 

When  the  moon  is  in  a  fit. 

And  the  stars  are  none,  or  few:  — 

III 
As  a  shark  and  dog-fish  wait. 
Under  an  Atlantic  isle, 


For  the  negro-ship,  whose  freight 
Is  the  theme  of  their  debate, 

Wrinkling  their  red  gills  the  while  — 

IV 

Are  ye,  two  vultures  sick  for  battle, 

Two  scorpions  under  one  wet  stone. 
Two  bloodless  wolves  whose  dry   throats 

rattle. 
Two  crows  j>erched  on  the  murrained  cat- 
tle. 
Two  vipers  tangled  into  one. 

ENGLAND    IN    1819 

This  sonnet  was  sent  by  Shelley  to  Hunt, 
November  23,  1819,  — '  I  don't  expect  you  to 
publish  it,  but  you  may  show  it  to  whom  you 
please.'  It  was  published  by  Mrs.  Shelley,  in 
her  first  collected  edition,  1839. 

An  old,   mad,  blind,  despised   and  dying 

king; 
Princes,  the  dregs  of  their  dull  race,  who 

flow 
Through  public  scorn  —  mud  from  a  muddy 

spring; 
Rulers,  who  neither  see,  nor  feel,  nor  know, 
But  leech-like   to   their   fainting    country 

cling. 
Till  they  drop,  blind  in  blood,  without  a 

blow; 
A  people  starved  and  stabbed  in  the  un- 

tilled  field; 
An  army  which  liberticide  and  prey 
Makes  as  a  two-edged  sword  to  all  who 

wield ; 
Golden  and  sanguine  laws  which  tempt  and 

slay; 
Religion     Christless,     Godless  —  a     book 

sealed; 
A  Senate — Time's  worst  statute  unrepealed. 
Are  graves  from  which  a  glorious  Phantom 

may 
Burst  to  illumine  our  tempestuous  day. 

NATIONAL  ANTHEM 

Published  by  Mrs.  Shelley  in  her  second  col 
looted  edition,  1889. 


God  prosper,  speed,  and  save, 
God  raise  from  England's  grave 
Her  murdered  Queen  T 


366 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Pave  with  swift  victory 
The  steps  of  Liberty, 
Whom  Britons  own  to  be 
Immortal  Queen. 


See,  she  conies  throned  on  high, 
On  swift  Eternity, 

God  save  the  Queen  ! 
Millions  on  millions  wait 
Firm,  rapid,  and  elate, 
On  her  majestic  state  ! 

God  save  the  Queen  i 

III 
She  is  thine  own  pure  soul 
Moulding  the  mighty  whole,  — 

God  save  the  Queen  ! 
She  is  thine  own  deep  love 
Rained  down  from  heaven  above,  ■ 
Wherever  she  rest  or  move, 

God  save  our  Queen  ! 


Wilder  her  enemies 

In  their  own  dark  disguise,  — 

God  save  our  Queen  ! 
All  earthly  things  that  dare 
Her  sacred  name  to  bear. 
Strip  them,  as  kings  are,  bare; 

God  save  the  Queen  ! 


Be  her  eternal  throne 
Built  in  our  hearts  alone,  — 

God  save  the  Queen  I 
Let  the  oppressor  hold 
Canopied  seats  of  gold ; 
She  sits  enthroned  of  old 

O'er  our  hearts  Queen. 

VI 

Lips  touched  by  seraphim 
Breathe  out  the  choral  hymn,  — 

God  save  the  Queen  ! 
Sweet  as  if  angels  sang. 
Loud  as  that  trumpet's  clang, 
Wakening  the  world's  dead  gang,  • 

God  save  the  Queen  1 


ODE   TO   HEAVEN 

Composed  as  early  as  December,  and  pub- 
lished with  Prometheus  Unbound,  1820.    Mrs. 


Shelley  writes  as  follows  :  '  Shelley  was  a  dis- 
ciple of  the  immaterial  philosophy  of  Berkeley. 
This  theory  gave  unity  and  grandeur  to  his 
ideas,  while  it  opened  a  wide  field  for  his 
imagination.  The  creation,  such  as  it  was 
perceived  by  his  mind  —  a  unit  in  immensity, 
was  slight  and  narrow  compared  with  the  in- 
terminable forms  of  thought  that  might  exist 
beyond,  to  be  perceived  perhaps  hereafter  by 
his  own  mind  ;  all  of  which  are  perceptible  to 
other  minds  that  fill  the  universe,  not  of  space 
in  the  material  sense,  but  of  infinity  in  the 
immaterial  one.  Snch  ideas  are,  in  some  de- 
gree, developed  in  his  poem  entitled  Heaven : 
and  when  he  makes  one  of  the  interlocutors 
exclaim, 

"  Peace  !  the  abyss  is  wreathed  in  scorn 
Of  thy  presumption,  atom-born  " 

he  expresses  his  despair  of  being  able  to  con- 
ceive, far  less  express,  all  of  variety,  majesty, 
and  beauty,  which  is  veiled  from  our  imperfect 
senses  in  the  unknown  realm,  the  mystery  of 
which  his  poetic  vision  sought  in  vain  to  pene- 
trate.' 

CHORUS  OF  SPIRITS 
riKST   SPIRIT 

Palace-ROOf  of  cloudless  nights  J 
Paradise  of  golden  lights  ! 

Deep,  immeasurable,  vast. 
Which  art  now,  and  which  wert  then. 

Of  the  present  and  the  past. 
Of  the  eternal  where  and  when. 

Presence-chamber,  temple,  home, 

Ever-canopying  dome 

Of  acts  and  ages  yet  to  come  I 

Glorious  shapes  have  life  in  thee, 
Earth,  and  all  earth's  company; 

Living  globes  which  ever  throng 
Thy  deep  chasms  and  wildernesses; 

And  green  worlds  that  glide  along; 
And  swift  stars  with  flashing  tresses; 

And  icy  moons  most  cold  and  bright, 

And  mighty  suns  beyond  the  uight, 

Atoms  of  intensest  light. 

Even  thy  name  is  as  a  god. 
Heaven  !  for  thou  art  the  abode 

Of  that  power  which  is  the  glass 
Wherein  man  his  nature  sees. 

Generations  as  they  pass 
Worship  thee  with  bended  knees. 

Their  unreniaining  gods  and  they 

Like  a  river  roll  away; 

Thou  remaiuest  such  alway. 


POEMS  WRITTEN   IN    1819 


367 


SECOND    SPIRIT 

Thou  art  but  the  mind's  first  chamber, 

Round  which  its  young  fancies  clamber, 
Like  weak  insects  in  a  cave, 

Lighted  up  by  stalactites; 
But  the  portal  of  the  grave, 

Where  a  world  of  new  delights 
Will  make  thy  best  glories  seem 
But  a  dim  and  noonday  gleam 
From  the  shadow  of  a  dream  I 

THIRD    SPIRIT 

Peace  !  the  abyss  is  wreathed  with  scorn 
At  your  presumption,  atom-born  ! 

What  is  heaven  ?  and  what  are  ye 
Who  its  brief  expanse  inherit  ? 

What  are  suns  and  spheres  which  flee 
With  the  instinct  of  that  Spirit 

Of  which  ye  are  but  a  part  ? 

Drops  which  Nature's  mighty  heart 

Drives  through  thinnest  veins.    Depart ! 

What  is  heaven  ?  a  globe  of  dew, 

Filling  in  the  morning  new 

Some  eyed  flower  whose  young   leaves 
waken 

On  an  unimagined  world; 
Constellated  suns  unshaken, 

Orbits  measureless,  are  furled 
In  that  frail  and  fading  sphere, 
With  ten  millions  gathered  there, 
To  tremble,  gleam,  and  disappear. 


AN  EXHORTATION 

Shelley  writes  to  Mrs.  Gisbome,  May  8, 
1820,  concerning'  this  poem:  '  As  an  excuse  for 
mine  and  Mary's  incurable  stupidity,  I  send 
a  little  tiling  about  poets,  which  is  itself  a 
kind  of  excuse  for  Wordsworth.'  It  was  pub- 
lished with  Prometheus  Unbound,  1820. 

Chameleons  feed  on  light  and  air; 

Poets'  food  is  love  and  fame; 
If.  in  this  wide  world  of  care 

Poets  could  but  find  the  same 
With  as  little  toil  as  they, 

Would  they  ever  change  their  hue 

As  the  light  chameleons  do, 
Suiting  it  to  every  ray 
Twenty  times  a  day  ? 

Poets  are  on  this  cold  earth, 
As  chameleons  might  be, 


Hidden  from  their  early  birth 

In  a  cave  beneath  tlie  sea. 
Where  light  is,  chameleons  change; 

Where  love  is  not,  poets  do; 

Fame  is  love  disguised;  if  few 
Find  either,  never  think  it  strange 
That  poets  range. 

Yet  dare  not  stain  with  wealth  or  power 

A  poet's  free  and  heavenly  mind. 
If  bright  chameleons  should  devour 

Any  food  but  beams  and  wind, 
They  would  grow  as  earthly  soon 

As  their  brother  lizards  are. 

Children  of  a  sunnier  star, 

Spirits  from  beyond  the  moon, 

Oh,  refuse  the  boon  ! 


ODE   TO    THE  WEST   WIND 

Shelley  describes  in  a  note  the  circumstances 
under  which  this  ode  was  composed  :  '  This 
poem  was  conceived  and  chiefly  written  in  a 
wood  that  skirts  the  Arno,  near  Florence,  and 
on  a  day  when  that  tempestuous  wind,  whose 
temperature  is  at  once  mild  and  animating^, 
was  collecting  the  vapors  which  poui'  down  tlie 
autumnal  rains.  They  began,  as  I  foresaw,  at 
sunset  with  a  violent  tempest  of  hail  and  rain, 
attended  by  that  magnificent  thunder  and  light- 
ning peculiar  to  the  Cisalpine  regions. 

'  The  phenomenon  alluded  to  at  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  third  stanza  is  well  known  to  nat- 
uralists. The  vegetation  at  the  bottom  of  the 
sea,  of  rivers,  and  of  lakes,  sympathizes  with 
that  of  the  land  in  the  change  of  seasons,  and 
is  consequently  influenced  by  the  winds  which 
announce  it.'  It  was  published  with  Prome- 
theus Unbound,  1820. 


O  WILD  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Au- 
tumn's being, 

Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the 
leaves  dead 

Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter 
fleeing. 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red, 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes  :  O  thou, 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  wingfed  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and 

low. 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  Spring  shall  blow 


368 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  eartb,  and 

fill 
(Driving  sweet  bnds  like  flocks  to  feed  in 

air) 
With  living  hues  and  odors  plain  and  hill : 

Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere  ; 
Destroyer  and  preserver;  hear,  oh,  hear  ! 


Thou  on  whose  stream,  mid  the  steep  sky's 

commotion, 
Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves 

are  shed. 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  Heaven 

and  Ocean, 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning:   there   are 

spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 
Like  the   bright  hair  uplifted    from   the 

head 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  even  from  the  dim 

verge 
Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height. 
The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.    Thou 

dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing 

night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre. 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapors,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 
Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail  will  burst: 
oh,  hear ! 

Ill 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer 

dreams 
The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay, 
Lulled    by    the    coil    of    his     crystalline 

streams, 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baise's  bay, 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flow- 
ers 

So  sweet  the  sense  faints  picturing  them  I 
thou 

For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  pow- 
ers 


Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far 

below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  whicb 

wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean  know 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with 

fear, 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves  :  oh, 

hear  I 

IV 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear; 
If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee; 
A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and 
share 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  O  uncontrollable  !     If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  bdyhood,  and  could  be 

The    comrade    of    thy    wanderings    over 

heaven. 
As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skyey  speed 
Scarce  seemed  a  vision;  I  would  ne'er  have 

striven 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
Oh,  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud  ! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life  !  I  bleed  ! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and 

bowed 
One  too  like  thee:  tameless,  and  swift,  and 

proud. 


Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is  : 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own  ! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep,  autumnal  tone, 
Sweet  though  in  sadness.     Be  thou,  Spirit 

fierce, 
My  spirit !     Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one  I 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 
Like   withered  leaves   to   quicken  a  new 

birth  ! 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  man- 
kind 1 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 


POEMS  WRITTEN   IN   1819 


369 


The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy  I     O  Wind, 
If  Winter  comes,  cau  Spring  be  far  be- 

h\r,A  9 


hind? 


AN   ODE 


WRITTEN  OCTOBER,  1819,  BEFORE  THE 
SPANIARDS  HAD  RECOVERED  THEIR 
LIBERTY 

Published  with  Prometheus  Unbound,  1820. 
Mrs.  Shelley's  note  exhibits  the  state  of  Shel- 
ley's mind  in  his  efforts  to  arouse  and  agitate 
among  the  people  :  '  Shelley  loved  the  people, 
and  respected  them  as  often  more  virtuous,  as 
always  more  suffering,  and,  therefore,  more  de- 
serving of  sympathy,  than  the  great.  He  be- 
lieved that  a  clash  between  the  two  classes  of 
society  was  inevitable,  and  he  eagerly  ranged 
himself  on  the  people's  side.  He  had.  an  idea 
of  publishing  a  series  of  poems  adapted  ex- 
pressly to  commemorate  their  circumstances 
and  wrongs  —  he  wrote  a  few,  but  in  those 
days  of  prosecution  for  libel  they  could  not  be 
printed.  They  are  not  among  the  best  of  his 
productions,  a  writer  being  always  shackled 
when  he  endeavors  to  write  down  to  the  com- 
prehension of  those  who  could  not  understand 
or  feel  a  highly  imaginative  style ;  but  they 
show  his  earnestness,  and  with  what  heartfelt 
compassion  he  went  home  to  the  direct  point 
of  injury  —  that  oppression  is  detestable,  as 
being  the  parent  of  starvation,  nakedness,  and 
ignorance.  Besides  these  outpourings  of  com- 
passion and  indignation,  he  had  meant  to  adorn 
the  cause  he  loved  with  loftier  poetry  of  glory 
and  triumph  —  such  is  the  scope  of  the  Ode  to 
the  Assertors  of  Liberty.  He  sketched  also  a  new 
version  of  our  national  anthem,  as  addressed  to 
Liberty.' 

Arise,  arise,  arise  ! 
There  is  blood  on  the  earth  that  denies 
ye  bread  ! 
Be  your  wounds  like  eyes 
To  weep  for  the  dead,  the  dead,  the  dead. 
What  other  grief  were  it  just  to  pay  ? 
•  Your  sons,  your  wives,  your  brethren,  were 
they  ! 
Who  said  they  were   slain  on  the  battle- 
day  ? 

Awaken,  awaken,  awaken ! 
The  slave  and  the  tyrant  are  twin-born 
foes. 
•  Be  the  cold  chains  shaken 

To  the  dust  where  your  kindred  repose, 
repose. 


Their  bones  in  the  grave  will  start  and 

move 
When  they  hear  the  voices  of  those  they 

love 
Most  loud  in  the  holy  combat  above. 

Wave,  wave  high  the  banner. 
When  Freedom  is  riding  to  conquest  by! 

Though  the  slaves  that  fan  her 
Be   Famine  and  Toil,   giving  sigh  for 
sigh. 
And  ye  who  attend  her  imperial  car. 
Lift  not  your  hands  in  the  banded  war 
But  iu  her  defence  whose  children  ye  are. 

Glory,  glory,  glory, 
To  those  who  have  greatly  suffered  and 
done  ! 
Never  name  in  story 
Was  greater  than  that   which  ye  shall 
have  won. 
Conquerors  have  conquered  their  foes  alone, 
Whose  revenge,   pride,  and  power,   they 

have  overthrown. 
Ride  ye,  more  victorious,  over  your  own. 

Bind,  bind  every  brow 
With  crownals  of  violet,  ivy,  and  pine  ! 

Hide  the  blood-stains  now 
With  hues  which  sweet  nature  has  made 
divine  — 
Green  strength,  azure  hope,  and  eternity; 
But  let  not  the  pansy  among  them  be  — 
Ye  were  injured,  and  that  means  memory. 


ON      THE    MEDUSA      OF 
NARDO  DA   VINCI 


LEO- 


IN  THE  FLORENTINE   GALLERY 

Composed  at  Florence,  in  the  latter  part  of 
the  year,  and  published  by  Mrs.  Shelley,  Post- 
humous Poems,  1824. 


It  lieth,  gazing  on  the  midnight  sky, 
Upon  the  cloudy  mountain  peak  supine; 

Below,  far  lands  are  seen  tremblingly ; 
Its  horror  and  its  beauty  are  divine. 

Upon  its  lips  and  eyelids  seems  to  lie 
Loveliness  like  a   shadow,  from   which 
shine. 

Fiery  and  lurid,  struggling  underneath, 

The  agonies  of  anguish  and  of  death. 


370 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Yet  it  IS  less  the  horror  than  the  grace 
Which  turns  the  gazer's  spirit  into  stone, 

Whereon  the  lineaments  of  that  dead  face 
Are  graven,  till  the  characters  be  grown 

Into  itself,  and  thought  no  more  can  trace; 
'T  is  the  melodious  hue  of  beauty  thrown 

Athwart  the   darkness   and   the   glitre    of 
pain, 

Which  humanize  and  harmonize  the  strain. 


And  from  its  head  as  from  one  body  grow, 

As  grass  out  of  a  watery  rock, 

Hairs  which  are  vipers,  and  they  curl  and 
flow 
And   their  long  tangles   in  each  other 
lock. 
And  with  unending  involutions  show 

Their    mailed    radiance,  as    it    were   to 
mock 
The  torture  and  the  death  within,  and  saw 
The  solid  air  with  many  a  ragged  jaw. 

IV 

And,  from  a  stone  beside,  a  poisonous  eft 
Peeps  idly  into  those  Gorgonian  eyes; 

Whilst  in  the  air  a  ghastly  bat,  bereft 
Of  sense,  has  flitted  with  a  mad  surprise 

Out  of   the   cave   this   hideons  light  bad 
cleft, 
And  he  comes  hastening  like  a  moth  that 
hies 

After  a  taper;  and  the  midnight  sky 

Flares,  a  light  more  dread  than  obscurity. 


T  is  the  tempestuous  loveliness  of  terror; 
For  from  the  serpents  gleams  a  brazen 
glare 
Kindled  by  that  inextricable  error. 

Which  makes  a  thrilling  vapor  of  the  air 
Become  a  and  ever-shifting  mirror 

Of  all  the  beauty  and  the  terror  there  — 
A    woman's     countenance,    with    serpent 

locks, 
Gazing  in  death  on  heaven  from  those  wet 
rocks. 


THE    INDIAN  SERENADE 

This  poem,  erroneonsly  said  to  have  been 
composed  for  Mrs.  Williams  and  '  adapted  to 
the  celebrated  Persian  air  sung  by  the  Kuautch 


girls,  Tazee  he  tazee  no  be  no,^  was  given  to  Miss 
■Sophia  Stacey  in  1819.  Several  versions  of  it 
exist.  Browning's  account  of  deciphering  one 
of  them  is  interesting  :  he  writes  to  Hunt,  Octo- 
ber 6,  1857  :  '  Is  it  not  strange  that  I  should 
have  transcribed  for  the  first  time  last  night 
the  Indian  Serenade  that,  together  with  some 
verses  of  Metaslasio,  accompanied  that  book  ? 
[the  volume  of  Keats  found  in  Shelley's  pocket 
and  burned  with  his  body]  —  that  I  should 
have  been  reserved  to  tell  the  present  posses- 
sor of  tliem,  to  whom  they  were  given  by  Cap- 
tain Roberts,  what  the  poem  was,  and  that  it 
had  b<  en  published  f  It  is  preserved  religiously  ; 
but  the  characters  are  all  but  illegible,  and  I 
needed  a  good  magnifying-glass  to  be  quite 
sure  of  such  of  them  as  remain.  The  end  is 
tliat  I  have  rescued  three  or  four  variations  in 
the  reading  of  that  divine  little  poem  —  as  one 
reads  it,  at  least,  in  the  Posthumous  Poems.'' 
It  was  published  by  Hunt,  The  Liberal,  1822. 


I  ARISE  from  dreams  of  thee 
In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night. 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low, 
And  the  stars  are  shining  briglit; 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 
And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Hath  led  me  —  who  knows  how  ? 
To  thy  chamber  window,  sweet ! 


The  wandering  airs,  they  faint 
On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream; 
The  champak  odors  fail 
Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream; 
The  nightingale's  complaint, 
It  dies  upon  her  heart. 
As  I  must  die  on  thine, 
Oh,  belovM  as  thou  art ! 

HI 

Oh.  lift  me  from  the  grass  ! 
I  die  !  I  faint !  I  fail ! 
Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 
On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 
My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas  1 
My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast. 
Oh  !  press  it  close  to  thine  again. 
Where  it  will  break  at  last. 


TO  SOPHIA 

Mrs.  Shelley   describes   the  lady  to   whom 
these  lines  are  addressed,  in  a  letter  to  Mi-s. 


POEMS   WRITTEN   IN    1820 


371 


Gisborne,  December  1,  1819  :  '  There  are  some 
ladies  come  to  this  house  who  knew  Shelley's 
family  :  the  younger  one  was  enlousiasmle  to 
see  him.  .  .  .  TJie  younger  lady  was  a  ward 
of  one  of  Shelley's  uncles.  She  13  lively  and 
unaffected.  She  sings  well  for  an  English 
debutante  and,  if  she  would  learn  the  scales, 
would  sing  exceedingly  well,  for  she  has  a 
sweet  voice.'  Miss  Sophia  Stacey  was  a  ward 
of  Mr.  Parker,  of  Bath,  an  uncle  by  marriage 
of  Shellev.  The  poem  was  published  by  Ros- 
setti,  1870. 


Tiiou  art  fair,  and  few  are  fairer 
Of  the  nymphs  of  earth  or  ocean; 

They  are  robes  that  fit  the  wearer  — 
Those  soft   limbs  of   thine,  whose  mo- 
tion 

Ever  falls  and  shifts  and  glances 

As  the  life  within  them  dances. 


Thy  deep  eyes,  a  double  Planet, 

Gaze  the  wisest  into  madness 
With  soft  clear  fire;   the  winds  that   fan 
it 

Are  those  thoughts  of  tender  gladness 
Whicli,  like  zephyrs  on  the  billow. 
Make  thy  gentle  soul  their  pillow. 

Ill 
If,  whatever  face  thou  paintest 

In  those  eyes,  grows  pale  with  pleasure, 
If  tlie  fainting  soul  is  faintest 

When  it  hears  thy  harp's  wild  measure, 


Wonder  not  that  when  thou  speakest 
Of  the  weak  my  heart  is  weakest. 

IV 

As  dew  beneath  the  wind  of  morning. 
As  the  sea  which  whirlwinds  waken, 

As  the  birds  at  thunder's  warning. 
As  aught  mute  yet  deeply  shaken, 

As  one  who  feels  an  unseen  spirit,  — 

Is  my  heart  when  thine  is  near  it. 


LOVE'S  PHILOSOPHY 
Published  by  Hunt,  The  Indicator,  1819, 

I 

The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river, 

And  the  rivers  with  the  ocean; 
The  winds  of  heaven  mix  forever 

With  a  sweet  emotion; 
Nothing  in  the  world  is  single; 

All  things  by  a  law  divine 
In  one  another's  being  mingle: 

Why  not  I  with  thine  ? 


See  the  mountains  kiss  high  heaven. 

And  the  waves  clasp  one  another; 
No  sister  flower  would  be  forgiven 

If  it  disdained  its  brother; 
And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth. 

And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea: 
Wliat  are  all  these  kissings  worth. 

If  thou  kiss  not  me  ? 


POEMS   WRITTEN   IN    1820 


Mrs.  Shelley  gives  in  brief  passages  the  ac- 
count of  the  various  removals  of  this  year,  and 
of  Shelley's  general  state  :  '  There  was  some- 
thing in  Florence  that  disagreed  excessively 
with  his  liealth,  and  he  suffered  far  more  pain 
tlian  usual ;  so  much  so  that  we  left  it  sooner 
than  we  intended,  and  removed  to  Pisa,  where 
we  had  some  friends,  and,  above  all,  where  we 
could  consult  the  celebrated  Vacck,  as  to  the 
cause  of  Shelley's  sufferings.  He,  like  every 
other  medical  man,  could  only  guess  at  that, 
and  gave  little  hope  of  immediate  relief ;  he 
enjoined  him  to  abstain  from  all  physicians 
and  medicine,  and  to  leave  his  complaint  to 
nature.  As  he  had  vainly  consulted  medical 
men  of  the  highest  repute  in  England,  he  was 
easily  persuaded  to  adopt  this  advice.  Pain 
and  ill-health  followed  him  to  the  end,  but  the 


residence  at  Pisa  agreed  with  him  better  than 
any  other,  and  there  in  consequence  we  re- 
mained. .  .  . 

'  We  spent  the  summer  at  the  baths  of  San 
Giuliano.  four  miles  from  Pisa.  These  baths 
were  of  great  use  to  Shelley  in  soothing  his 
nervous  irritability.  We  made  several  excur- 
sions in  the  neighborhood.  The  country  around 
is  fertile,  and  diversified  and  rendered  pictur- 
esque by  ranges  of  near  hills  and  more  distant 
mountains.  The  peasantry  are  a  handsome,  in- 
telligent race,  and  there  was  a  gladsome  sunny 
heaven  spread  over  us,  that  rendered  home  and 
every  scene  we  visited  cheerful  and  bright.  .  .  . 

'  We  then  removed  to  Pisa,  and  took  up  oar 
abode  there  for  the  winter.  The  extreme 
mildness  of  the  climate  suited  Shelley,  and  his 
solitude  was  enlivened  by  an  intercourse  with 


372 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


several  intimate  friends.  Chance  cast  us, 
strangely  enough,  on  this  quiet,  half-unpeopled 
town ;  but  its  very  peace  suited  Shelley,  —  its 
river,  the  near  mountains,  and  not  distant  sea, 
added  to  its  attractions,  and  were  the  objects 
of  many  delightful  excursions.  We  feared  the 
south  of  Italy,  and  a  hotter  climate,  on  account 
of  our  child  ;  our  former  bereavement  inspiring 
us  with  terror.  We  seemed  to  take  root  here, 
and  moved  little  afterwards;    often,  indeed, 


entertaining  projects  for  visiting  other  parts 
of  Italy,  but  still  delaying.  But  for  our  fears 
on  account  of  our  child,  I  believe  we  should 
have  wandered  over  the  world,  both  being 
passionately  fond  of  ti-avelling.  But  human 
life,  besides  its  great  nnaltex'able  necessities, 
is  ruled  by  a  thousand  Liliputian  ties,  that 
shackle  at  the  time,  although  it  is  difficult  to 
accoimt  afterwards  for  their  influence  over  oar 
destiny.' 


THE  SENSITIVE  PLANT 

Composed  at  Pisa,  as  early  as  March,  and 
published  with  Prometheus  Unbound,  1820. 
Shelley  afterward  identified  Mrs.  Williams  as 
'  the  exact  antitype  of  the  lady  I  described  in 
The  Sensitive  Plant,  though  this  must  have 
been  a  pure  anticipated  cognition,  as  it  was 
written  a  year  before  I  knew  her.' 


PART  FIRST 

A  Sensitive  Plant  in  a  garden  grew, 
And   the  young  winds  fed   it  with   silver 

dew, 
And  it  opened  its  fan-like   leaves   to  the 

light, 
And  closed   them  beneath  the  kisses  of 

Night. 

And  the  Spring  arose  on  the  garden  fair, 
Like  the  Spirit  of  Love  felt  everywhere; 
And  each  flower  and  herb  on  Earth's  dark 

breast 
Hose  from  the  dreams  of  its  wintry  rest. 

But  none  ever  trembled  and  panted  with 

bliss 
In  the  garden,  the  field,  or  the  wilderness, 
Like  a  doe   in   the   noontide   with  love's 

sweet  want,  n 

As  the  companionless  Sensitive  Plant. 

The  snowdrop,  and  then  the  violet, 

Arose  from  the  ground  with  warm  rain 
wet, 

And  their  breath  was  mixed  with  fresh 
odor,  sent 

From  the  turf,  like  the  voice  and  the  in- 
strument. 

Then  the  pied  wind-flowers  and  the  tulip 

tall. 
And  narcissi,  the  fairest  among  them  all, 


Who  gaze  on  their  eyes  in  the  stream's  re- 
cess 

Till  they  die  of  their  own  dear  loveli- 
ness ;  3o 

And  the  Naiad-like  lily  of  the  vale. 
Whom  youth  makes  so  fair,  and  passion  so 

pale. 
That   the   light  of  its  tremulous  bells  is 

seen 
Through  their  pavilions  of  tender  green; 

And  the  hyacinth  purple,  and  white,  and 

blue. 
Which  flung  from  its   bells  a   sweet   peal 

anew 
Of  music  so  delicate,  soft,  and  intense, 
It  was  felt  like  an  odor  within  the  sense; 

And  the  rose  like  a  nymph  to  the  bath  ad- 
dressed, 

Which  unveiled  the  depth  of  her  glowing 
breast,  30 

Till,  fold  after  fold,  to  the  fainting  air 

The  soul  of  her  beauty  and  love  lay  bare; 

And  the  wand-like  lily,  which  lifted  up, 
As  a  Msenad,  its  moonlight-colored  cup, 
Till  the  fiery  star,  which  is  its  eye, 
Gazed   through  clear  dew  on  the  tender 
sky; 

And  the   jessamine  faint,  and  the   sweet 

tube-rose. 
The  sweetest  flower  for  scent  that  blows ; 
And  all  rare  blossoms  from  every  clime 
Grew  in  that  garden  in  perfect  prime.       40 

And  on  the  stream  whose  inconstant  bosom 
Was  pranked,  under  boughs  of  embowering 

blossom. 
With    goldeu    and    green    light,  slanting 

through 
Their  heaven  of  many  a  tangled  hue, 


POEMS  WRITTEN   IN   1820 


373 


Broad  water-lilies  lay  tremulously, 
And  starry  river-buds  glimmered  by, 
And  around  them  the  soft  stream  did  glide 

and  dance 
With  a  motion  of  sweet  sound  and  radi- 


And  the  sinuous  paths  of  lawn  and  of  moss, 
Which  led  through  the  garden  along  and 

across,  50 

Some   open   at   once   to  the  sun  and   the 

breeze. 
Some    lost   among   bowers   of   blossoming 

trees,  — 

Were  all   paved  with  daisies  and  delicate 

bells. 
As  fair  as  the  fabulous  asphodels, 
And    flowrets    which,     drooping    as    day 

drooped  too, 
Fell  into  pavilions  white,  purple,  and  blue. 
To  roof   the  glowworm  from  the  evening 

dew. 

And  from  this  undefiled  Paradise 
The  flowers  (as  an  infant's  awakening  eyes 
Smile  on  its  mother,  whose  singing  sweet  60 
Can  first  lull,  and  at  last  must  awaken  it) 

When  Heaven's  blithe  winds  had  unfolded 

them 
As  mine-lamps  enkindle  a  hidden  gem. 
Shone  smiling  to  Heaven,  and  every  one 
Shared  joy  in  the  light  of  the  gentle  sun; 

For  each  one  was  interpenetrated 

AVith  the  light  and  the  odor  its  neighbor 
shed, 

Like  young  lovers  whom  youth  and  love 
make  dear, 

Wrapped  and  filled  by  their  mutual  atmo- 
sphere. 

But  the  Sensitive  Plant,  which  could  give 

small  fruit  70 

Of  the  love  which  it  felt  from  the  leaf  to 

the  root. 
Received  more  than  all,  it  loved  more  than 

ever. 
Where  none  wanted  but  it,  could  belong  to 

the  giver; 

For   the    Sensitive    Plant    has   no   bright 

flower ; 
Badiance  and  odor  are  not  its  dower; 


It  loves,  even  like  Love,  its  deep  heart  is 

full, 
It  desires  what  it  has  not,  the  beautiful  1 

The  light  winds  which  from  unsustaining 

wings 
Shed  the  music  of  many  murmurings; 
The  beams  which  dart  from  many  a  star  8c 
Of  the  flowers  whose  hues  they  bear  afar; 

The  plumed  insects  swift  and  free, 
Like  golden  boats  on  a  sunny  sea. 
Laden  with  light  and  odor,  which  pass 
Over  the  gleam  of  the  living  grass; 

The  unseen  clouds  of  the  dew,  which  lie 
Like  fire  in  the  flowers  till  the  sun  rides 

high. 
Then    wander    like    spirits     among     the 

spheres, 
Each   cloud   faint    with    the    fragance   it 

bears ; 

The  quivering  vapors  of  dim  noontide,      <jo 
Which   like   a    sea  o'er  the   warm  earth 

glide, 
In  which  every  sound,  and  odor,  and  beam, 
Move,  as  reeds  in  a  single  stream;  — 

Each  and  all  like  ministering  angels  were 
For  the  Sensitive  Plant  sweet  joy  to  bear. 
Whilst  the  lagging  hours  of  the  day  went 

Like  windless  clouds  o'er  a  tender  sky. 

And  when  evening  descended  from  heaven 

above, 
And  the  Earth  was  all  rest,  and  the  air  was 

all  love, 
And  delight,  though  less  bright,  was  far 

more  deep,  100 

And  the  day's  veil  fell  from  the  world  of 

sleep. 

And  the  beasts,  and  the  birds,  and  the  in- 
sects were  drowned 

In  an  ocean  of  dreams  without  a  sound. 

Whose  waves  never  mark,  though  they 
ever  impress 

The  light  sand  which  paves  it,  conscious- 
ness; 

(Only  overhead  the  sweet  nightingale 
Ever  sang  more  sweet  as  the  day  might 
fail. 


374 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


And  snatches  of  its  Elysian  chant 
Were  mixed  with  the  dreams  of  the  Sensi- 
tive Plant) ; — 

The  Sensitive  Plant  was  the  earliest        no 
U|)gathered  into  the  bosom  of  rest; 
A  sweet  child  weary  of  its  delight, 
The  feeblest  and  yet  the  favorite, 
Cradled  within  the  embrace  of  night. 

PART   SECOND 

There  was  a  Power  in  this  sweet  place, 
An  Eve  in  this  Eden;  a  ruling  grace 
Which  to  the  flowers,  did  they  wakeu  or 

dream, 
Was  as  God  is  to  the  starry  scheme. 

A  Lady,  the  wonder  of  her  kind, 

Whose  form  was  upborne  by  a  lovely  mind 

Which,  dilating,   had    moulded   her   mien 

and  motion 
Like   a  sea-flower    unfolded   beneath   the 

ocean. 

Tended  the  garden  from  morn  to  even; 
And  the  meteors  of  that  sublunar  heaven. 
Like  the  lamps  of  the  air  when  Night  walks 

forth,  I 1 

Laughed  round  her  footsteps  up  from  the 

Earth  ! 

She  had  no  companion  of  mortal  race. 
But  her  tremulous  breath  and  her  flushing 

face 
Told,  whilst  the  morn  kissed  the  sleep  from 

her  eyes. 
That  her  dreams  were  less  slumber  than 

Paradise  : 

As  if   some   bright   Spirit   for   her   sweet 

sake 
Had  deserted  heaven  while  the  stars  were 

awake, 
As  if  yet  around  her  he  lingering  were, 
Though  the  veil  of  daylight  concealed  him 

from  her.  20 

Her    step    seemed    to    pity  the   grass  it 

pressed ; 
You  might   hear,  by  the  heaving  of  her 

breast, 
That  the  coming  and  going  of  the  wind 
Brought  pleasure  there   and   left   passion 

behind. 


And  wherever  her  airy  footstep  trod. 
Her  trailing  hair  from  the  grassy  sod 
Erased    its    light  vestige,   with    shadowy 

sweep. 
Like  a  sunny  storm  o'er  the  dark  green 

deep. 

I   doubt  not  the  flowers   of  that  garden 

sweet 
Rejoiced  in  the  sound  of  her  gentle  feet;  30 
I  doubt  not  they  felt  the  spirit  that  came 
From  her  glowing  fingers  through  all  their 

frame. 

She  sprinkled  bright  water  from  the  stream 
On  tiiose  that  were  faint  with  the  sunny 

beam ; 
And  out  of  the  cups  of  the  heavy  flowers 
She    emptied    the    rain    of    the    thunder 

showers. 

She  lifted  their  heads  with  her  tender 
hands. 

And  sustained  them  with  rods  and  osier- 
bands  ; 

If  the  flowers  had  been  her  own  infants, 
she 

Could  never  have  nursed  them  more  ten- 
derly. 40 

And  all  killing  insects  and  gnawing  worms, 
And  things  of  obscene  and  unlovely  forms. 
She  bore  in  a  basket  of  Indian  woof, 
Into  the  rough  woods  far  aloof,  — 

In  a  basket,  of  grasses  and  wild  flowers 
full. 

The  freshest  her  gentle  hands  could  pull 

For  the  poor  banished  insects,  whose  in- 
tent. 

Although  they  did  ill,  was  innocent. 

But  the  bee,  and  the  beam-like  ephemeris 
Whose    path   is   the   lightning's,  and  soft 

moths  that  kiss  50 

The  sweet  lips  of  the  flowers,  and  harm  not, 

did  she 
Make  her  attendant  angels  be. 

And  many  an  antenatal  tomb, 

Where  butterflies    dream    of    the   life   to 

come. 
She  left   clinging  round   the   smooth   and 

dark 
Edge  of  tlie  odorous  cedar  bark. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN   1820 


375 


Tbis  fairest  creature  from  earliest  spring 
Thus  moved  through  the  garden  miuister- 

iug 
All  the  sweet  season  of  summer  tide, 
And  ere  the  first  leaf  looked  brown  —  she 

died !  60 


PART   THIRD 

Three  days  the  flowers  of  the  garden  fair, 
Like  stars   when   the   moon  is  awakened, 

were. 
Or  the  waves  of  Baise,  ere  luminous 
She  floats  up  through  the  smoke  of  Vesu- 
vius. 

And  on  the  fourth,  the  Sensitive  Plant 

Felt  the  sound  of  the  funeral  chant. 

And  the  steps  of  the  bearers,  heavy  and 

slow. 
And  the  sobs  of  the  mourners,  deep  and 

low; 

The  weary  sound  and  the  heavy  breath. 
And  the  silent  motions  of  passing  death,  10 
And  the  smell,  cold,  oppressive,  and  dank, 
Sent  through  the  pores  of  the  coffin  plank. 

The  dark  grass,  and  the  flowers  among  the 
grass. 

Were  bright  with  tears  as  the  crowd  did 
pass; 

From  their  sighs  the  wind  caught  a  mourn- 
ful tone, 

And  sate  in  the  pines,  and  gave  groan  for 
groan. 

The  garden,  once  fair,  became  cold   and 

foul. 
Like   the  corpse  of  her  who  had  been  its 

soul 
Which  at  first  was  lovely  as  if  in  sleep. 
Then  slowly  changed,  till  it  grew  a  heap  20 
To  make  men  tremble  who  never  weep. 

Swift  summer  into  the  antumn  flowed, 
And  frost  in  the  mist  of  the  morning  rode. 
Though  the  noonday  sun  looked  clear  and 

bright. 
Mocking  the  spoil  of  the  secret  night. 

The    rose   leaves,  like  flakes  of  crimson 

snow, 
Paved  the  turf  and  the  moss  below. 


The  lilies  were  drooping,  and  white,  and 

wan. 
Like  the  head  and  the  skin  of  a  dying  man. 

And  Indian  plants,  of  scent  and  hue  30 

The  sweetest  that  ever  were  fed  on  dew, 
Leaf  by  leaf,  day  after  day, 
Were  massed  into  the  common  clay. 

And  the  leaves,  brown,  yellow,  and  gray, 

and  red, 
And  white  with  the  whiteness  of  what  is 

dead. 
Like  troops   of  ghosts   on   the   dry   wind 

passed ; 
Their  whistling  noise  made  the  birds  aghast. 

And  the  gusty  winds  waked  the  winged 

seeds 
Out  of  their  birthplace  of  ugly  weeds. 
Till  they  clung  round  many  a  sweet  flower's 

stem,  40 

Which  rotted  into  the  earth  with  them. 

The  water-blooms  under  the  rivulet 

Fell  from  the  stalks  on  which  they  were 

set; 
And  the  eddies  drove  them  here  and  there, 
As  the  winds  did  those  of  the  upper  air. 

Then  the  rain  came  down,  and  the  broken 

stalks 
Were  bent  and  tangled  across  the  walks; 
And  the  leafless  network  of  parasite  bow 

ers 
Massed  into  ruin,  and  all  sweet  flowers.  ■ 

Between  the  time  of  the  wind  and  the 
snow  50 

All  loathliest  weeds  began  to  grow, 

Whose  coarse  leaves  were  splashed  with 
many  a  speck. 

Like  the  water-snake's  belly  and  the  toad's 
back. 

And  thistles,  and  nettles,  and  darnels  rank. 
And  the  dock,  and  henbane,  and  hemlock 

dank. 
Stretched  out  its  long  and  hollow  shank, 
And  stifled  the  air  till  the  dead  wind  stank. 

And  plants,  at  whose  names  the  verse  feels 
loath. 

Filled  the  place  with  a  monstrous  under- 
growth. 


376 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Prickly,  and  pulpons,  and  blistering,  and 
blue,  60 

Livid,  and  starred  with  a  lurid  dew. 

And  agarics  and  fungi,  with  mildew  and 

mould, 
Started   like    mist    from  the    wet  ground 

cold; 
Pale,  fleshy,  as  if  the  decaying  dead 
With  a  spirit  of  growth  had  been  animated  ! 

Spawn,  weeds,  and  filth,  a  leprous  scum. 
Made  the  running  rivulet  thick  and  dumb. 
And  at  its  outlet  flags  huge  as  stakes 
Dammed  it  up  with  roots  knotted  like  wa- 
ter-snakes. 

And  hour  by  hour,  when  the  air  was  still,  70 
The  vapors  arose  which  have  strength  to 

kill; 
At  morn  they  were  seen,  at  noon  they  were 

felt. 
At  night  they  were  darkness  no  star  could 

melt. 

And  unctuous  meteors  from  spray  to  spray 
Crept  and  flitted  in  broad  noonday 
Unseen;  every  branch  on  which  they  alit 
By   a   venomous   blight    was    burned    and 
bit. 

The  Sensitive  Plant,  like  one  forbid, 
Wept,  and  the  tears  within  each  lid  79 

Of  its  folded  leaves,  which  together  grew, 
Were  changed  to  a  blight  of  frozen  glue. 

• 
For  the  leaves  soon  fell,  and  the  branches 

soon 
By  the  heavy  axe  of  the  blast  were  hewn; 
The  sap  shrank  to  the  root  through  every 

pore, 
As  blood  to  a  heart  that  will  beat  no  more. 

For  Winter  came;  the  wind  was  his  whip; 
One  choppy  finger  was  on  his  lip; 
He  had  torn  the  cataracts  from  the  hills 
And  they  clanked  at  bis  girdle  like  mana- 
cles; 

His  breath  was  a  chain  which  without  a 
sound  90 

The  earth,  and  the  air,  and  the  water  bound ; 

He  came,  fiercely  driven,  in  his  chariot- 
throne, 

By  the  tenfold  blasis  of  the  Arctic  zone. 


Then  the  weeds  which  were  forms  of  living 

death 
Fled  from  the  frost  to  the  earth  beneath. 
Their  decay  and  sudden  flight  from  frost 
Was  but  like  the  vanishing  of  a  ghost  I 

And  under  the  roots  of  the  Sensitive  Plant 
The  moles  and  the  dormice  died  for  want; 
The  birds  dropped  stiff  from  the  frozen  air 
And  were  caught  in  the  branches  naked 
and  bare.  10 1 

First  there  came  down  a  thawing  rain. 
And    its  dull  drops    froze  on  the   boughs 

again ; 
Then  there  steamed  up  a  freezing  dew 
Which  to  the  drops  of  the  thaw-rain  grew; 

And    a     northern    whirlwind,    wandering 

about 
Like  a  wolf  that  had  smelt  a  dead  child 

out. 
Shook  the  boughs  thus  laden  and  heavy  and 

stiff, 
And  snapped  them  off  with  his  rigid  griff. 

When  Winter  had  gone  and  Spring  came 
back,  1 10 

The  Sensitive  Plant  was  a  leafless  wreck ; 

But  the  mandrakes,  and  toadstools,  and 
docks,  and  darnels, 

Rose  like  the  dead  from  their  ruined  char- 
nels. 

CONCLUSION 

Whether  the  Sensitive  Plant,  or  that 
Which  within  its  boughs  like  a  spirit  sat, 
Ere  its  outward  form  liad  known  decay, 
Now  felt  this  change,  I  cannot  say. 

Whether  that  lady's  gentle  mind, 
No  longer  with  the  form  combined 
Which  scattered  love,  as  stars  do  light,  12c 
Found  sadness  where  it  left  delight, 

I  dare  not  guess;  but  in  this  life 
Of  error,  ignorance  and  strife, 
Where  notliing  is,  but  all  things  seem, 
And  we  the  shadows  of  the  dream, 

It  is  a  modest  creed,  and  yet 
Pleasant,  if  one  considers  it. 
To  own  that  death  itself  must  be. 
Like  all  the  rest,  a  mockery. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN   1820 


377 


That  garden  sweet,  that  lady  fair,  130 

And  all  sweet  shapes  and  odors  there, 
In  truth  have  never  passed  away  : 
'T  is  we,  't  is  ours,  are  changed.;  not  they. 

For  love,  and  beauty,  and  delight. 
There  is  no  death  nor  change  :  their  might 
Exceeds  our  organs,  which  endure 
No  light,  being  themselves  obscure. 

A  VISION   OF   THE   SEA 

Composed  at  Pisa  as  early  as  April,  and  pub- 
lished with  Prometheus  Unbound,  1820. 

'Tis  the  terror  of  tempest.  The  rags  of 
the  sail 

Are  flickering  in  ribbons  within  the  fierce 
gale; 

From  the  stark  night  of  vapors  the  dim  rain 
is  driven, 

And,  when  lightning  is  loosed,  like  a  deluge 
from  heaven, 

She  sees  the  black  trunks  of  the  water- 
spouts spin 

And  bend,  as  if  heaven  was  ruining  in, 

Which  they  seemed  to  sustain  with  their 
terrible  mass 

As  if  ocean  had  sunk  from  beneath  them ; 
they  pass 

To  their  graves  in  the  deep  with  an  earth- 
quake of  sound, 

And  the  waves  and  the  thunders,  made 
silent  around,  lo 

Leave  the  wind  to  its  echo.  The  vessel, 
now  tossed 

Through  the  low  trailing  rack  of  the  tem- 
pest, is  lost 

In  the  skirts  of  the  thundercloud;  now 
down  the  sweep 

Of  the  wind-cloven  wave  to  the  chasm  of 
the  deep 

It  sinks,  and  the  walls  of  the  watery  vale 

Whose  depths  of  dread  calm  are  unmoved 
by  the  gale, 

Dim  mirrors  of  ruin,  hang  gleaming  about; 

While  the  surf,  like  a  chaos  of  stars,  like 
a  rout 

Of  death-flames,  like  whirlpools  of  fire- 
flowing  iron, 

With  splendor  and  terror  the  black  ship 
environ,  20 

Or,  like  sulphur-flakes  hurled  from  a  mine 
of  pale  fire, 

In  fountains  spout  o'er  it.   In  many  a  spire 


The  pyramid-billows,  with  white  points  of 
brine. 

In  the  cope  of  the  lightning  inconstantly 
shine. 

As  piercing  the  sky  from  the  floor  of  the 
sea. 

The  great  ship  seems  splitting !  it  cracks 
as  a  tree, 

While  an  earthquake  is  splintering  its  root, 
ere  the  blast 

Of  the  whirlwind  that  stripped  it  of 
branches  has  passed. 

The  intense  thunder-balls  which  are  rain- 
ing from  heaven 

Have  shattered  its  mast,  and  it  stands  black 
and  riven.  30 

The  chinks  suck  destruction.  The  heavy 
dead  hulk 

On  the  living  sea  rolls  an  inanimate  bulk, 

Like  a  corpse  on  the  clay  which  is  hunger- 
ing to  fold 

Its  corruption  around  it.  Meanwhile,  from 
the  hold, 

One  deck  is  burst  up  by  the  waters  be- 
low, 

And  it  splits  like  the  ice  when  the  thaw- 
breezes  blow 

O'er  the  lakes  of  the  desert  !  Who  sit  on 
the  other  ? 

Is  that  all  the  crew  that  lie  burying  each 
other, 

Like  the  dead  in  a  breach,  round  the  fore- 
mast ?     Are  those 

Twin  tigers  who  burst,  when  the  waters 
arose,  40 

In  the  agony  of  terror,  their  chains  in  the 
hold,— 

(What  now  makes  them  tame  is  what  then 
made  them  bold) 

Who  crouch,  side  by  side,  and  have  driven, 
like  a  crank, 

The  deep  grip  of  their  claws  through  the 
vibrating  plank,  — 

Are  these  all  ?  Nine  weeks  the  tall  vessel 
had  lain 

On  the  windless  expanse  of  the  watery 
plain. 

Where  the  death-darting  sun  cast  no  shadow 
at  noon, 

And  there  seemed  to  be  fire  in  the  beams 
of  the  moon, 

Till  a  lead-colored  fog  gathered  up  from- 
the  deep, 

Whose  breath  was  quick  pestilence;  then, 
the  cold  sleep  50 


378 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Crept,  like  blight  through  the  ears  of  a 

thick  field  of  corn, 
O'er  the  populous  vessel.     Aud  even  and 

morn, 
With  their  hammocks  for  coffins,  the  sea- 
men aghast 
Like  dead  men  the  dead  limbs  of  their 

comrades  cast 
Down  the  deep,  which  closed  on  them  above 

and  around, 
Aud  the  sharks  and  the  dogfish  their  grave- 
clothes  unbound, 
And  were   glutted    like    Jews   with    this 

manna  rained  down 
From  God  on  their  wilderness.     One  after 

one 
The  mariners  died;  on  the  eve  of  this  day, 
When  the  tempest  was  gathering  in  cloudy 

array,  60 

But  seven  remained.     Six  the  thunder  has 

smitten. 
And  they  lie  black  as  mummies  on  which 

Time  has  written 
His  scorn  of  the  embalmer;  the  seventh, 

from  the  deck 
An  oak-splinter  pierced  through  his  breast 

and  his  back, 
And  hung  out  to  the  tempest,  a  wreck  on 

the  wreck. 
No  more  ?     At  the   helm   sits  a  woman 

more  fair 
Than    heaven   when,   unbinding   its   star- 
braided  hair. 
It  sinks  with  the  sun  on  the  earth  and  the 

sea. 
She  clasps  a  bright  child  on  her  upgathered 

knee; 
It  laughs  at  the  lightning,  it  mocks  the 

mixed  thunder  70 

Of  the  air  and  the  sea;  with  desire   and 

with  wonder 
It  is  beckoning  the  tigers  to  rise  and  come 

near; 
It  would  play  with  those  eyes  where  the 

radiance  of  fear 
Is  outshining  the  meteors;  its  bosom  beats 

high. 
The  heart-fireof  pleasure  haskindleditseye, 
Whilst  its  mother's  is  lustreless:  'Smile 

not,  my  child. 
But  sleep  deeply  and  sweetly,  and  so  be 

beguiled 
Of  the  pang  that  awaits  us,  whatever  that  be. 
So  dreadful  since  thou  must  divide  it  with 

me  ! 


Dream,  sleep  !  This  pale  bosom,  thy  cra- 
dle and  bed,  go 

Will  it  rock  thee  not,  infant  ?  'T  is  beat- 
ing with  dread  ! 

Alas  !  what  is  life,  what  is  death,  what  are 
we. 

That  when  the  ship  sinks  we  no  longer 
may  be  ? 

What  !  to  see  thee  no  more,  and  to  feel 
thee  no  more  ? 

To  be  after  life  what  we  have  been  before  ? 

Not  to  touch  those  sweet  hands,  not  to  look 
on  those  eyes. 

Those  lips,  and  that  hair,  all  that  smiling 
disguise 

Thou  yet  wearest,  sweet  spirit,  which  I, 
day  by  day. 

Have  so  long  called  my  child,  but  which 
now  fades  away 

Like  a  rainbow,  and  I  the  fallen  shower  ? ' 
Lo  !  the  ship  90 

Is  settling,  it  topples,  the  leeward  ports  dip; 

The  tigers  leap  up  when  they  feel  the  slow 
brine 

Crawling  inch  by  inch  on  them;  hair,  ears, 
limbs,  and  eyne 

Stand  rigid  with  horror;  a  loud,  long, 
hoarse  cry 

Bursts  at  once  from  their  vitals  tremen- 
dously, 

And  't  is  borne  down  the  monntainous  vale 
of  the  wave. 

Rebounding,  like  thunder,  from  crag  to 
cave. 

Mixed  with  the  clash  of  the  lashing  rain, 

Hurried  on  by  the  might  of  the  hurricane. 

The  hurricane  came  from  the  west,  and 
passed  on  100 

By  the  path  of  the  gate  of  the  eastern  sun, 

Transversely  dividing  the  stream  of  the 
storm ; 

As  an  arrowy  serpent,  pursuing  the  form 

Of  an  elephant,  bursts  through  the  brakes 
of  the  waste. 

Black  as  a  cormorant  the  screaming  blast. 

Between  ocean  and  heaven,  like  au  ocean, 
passed. 

Till  it  came  to  the  clouds  on  the  verge  of 
the  world 

Which,  based  on  the  sea  and  to  heaven  up- 
curled. 

Like  columns  and  walls  did  surround  and 
sustain 

The  dome  of  the  tempest;  it  rent  them  in 
twain,  lie 


POEMS   WRITTEN   IN    1820 


379 


As  a  flood  rends  its  barriers  of  mountain- 
ous crag; 
And  the  dense  clouds  in  many  a  ruin  and 

rag, 
Like  the  stones  of  a  temple  ere  earthquake 

has  passed, 
Like  the  dust  of  its  fall,  on  the  whirlwind 

are  cast; 
They   are  scattered  like  foam  on  the  tor- 
rent; and  where 
The  wind  has  burst  out  through  the  chasm, 

from  the  air 
Of  clear  morning  the  beams  of  the  sunrise 

flow  in, 
Unimpeded,  keen,  golden,  and  crystalline. 
Banded  armies  of  light  and  of  air;  at  one 

gate 
They  encounter,  but  interpenetrate.         120 
And  that  breach  iu  the  tempest  is  widening 

away. 
And  the  caverns  of  cloud  are  torn  up  by 

the  day. 
And  the  fierce  winds  are  sinking  with  weary 

wings, 
Lulled  by  the  motion  and  murmurings 
And  the  long  glassy  heave  of  the  rocking 

sea, 
And   overhead  glorious,   but  dreadful  to 

see, 
The  wrecks  of  the  tempest,  like  vapors  of 

gold, 
Are   consuming  in    sunrise.     The   heaped 

waves  behold 
The   deep   calm   of  blue   heaven   dilating 

above, 
And,  like  passions  made  still  by  the  pre- 
sence of  Love,  130 
Beneath  the  clear  surface  reflecting  it  slide 
Tremulous  with  soft  iufliience;    extending 

its  tide 
From  the  Andes  to  Atlas,  round  mountain 

and  isle, 
Round   sea-birds   and  wrecks,  paved  with 

heaven's  azure  smile. 
The   wide    world   of   waters   is   vibrating. 

Where 
Is  the  ship  ?     On  the  verge  of  the  wave 

where  it  lay 
One  tiger  is  mingled  in  ghastly  affray 
With  a  sea-snake.     The    foam    and    the 

smoke  of  the  battle 
Stain  the  clear  air  with  sunbows.     The  jar, 

and  the  rattle  139 

Of  solid  bones  crushed  by  the  infinite  stress 
Of  the  snake's  adamantine  volnminousness ; 


And  the  hum  of  the  hot  blood  that  spouts 
and  rains 

Where  the  gripe  of  the  tiger  has  wounded 
the  veins. 

Swollen  with  rage,  strength,  and  effort;  the 
whirl  and  the  splusli 

As  of  some  hideous  enguie  whose  brazen 
teeth  smash 

The  thin  winds  and  soft  waves  into  thun- 
der; the  screams 

And  hissings,  crawl  fast  o'er  the  smooth 
ocean-streams, 

Each  sound  like  a  centipede.  Near  this 
commotion 

A  blue  shark  is  hanging  within  the  blue 
ocean. 

The  fin-wingfed  tomb  of  the  victor.  The 
other  150 

Is  winning  his  way  from  the  fate  of  his 
brother. 

To  his  own  with  the  speed  of  despair.  Lo  ! 
a  boat 

Advances;  twelve  rowers  with  the  impulse 
of  thought 

Urge  on  the  keen  keel,  —  the  brine  foams. 
At  the  stern 

Three  marksmen  stand  levelling.  Hot 
bullets  burn 

In  the  breast  of  the  tiger,  which  yet  bears 
him  on 

To  his  refuge  and  ruin.  One  fragment 
alone  — 

'T  is  dwindling  and  sinking,  't  is  now  almost 
gone  — 

Of  the  wreck  of  the  vessel  peers  out  of  the 
sea. 

With  her  left  hand  she  grasps  it  impetu- 
ously, 160 

With  her  right  hand  she  sustains  her  fair 
infant.     Death,  Fear, 

Love,  Beauty,  are  mixed  in  the  atmo- 
sphere. 

Which  trembles  and  burns  with  the  fervor 
of  dread 

Around  her  wild  eyes,  her  bright  hand, 
and  her  head. 

Like  a  meteor  of  light  o'er  the  waters  !  her 
child 

Is  yet  smiling,  and  playing,  and  murmur- 
ing; so  smiled 

The  false  deep  ere  the  storm.  Like  a  sis- 
ter and  brother 

The  child  and  the  ocean  still  smile  on  each 
other, 

Whilst 


38a 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


With  wiugs  folded  I  rest,  on  mine  airy 
lest, 


THE  CLOUD 
Published  with  Prometheus  Unbound,  1820. 

I   BRING  fresh  showers   for   the  thirsting 
flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that 
waken 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When   rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's 
breast. 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail. 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under,       lo 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast; 
And  all  the  night  't  is  my  pillow  white, 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skyey  bow- 
ers, 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder, 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits;  20 

Over  earth  and  ocean  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me. 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills, 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains. 
Wherever   he  dream,  under  mountain  or 
stream. 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue 
smile, 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains.  30 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes. 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread. 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack. 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead; 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag. 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the 
lit  sea  beneath, 

Its  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love,  40 

And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above. 


As 


nest, 
still  as  a  brooding  dove. 


That  orbfed  maiden,  with  white  fire  laden. 

Whom  mortals  call  the  Moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor. 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 
Which  only  the  angels  hear,  50 

May  have  broken   the  woof  of  my  tent's 
thin  roof. 
The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  wliirl  and  flee, 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees. 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built 
tent. 
Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas, 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me 
on  high. 
Are   each    paved    with    the   moon   and 
these. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  a  burning  zone. 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ; 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel 
and  swim,  61 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From   cape    to   cape,   with   a  bridge-like 
shape, 
Over  a  torrent  sea. 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof,  — 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The    triumphal    arch,    through    which    I 
march. 
With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow. 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to 
my  chair. 
Is  the  million-colored  bow;  70 

The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colors  wove, 
While   the   moist    earth   was    laughing 
below. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water. 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky; 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and 
shores; 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain,  when  with  never  a  stain 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with   their 
convex  gleams 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air,  8c 

I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 


POEMS   WRITTEN   IN   1820 


381 


Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost 
from  the  tomb, 
I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 


TO  A  SKYLARK 

Composed  at  Leghorn,  and  published  with 
Prometheus  Unbound,  1820.  The  occasion  is 
described  by  Mrs.  Shelley  :  '  In  the  spring'  we 
spent  a  week  or  two  near  Leghorn,  borrowing 
the  house  of  some  friends,  who  were  absent  on 
a  journey  to  England.  It  was  on  a  beautiful 
summer  evening  while  wandering  among  the 
lanes,  whose  myrtle  hedges  were  the  bowers 
of  the  fireflies,  that  we  heard  the  carolling  of 
the  skylark,  which  inspired  one  of  the  most 
beautif  id  of  his  poems.' 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  Spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  Heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest. 
And  singing   still   dost   soar,  and  soaring 
ever  singest.  lo 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  bright'ning, 
Thou  dost  float  and  run; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just 
begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven 
In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  —  but  yet  1  hear  thy  shrill 
delight,  20 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 
In  the  white  dawn  clear 
Until  we  hardly  see  —  we  feel  that  it  is 
there ; 

All  the  earth  and  air 
With  thy  voice  is  loud. 


As  when  Night  is  bare 
From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  Heaven 
is  overflowed.  30 

What  thou  art  we  know  not; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From    rainbow  clouds    there    flow 
not 
Drops  so  bright  to  see 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of 
melody. 

Like  a  Poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded 
not :  40 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  —  which  over- 
flows  her  bower  : 

Like  a  glowworm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass  which  screen 
it  from  the  view  :  50 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered. 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes   faint  with  too  much  sweet  those 
heavy  winged  thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers  j 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers, 
All  that  ever  was 
Joyous  and  clear  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth 
surpass.  60 

Teach  us,  Sprite  or  Bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine; 
I  have  never  heard 
Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so 
divine. 


38* 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Chorus  Hymeneal, 

Or  triumph.il  chant, 
Matched  with  thine,  would  be  all 
But  an  empty  vaunt, 
A   thing  wherein  we   feel   there  is   some 
hidden  want.  70 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields  or  waves  or  mountains  ? 
What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind  ?  what  igno- 
rance of  pain  ? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be; 
Shadow  of  annoyance 
Never  came  near  thee; 
Thou  lovest  —  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad 
satiety.  80 

Waking  or  asleep 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream  — 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crys- 
tal stream  ? 

We  look  before  and  after. 

And  pine  for  what  is  not; 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught: 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of 
saddest  thought.  90 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate  and  pride  and  fear; 
If  we  were  things  born 
Not  tc  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should 
come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 
That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the 
ground  I  100 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow 
The  world  should  listen  then  —  as  I  am 
listening  now. 


ODE   TO   LIBERTY 

Published  with  Prometheus  Unbound,  1820 
Shelley  sent  it  to  Peacock  with  permission  tc 
insert  asterisks  in  stanzas  fifteen  and  sixteen 
in  case  his  publisher  objected  to  the  expressions 
there  used. 

Y,  c  Freedom,  yet,  thy  banner  torn  but  flying 
Streams  like  a  thunder-storm  against  the  wind. 

BlBOIt. 


A  GLORIOUS  people  vibrated  again 

The  lightning  of  the  Nations;  Liberty, 
From  heart  to  heart,  from  tower  to  tower, 
o'er  Spain, 
Scattering  contagious  fire  into  the  sky, 
Gleamed.     My  soul  spurned  the  chains  of 
its  dismay. 
And  in  the  rapid  plumes  of  song 
Clothed  itself,  sublime  and  strong; 
As  a  young  eagle  soars  the  morning  clouds 
among. 
Hovering  in  verse  o'er  its  accustomed 
prey; 
Till  from  its  station  in  the  Heaven  of 
fame 
The  Spirit's  whirlwind  rapt  it,  and  the  ray 
Of  the  remotest  sphere  of  living  flame 
Which  paves  the  void  was  from  behind  it 
flung. 
As   foam  from  a  ship's  swiftness,  when 

there  came 
A  voice  out  of  the  deep:  I  will  record  the 
same. 


The  Sun   and  the  serenest   Moon  sprang 
forth ; 
The   burning   stars  of  the  abyss   were 
hurled 
Into   the   depths   of  heaven.     The   daedal 
earth. 
That  island  in  the  ocean  of  the  world, 
Hung  in  its  cloud  of  all-sustaining  air; 
But  this  divinest  universe 
Was  yet  a  chaos  and  a  curse, 
For  thou  wert  not;  but  power  from  worst 
producing  worse. 
The  spirit  of  the  beasts  was  kindled  there, 
And  of  the  birds,  and  of  the  watery 
forms. 
And  there  was  war  among  them,  and 
despair 
Within  them,  raging  without  truce  or 
terms. 


POEMS  WRITTEN   IN    1820 


383 


The  bosom  of  their  violated  luirse 
Groaned,   for   beasts  warred  on  beasts, 

and  worms  on  worms, 
And  men  on  men;  each  heart  was  as  a  hell 

of  storms. 

Ill 

Man,  the  imperial  shape,  then  multiplied 

His  genei-ations  under  the  pavilion 
Of  the  Sun's  throne;  palace  and  pyramid, 
Temple  and  prison,  to  many  a  swarn)ing 
million 
Were  as  to  mountain  wolves  their  ragged 
caves. 
This  human  living  multitude 
Was  savage,  cunning, blind,  and  rude. 
For  thou  wert  not;  but  o'er  the  populous 
solitude, 
Like  one  fierce  cloud   over  a  waste  of 
waves. 
Hung  Tyranny;  beneath,  sate  deified 
The  sister-pest,  congregator  of  slaves; 
Into  the  shadow  of  her  pinions  wide 
Anarchs  and  priests  who  feed  on  gold  and 
blood 
Till  with  the  stain  their  inmost  souls  are 

dyed, 
Drove  the  astonished  "herds  of  men  from 
every  side. 

IV 

The  nodding  promontories,  and  blue  isles, 
And  cloud-like  mountains,  and  dividuous 
waves 
Of  Greece,  basked  glorious  in   the  open 
smiles 
Of    favoring  heaven;    from    their    en- 
chanted caves 
Prophetic  echoes  flung  dim  melody. 
On  the  unapprehensive  wild 
The  vine,  the  corn,  the  olive  mild. 
Grew  savage  yet,  to  human  use  unrecon- 
ciled ; 
And,  like  unfolded  flowers  beneath  thesea, 
Like  the  man's  thought  dark  in  the  in- 
fant's brain. 
Like  aught  that  is  which  wraps  what  is 
to  be. 
Art's  deathless  dreams  lay  veiled  by 
many  a  vein 
Of  Parian  stone;  and,  yet  a  speechless  child, 
Verse   murmured,   and   Philosophy   did 

strain 
Her  lidless  eyes  for  thee;  wlien  o'er  the 
iCgean  main 


Athens  arose;  a  city  such  as  vision 

Builds  from  the  purple  crags  and  silver 
towers 
Of  battlemented  cloud,  as  in  derision 

Of  kingliest  masonry:  the  ocean  floors 
Pave  it;  the  evening  sky  pavilions  it; 
Its  portals  are  inhabited 
By  thunder-zoned  winds,  each  head 
Within  its  cloudy  wings  with  sun-fire  gar- 
landed, — 
A  divine  work  !     Athens,  diviner  yet, 
Gleamed  with  its  crest  of  cohimus,  on 
the  will 
Of  man,  as   on   a   mount   of   diamond, 
set; 
For  thou  wert,  and  thine  all-creative 
skill 
Peopled,  with  forms  that  mock  the  eternal 
dead 
In  marble  immortality,  that  hill 
Which  was  thine  earliest  throne  and  lat- 
est oracle. 

VI 

Within  the  surface  of  Time's  fleeting  river 

Its  wrinkled  image  lies,  as  then  it  lay 
Immovably  unquiet,  and  forever 

It  trembles,  but  it  cannot  pass  away  ! 
The  voices  of  thy  bards  and  sages  thunder 
With  an  earth-awakening  blast 
Through  the  caverns  of  the  past; 
Religion  veils  her  eyes;  Oppression  shrinks 
aghast. 
A  winged    sound  of  joy,  and  love,  and 
wonder, 
Which  soars  where  Expectation  never 
flew. 
Rending  the  veil  of  space  and  time  asun- 
der ! 
One    ocean    feeds     the     clouds,    and 
streams,  and  dew; 
One  sun  illumines  heaven ;  one  spirit  vast 
With  life  and  love  makes  chaos  ever  new. 
As   Atliens  doth  the  world  with  thy  de- 
light renew. 

VII 

Then  Rome  was,  and  from  thy  deep  bosom 
fairest. 
Like  a  wolf-cub  from  a  Cad  mean  Msenad, 
She  drew  the  milk  of  greatness,  though  thy 
dearest 
From  that  Elysian  food  was  yet    un« 
weanfed; 


384 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


And  many  a  deed  of  terrible  uprightness 
By  thy  sweet  love  was  sanctified; 
And  in  thy  smile,  and  by  thy  side, 
Saiutly  Camillus  lived, and  firm  Atilius  died. 
But  when  tears  stained  thy  robe  of  vestal 
whiteness, 
And    gold    profaned    thy   Capitolian 
throne, 
Thou   didst   desert,    with   spirit-winged 
lightness, 
The  senate  of  the  tyrants:  they  sunk 
prone 
Slaves  of  one  tyrant.     Palatiniis  sighed 
Faint  echoes  of  Ionian  song;  that  tone 
Thou  didst  delay  to  hear,  lamenting  to 
disown. 

VIII 

From  what  Hyrcanian  glen  or  frozen  hill, 
Or  piny  promontory  of  the  Arctic  main. 
Or  utmost  islet  inaccessible. 

Didst  thou  lament  the  ruin  of  thy  reign, 
Teaching  the  woods  and  waves,  and  desert 
rocks. 
And  every  Naiad's  ice-cold  urn, 
To  talk  in  echoes  sad  and  stej-n. 
Of  that  sublimest  lore  which  man  had  dared 
unlearn  ? 
For  neither  didst  thou  watch  the  wizard 
flocks 
Of  the  Scald's  dreams,  nor  haunt  the 
Druid's  sleep. 
What  if  the  tears  rained  through  thy 
shattered  locks 
Were  quickly  dried  ?    for  thou  didst 
groan,  not  weep. 
When  from  its  sea  of  death,  to  kill  and 
burn, 
The  Galilean  serpent  forth  did  creep. 
And  made  thy  world  an  undistinguishable 
heap. 

IX 
A  thousand  years  the  Earth  cried,  Where 
art  thou  ? 
And  then   the   shadow  of    thy  coming 
fell 
On  Saxon  Alfred's  olive-cinctured  brow; 

And  many  a  warribr-peopled  citadel. 
Like  rocks  which  fire  lifts  out  of  the  fiat 
deep. 
Arose  in  sacred  Italy, 
Frowning  o'er  the  tempestuous  sea 
Of  kings,  and  priests,  and  slaves,  in  tower- 
crowned  majesty; 


That  multitudinous  anarchy  did  sweep 
And  burst  around  their  walls,  like  idle 
foam. 
Whilst  from  the  human  spirit's  deepest 
deep. 
Strange   melody   with  love  and  awe 
struck  dumb 
Dissonant  arms;  and  Art,  which  cannot  die. 
With  divine  wand  traced  on  our  earthly 

home 
Fit  imagery  to  pave  heaven's  everlasting 
dome. 


Thou   huntress   swifter  than    the   Moon  ! 
thou  terror 
Of  the  world's  wolves  !   thou  bearer  of 
the  quiver. 
Whose    sun-like    shafts    pierce    tempest- 
winged  Error, 
As  light  may  pierce  the  clouds  when  they 
dissever 
In  the  calm  regions  of  the  orient  day  ! 

Luther  caught  thy  wakening  glance; 
Like  lightning,  from  his  leaden  lance 
Reflected,  it  dissolved  the  visions  of  the 
trance 
In  which,  as  in  a  tomb,  the  nations  lay; 
And  England's  prophets  hailed  thee 
as  their  queen. 
In  songs  whose  music  cannot  pass  away, 
Tliongh  it  must  flow  forever;  not  un- 
seen 
Before  the  spirit-sighted  countenance 
Of  Milton  didst  thou  pass,  from  the  sad 

scene 
Beyond  whose  night  he  saw,  with  a  de- 
jected mien. 

XI 

The  eager  hours  and  unreluctant  years 

As  on  a  dawn-illumined  mountain  stood, 
Trampling  to  silence  their  loud  hopes  and 
fears, 
Darkening  each  other  with  their  multi- 
tude. 
And  cried  aloud,  Liberty  !     Indignation 
Answered  Pity  from  her  cave; 
Death  grew  pale  within  the  grave, 
And  Desolation  howled  to  the  destroyer, 
Save  ! 
When,  like  heaven's  sun  girt  by  the  ex- 
halation 
Of  its  own  glorious  light,  thou  didst 
arise. 


POEMS  WRITTEN   IN    1820 


385 


Chasing  thy  foes  from  nation  unto  nation 
Like  shadows:    as  if  day  had  cloven 
the  skies 
At   dreaming   midnight   o'er  the  western 
wave, 
Men  started,  staggering  with  a  glad  sur- 
prise, 
Under  the  lightnings  of  thine  unfamiliar 
eyes. 


Thou  heaven  of  earth  !    what  spells  could 
pall  thee  then, 
In  ominous  eclipse  ?  a  thousand  years. 
Bred  from  the  slime  of  deep  oppression's 
den, 
Dyed  all  thy  liquid  light  with  blood  and 
tears, 
Till  thy  sweet  stars  could  weep  the  stain 
away; 
How  like  Bacchanals  of  blood 
Round  France,  the  ghastly  vintage, 
stood 
Destruction's  sceptred  slaves,  and  Folly's 
mitred  brood  ! 
When  one,  like  them,  but  mightier  far 
than  they, 
The  Anarch  of  thine  own  bewildered 
powers, 
Rose;  armies  mingled  in  obscure  array. 
Like  clouds  with  clouds,  darkening  the 
sacred  bowers 
Of  serene  heaven.     He,  by  the  past  pur- 
sued. 
Rests  with  those  dead  but  unforgotten 

hours. 
Whose  ghosts  scare  victor  kings  in  their 
ancestral  towers. 


England  yet  sleeps:  was  she  not  called  of 
old? 
Spain  calls  her  now,  as  with  its  thrilling 
thunder 
Vesuvius  wakens  -S^tna,  and  the  cold 

Snow-crags   by  its  reply  are    cloven   in 
sunder; 
O'er  the  lit  waves  every  iEolian  isle 
From  Pithecusa  to  Pelorus 
Howls,    and     leaps,   and   glares    in 
chof'.is; 
They  cry,  Be    dim,  ye   lamps  of   heaven 
suspended  o'er  us  ! 
Her  chains  are  threads  of  gold,  she  need 
but  smile 


And  they  dissolve;  but  Spain's  were 
links  of  steel, 
Till  bit  to  dust  by  virtue's  keenest  file. 
Twins  of  a  single  destiny  !  appeal 
To  the  eternal  years  enthroned  before  us 
In  the  dim  West;  impress  us  from  a  seal, 
All  ye  have  thought  and  done  !     Time 
cannot  dare  conceal. 


Tomb  of  Arminius  !  render  up  thy  dead 
Till,  like  a  standard  from  a  watch-tower's 
staff. 
His  soul  may  stream  over  the  tyrant's  head; 

Thy  victory  shall  be  his  epitaph. 
Wild  Bacchanal  of  truth's  mysterious  wine, 
King-deluded  Germany, 
His  dead  spirit  lives  in  thee. 
Why  do  we  fear  or  hope  ?  thou  art  already 
free  ! 
And  thou,  lost  Paradise  of  this  divine 
And    glorious   world  !     thou    llowery 
wilderness  ! 
Thou  island  of  eternity  !  thou  shrine 
Where  desolation  clothed  with  loveli- 
ness 
Worships  the  thing  thou  wert  !     0  Italy, 
Gather  thy  blood  into  thy  heart;  repress 
The   beasts  who   make   their  dens   thy 
sacred  palaces. 


Oh,  that  the  free  would  stamp  the  impious 
name 
Of  King  into  the  dust !  or  write  it  there, 
So  that  this  blot  upon  the  page  of  fame 
Were  as  a  serpent's  path,  which  the  light 
air 
Erases,  and  the  flat  sands  close  behind  ! 
Ye  the  oracle  have  heard.. 
Lift  the  victory-flashing  sword, 
And  cut  the  snaky  knots  of  this  foul  gor- 
dian  word, 
Which,  weak   itself  as  stubble,  yet   can 
bind 
Into  a  mass,  irrefragably  firm, 
The  axes  and  the  rods  which  awe  man- 
kind ; 
The   sound   has  poison  in  it,  't  is  the 
sperm 
Of  what   makes   life  foul,  cankerous,  and 
abhorred ; 
Disdain  not  thou,  at  thine  appointed  term, 
To  set  thine  armM  heel  on  this  reluctant 
worm. 


386 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


XVI 

Oh,  that  the  wise  from  their  bright  minds 
would  kindle 
Such  lamps  within  the  dome  of  this  dim 
world, 
That  the  pale  name  of  Priest  might  shrink 
and  dwindle 
Into   the   hell   from   which  it  first  was 
hurled, 
A  scoff  of  impious  pride  from  fiends  im- 
pure ; 
Till  human  thoughts  might    kneel 

aloue, 
Each  before  the  judgment-throne 
Of  its  own  aweless  soul,  or  of  the  power 
unknown  ! 
Oh,   that    the   words   which  make    the 
thoughts  obscure 
From  which  they  spring,  as  clouds  of 
glimmering  dew 
From   a  white  lake  blot   heaven's   blue 
portraiture. 
Were  stripped  of  their  thin  masks  and 
various  hue 
And  frowns  and  smiles  and  splendors  not 
their  own, 
Till  in  the  nakedness  of  false  and  true 
They  stand  before  their  Lord,  each  to  re- 
ceive its  due. 

XVII 

He  who  taught  man  to  vanquish  whatsoever 
Can  be  between  the  cradle  and  the  grave 
Crowned  him  the   King  of  Life.     Oh,  vain 
endeavor ! 
If  on  his  own  high  will,  a  willing  slave. 
He  has  enthroned  the  oppression  and  the 
oppressor. 
What  if  earth  can  clothe  and  feed 
Amplest  millions  at  their  need, 
And  power  in  thought  be  as  the  tree  within 
the  seed  ? 
Oh,  what  if  Art,  an  ardent  intercessor, 
Driving   on   fiery    wings   to   Nature's 
throne, 
Checks  the  great  mother  stooping  to  ca- 
ress her 
And  cries:  '  Give  me,  thy  child,  domin- 
ion 
Over  all  lieight  and  depth?'  if  Life  can 
breed 
New  wants,  and  wealth  from  those  who 

toil  and  groan 
Rend  of  thy  gifts  and  hers  a  thousand- 
fold for  one. 


XVIII 

Come   thou,  but  lead   out  of  the  inmost 
cave 
Of  man's  deep  spirit,  as  the  morniug- 
star 
Beckons  the  sun  from  the  Eoan  wave, 
Wisdom.     I   hear    the   pennons   of   her 
car 
Self -moving,  like  cloud  charioted  by  flame ; 
Comes  she  not,  and  come  ye  not, 
Rulers  of  eternal  thought. 
To  judge  with  solemn  truth  life's  ill-appor- 
tioned lot  ? 
Blind  Love,  and   equal  Justice,  and  the 
Fame 
Of  what  has  been,  the  Hope  of  what 
will  be  ? 
O  Liberty  !  if  such  could  be  thy  name 
Wert  thou   disjoined   from  these,  or 
they  from  thee  — 
If    thine   or  theirs   were  treasures   to   be 
bought 
By  blood  or  tears,  have  not  the  wise  and 

free 
Wept  tears,  and  blood  like  tears  ?  —  The 
solemn  harmony 


Paused,  and  the  Spirit  of  that  mighty  sing- 
ing 
To  its  abyss  was  suddenly  withdrawn; 
Then  as  a  wild  swan,  when  sublimely  wing- 
ing 
Its  path  athwart  the  thunder-smoke  of 
dawn, 
Sinks  headlong  through  the  aerial  golden 
light 
On  the  heavy  sounding  plain, 
When    the    bolt    has    pierced    its 
brain; 
As  summer  clouds  dissolve  unburdened  of 
their  rain; 
As     a     far     taper    fades    with    fading 
night. 
As   a   brief    insect   dies  with    dying 
day,  — 
My  song,  its  pinions  disarrayed  of  might. 
Drooped ;  o'er  it  closed  the  echoes  far 
away 
Of  the  great  voice  which  did  its  flight  sus- 
tain, 
As  waves  which  lately  paved  his  watery 

way 
Hiss  round  a  drowner's  head  in  their 
tempestuous  play. 


POEMS  WRITTEN   IN    1820 


387 


TO   

Published     by    Mrs.   Shelley,   Posthumous 
Poems,  1824. 

I  FEAR  thy  kisses,  gentle  maiden, 
Thou  iieedest  not  fear  mine; 

My  spirit  is  too  deeply  laden 
Ever  to  burden  thine. 

I  fear  thy  mien,  thy  tones,  thy  motion, 
Thou  needast  not  fear  mine; 

Innocent  is  the  heart's  devotion 
With  which  I  worship  thine. 


ARETHUSA 

Composed  at  Pisa,  and  published  by  Mrs. 
Shelley,  Posthumous  Poems,  1824. 


Arethusa  arose 

From  her  couch  of  snows 

In  the  Acroceraunian  mountains, 
From  cloud  and  from  crag, 
With  many  a  jag, 

Shepherding  her  bright  fountains. 
She  leapt  down  the  rocks, 
With  her  rainbow  locks 

Streaming  among  the  streams; 

Her  steps  paved  with  green 
The  downward  ravine 

Which  slopes  to  the  western  gleams; 
And  gliding  and  springing, 
She  went,  ever  singing. 

In  murmurs  as  soft  as  sleep; 

The  Earth  seemed  to  love  her, 
And  Heaven  smiled  above  her, 

As  she  lingered  towards  the  deep. 


Then  Alpheus  bold, 

Ou  his  glacier  cold. 
With  his  trident  the  mountains  strook; 

And  opened  a  chasm 

In  the  rocks  —  with  the  spasm 
All  Erymanthus  shook. 

And  the  black  south  wind 

It  unsealed  behind 
The  urns  of  the  silent  snow, 

And  earthquake  and  thunder 

Did  rend  in  sunder 
The  bars  of  the  springs  below. 


The  beard  and  the  hair 
Of  the  River-god  were 

Seen  through  the  torrent's  sweep, 
As  he  followed  the  light 
Of  the  fleet  nymph's  flight 

To  the  brink  of  the  Dorian  deep. 


'Oh,  save  me  !  Oh,  guide  me, 
And  bid  the  deep  hide  me, 

For  he  grasps  me  now  by  the  hair  I ' 
The  loud  Ocean  heard, 
To  its  blue  depth  stirred. 

And  divided  at  her  prayer; 
And  under  the  water 
The  Earth's  white  daughter 

Fled  like  a  sunny  beam; 

Behind  her  descended 
Her  billows,  unblended 

With  the  brackish  Dorian  stream. 
Like  a  gloomy  stain 
On  the  emerald  main 

Alpheus  rushed  behind. 

As  an  eagle  pursuing 
A  dove  to  its  ruin 

Down  the  streams  of  the  cloudy  wind. 


Under  the  bowers 
Where  the  Ocean  Powers 

Sit  on  their  pearled  tlirones; 

Through  the  coral  woods 
Of  the  weltering  floods. 

Over  heaps  of  unvalued  stones; 
Through  the  dim  beams 
Which  amid  the  streams 

Weave  a  network  of  colored  lightj 
And  under  the  caves, 
Where  the  shadowy  waves 

Are  as  green  as  the  forest's  night; 
Outspeeding  the  shark. 
And  the  sword  fish  dark, 

Under  the  ocean  foam, 

And  up  through  the  rifts 
Of  the  mountain  clifts 

They  passed  to  their  Dorian  home. 


And  now  from  their  fountains 

In  Enna's  mountains, 
Down  one  vale  where  the  morning  baska 

Like  friends  once  parted 

Grown  single-hearted, 
They  ply  their  watery  tasks. 


388 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


At  sunrise  they  leap 
From  their  cradles  steep 

In  the  cave  of  the  shelving  hill; 
At  noontide  they  flow 
Through  the  woods  below 

And  the  meadows  of  asphodel; 
And  at  night  they  sleep 
In  the  rocking  deep 

Beneath  the  Ortygian  shore, 
Like  spirits  that  lie 
In  the  azure  sky 

When  they  love  but  live  no  more. 


SONG   OF   PROSERPINE 

WHILE   GATHERING    FLOWERS    ON    THE 
PLAIN   OF   ENNA 

Published  by  Mrs.  Shelley,  in  her  first  col- 
lected edition,  1839. 

Sacred  Goddess,  Mother  Earth, 
Thou  from  whose  immortal  bosom 

Gods,  and  men,  and  beasts  have  birth. 
Leaf  and  blade,  and  bud  and  blossom, 

Breathe  thine  influence  most  divine 

On  thine  own  child,  Proserpine. 

If  with  mists  of  evening  dew 

Thou  dost  nourish  these  young  flowers 
Till  they  grow,  in  scent  and  hue. 

Fairest  children  of  the  hours, 
Breathe  thine  influence  most  divine 
On  thine  own  child,  Proserpine. 


HYMN   OF   APOLLO 

This  and  the  following  poem  were  com- 
posed for  insertion  in  a  projected  drama  of 
Williams,  Midas.  It  was  published  by  Mrs. 
Shelley,  Posthumous  Poems,  1824. 


The  sleepless  Hours  who  watch  me  as  I 

lie, 
Curtained  with  star-inwoven  tapestries 
From  the  broad  moonlight  of  the  sky, 
Fanning  the  busy  dreams  from  my  dim 

eyes, 
Waken  me  when  their  Mother,  the  gray 

Dawn, 
Tells  them  that  dreama  and  that  the  moon 

is  gone. 


Then  I  arise,  and  climbing  Heaven's  blue 

dome, 
I  walk  over  the  mountains  and  the  waves, 
Leaving  my  robe  upon  the  ocean  foam; 
My  footsteps  pave  the  clouds  with  fire; 

the  caves 
Are  filled  with  my  bright  presence,  and  the 

air 
Leaves  the  green  earth  to  my  embi-aces 

bare. 

Ill 

The  sunbeams  are  my  shafts,  with  which  I 
kill 
Deceit,  that  loves  the  night  and  fears  the 
day; 
All  men  who  do  or  even  imagine  ill 

Fly  me,  and  from  the  glory  of  my  ray 
Good  minds  and  open  actions   take   new 

might. 
Until  diminished  by  the  reign  of  night. 

IV 

I  feed  the  clouds,  the  rainbows  and  the 

flowers 
With  their  ethereal  colors;  the  moon's 

globe 
And  the  pure  stars  in  their  eternal  bowers 
Are  cinctured  with  my  power  as  with  a 

robe; 
Whatever  lamps  on  Earth  or  Heaven  may 

shine 
Are  portions  of  one  power,  which  is  mine. 


I  stand  at  noon  upon  the  peak  of  Heaven, 
Then   with   unwilling    steps    I   wander 

down 
Into  the  clouds  of  the  Atlantic  even; 
For  grief  that  I  depart  they  weep  and 

frown. 
What   look    is  more   delightful   than   the 

smile 
With  which  I  soothe  them  from  the  western 

isle? 


I  am  the  eye  with  which  the  Universe 
Beholds  itself,  and  knows  itself  divine; 

All  harmony  of  instrument  or  verse. 
All  prophecy,  all  medicine  are  mine. 

All  light  of  Art  or  Nature;  —  to  my  song 

Victory  and   praise  in  its  own   right   be* 
long. 


POEMS   WRITTEN   IN    1820 


389 


HYMN  OF  PAN 

Published    by    Mrs.    Shelley,  Posthumous 
Poems,  1824. 


From  the  forests  and  highlands 

We  come,  we  come; 
From  the  river-girt  islands, 

Where  loud  waves  are  dumb 
Listening  to  my  sweet  pipings. 
The  wind  in  the  reeds  and  the  rushes, 

The  bees  on  the  bells  of  thyme, 
The  birds  on  the  myrtle  bushes. 
The  cicale  above  in  the  lime, 
And  the  lizards  below  in  the  grass, 
Were  as  silent  as  ever  old  Tmolus  was, 
Listening  my  sweet  pipings. 


Liquid  Peneus  was  flowing. 

And  all  dark  Tempe  lay 
In  Pelion's  shadow,  outgrowing 
The  light  of  the  dying  day. 
Speeded  by  my  sweet  pipings. 
The  Sileni,  and  Sylvans,  and  Fauns, 

And  the  Nymphs  of  the  woods  and  waves. 
To  the  edge  of  the  moist  river-lawns. 

And  the  brink  of  the  dewy  caves, 
And  all  that  did  then  attend  and  follow, 
Were  silent  with  love,  as  you  now,  Apollo, 
With  envy  of  my  sweet  pipings. 


I  sang  of  the  dancing  stars, 

1  sang  of  the  daedal  Earth, 
And  of  Heaven  —  and  the  giant  wars, 
And  Love,  and  Death,  and  Birth;  — 
And  then  I  changed  my  pipings. 
Singing  how  down  the  vale  of  Msenalus 

I  pursued  a  maiden  and  clasped  a  reed. 
Gods  and  men,  we  are  all  deluded  thus  ! 

It  breaks  in  our  bosom  and  then  we  bleed. 
All  wept,  as  I  think  both  ye  now  would 
If  envy  or  age  had  not  frozen  your  blood, 
At  the  sorrow  of  my  sweet  pipings. 

THE  QUESTION 

Published   by   Hunt,    The  Literary  Pocket- 
Book,  1822. 

I 
I  DREAMED  that,  as  I  wandered  by  the  way. 
Bare  winter  suddenly  was   changed  to 
spring. 


And  gentle  odors  led  ray  steps  astray. 

Mixed  with  a  sound  of  waters  murmuring 
Along  a  shelving  bank  of  turf,  which  lay 

Under  a  copse,  and  hardly  dared  to  fling 
Its  green  arms  round   the  bosom   of   the 

stream , 
But  kissed  it  and  then  fled,  as  thou  might- 
est  in  dream. 


There  grew  pied  wind-flowers  and  violets. 
Daisies,   those   pearled   Arcturi   of   the 
earth, 
The  constellated  flower  that  never  sets; 
Faint  oxlips;  tender  bluebells,  at  whose 
birth 
The  sod  scarce  heaved ;  and  that  tall  flower 
that  wets  — 
(Like   a  child,  half  in   tenderness  and 
mirth) 
Its   mother's   face  with  heaven  -  collected 

tears. 
When  the  low  wind,  its  playmate's  voice, 
it  hears. 


And  in  the  warm  hedge  grew  lush  eglan- 
tine. 
Green  cowbind  and  the  moonlight-colored 
May, 
And    cherry    blossoms,  and   white    cups, 
whose  wine 
Was  the  bright  dew  yet  drained  not  by 
the  day. 
And  wild  roses,  and  ivy  serpentine, 

With  its  dark  buds  and  leaves,  wander- 
ing astray; 
And  flowers   azure,   black,   and   streaked 

with  gold. 
Fairer  than  any  wakened  eyes  behold. 

IV 
And  nearer  to  the  river's  trembling  edge 
There    grew  broad   flag-flowers,  purple 
pranked  with  white; 
And  starry  river  buds  among  the  sedge; 
And     floating    water-lilies,    broad    and 
bright. 
Which  lit  the  oak  that  overhung  the  hedge 
With   moonlight    beams   of    their   own 
watery  light; 
And   bulrushes   and   reeds,  of   such  deep 

green 
As  soothed  the  dazzled   eye   with  sobef 
sheen. 


39° 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Methought  that  of  these  visionary  flowers 
I  made  a  nosegay,  bound  in  such  a  way 
That  the  same  hues,  which  in  their  natural 
bowers 
Were  mingled  or  opposed,  the  like  array 
Kept    these    imprisoned  children  of    the 
Hours 
Within  my  hand,  —  and  then,  elate  and 

gay. 

I  hastened  to  the  spot  whence  I  had  come. 
That  I  might  there  present  it  !  —  Oh,  to 
whom? 

THE   TWO    SPIRITS 
AN    ALLEGORY 

Pu1)Hsliefl     by    Mrs.   Shelley,     Posthumous 
Poems,  1824. 

FIRST   SPIKIT 

0  THOU,  who  plumed  with  strong  desire 
Wouldst  float  above  the  earth,  beware  ! 

A  Shadow  tracks  thy  flight  of  fire  — 

Night  is  coming  ! 
Bright  are  the  regions  of  the  air. 

And  among  the  winds  and  beams 
It  were  delight  to  wander  there  — 

Night  is  coming  I 

SECOND    SPIRIT 

The  deathless  stars  are  bright  above; 
If  I  would  cross  the  shade  of  night, 
Within  my  heart  is  the  lamp  of  love, 

And  that  is  day  ! 
And  the  moon  will  smile  with  gentle  light 
On   my  golden    plumes  where'er    they 
move; 
The  meteors  will  linger  round  my  flight, 
And  make  night  day. 

FIRST   SPIRIT 

But  if  the  whirlwinds  of  darkness  waken 
Hail,  and  lightning,  and  storniy  rain  ? 
See,  the  bounds  of  the  air  are  shaken  — 

Night  is  coming  ! 
The  red  swift  clouds  of  the  hurricane 
Yon  declining  sun  have  overtaken; 
The  clash  of    the  hail  sweeps  over  the 
plain  — 
Night  is  coming ! 

SECOND   SPIRIT 

1  see  the  light,  and  I  hear  the  sound ; 

I  '11  sail  on  the  flood  of  the  tempest  dark. 


With  the  calm  within  and  the  light  around 

Which  makes  night  day; 
And  thou,  when  the  gloom   is  deep   and 
stark. 
Look    from    thy    dull   earth,    slumber- 
bound; 
My  moon-like  flight  thou  then  mayst  mark 
On  high,  far  away. 


Some  say  there  is  a  precipice 

Where  one  vast  pine  is  frozen  to  ruin 
O'er  piles  of  snow  and  chasms  of  ice 

Mid  Alpine  mountains; 
And  that  the  languid  storm  pursuing 

That  winged  shape  forever  flies 
Round  those  hoar  branches,  aye  renewing 
Its  aery  fountains. 

Some  say  when  nights  are  dry  and  clear. 
And  the  death-dews  sleep  on   the  mo- 
rass. 
Sweet  whispers  are  heard   by  the  travel- 
ler, 
Which  make  night  day; 
And  a  silver  shape  like  his  early  love  doth 
pass, 
Upborne  by  her  wild  and  glittering  hair. 
And,   when   he   awakes    on  the    fragrant 
grass. 
He  finds  night  day. 


LETTER   TO   MARIA   GISBORNE 

This  letter  was  written  from  the  house  of 
Mrs.  Gisborne,  where  Shelley  had  turned  the 
workshop  of  her  son,  Mr.  lieveley,  an  engineer, 
into  a  study.  'Mi's.  Gisborne,'  writes  Mrs. 
Shelley,  '  had  been  a  friend  of  my  father  in  her 
younger  days.  She  was  a  lady  of  great  accom- 
plishments, and  charming  from  her  frank  and 
affectionate  nature.  She  had  the  most  intense 
love  of  knowledge,  a  delicate  and  trembling 
sensibility,  and  preserved  freshness  of  mind 
after  a  life  of  considerable  adversity.  As  a 
favorite  friend  of  my  father  we  had  sought  her 
with  eagerness,  and  the  most  open  and  cordial 
friendship  was  established  between  us.'  Shel- 
ley also  describes  her :  '  Mrs.  Gisborne  is  a  suffi- 
ciently amiable  and  very  accomplished  woman  ; 
[she  is  Sri/iOKpaTiKij  and  a6tr}  —  how  far  she 
may  be  (piXavdpwni]  I  don't  know,  for]  she  is 
the  antipodes  of  enthusiasm.' 

The  poem  was  published  by  Mrs.  Shelley, 
Posthumous  Poems,  182-4. 


POEMS   WRITTEN   IN    1820 


391 


Leghorn,  Jvdy  1.  1820. 
Tee  spider  spreads  her  webs  whether  she  be 
In  poet's  tower,  cellar,  or  barn,  or  tree; 
The  silkworm  in  the  dark  green  mulberry 

leaves 
His  winding  sheet  and  cradle  ever  weaves; 
So  I,  a  thing  whom  moralists  call  worm, 
Sit  spinning  still  round  this  decaying  form, 
From  the  fine  threads  of  rare  and  subtle 

thought  — 
No  net  of  words  in  garish  colors  wrought 
To  catch  the  idle  buzzers  of  the  day  — 
But  a  soft  cell,  where  when  that  fades  away 
Memory  may  clothe   in   wings  my  living 
name  n 

And  feed  it  with  the  asphodels  of  fame, 
Which  in  those  hearts  which  must  remem- 
ber me 
Grow,  making  love  an  immortality. 

Whoever  should  behold  me  now,  I  wist. 
Would  think  I  were  a  mighty  mechanist, 
Bent  with  sublime  Archimedean  art 
To  breathe  a  soul  into  the  iron  heart 
Of  some  machine  portentous,  or  strange  gin, 
Which  by  the  force  of  figured  spells  might 
win  20 

Its  way  over  the  sea,  and  sport  therein ; 
For  round  the  walls  are  hung  dread  engines, 

such 
As   Vulcan   never   wrought   for    Jove    to 

clutch 
Ixion  or  the  Titan,  —  or  the  quick 
Wit  of  that  man  of  God,  St.  Dominic, 
To  convince  Atheist,  Turk  or  Heretic, 
Or  those  in  philanthropic  council  met. 
Who  thought  to  pay  some  interest  for  the 

debt 
They  owed  to  Jesus  Christ  for  their  salva- 
tion. 
By  giving  a  faint  foretaste  of  damnation  30 
To  Shakespeare,  Sidney,  Spenser  and  the 

rest 
Who  made  our  land  an  island  of  the  blest. 
When  lamp-like  Spain,  who  now  relumes 

her  fire 
On  Freedom's  hearth,  grew  dim  with  Em- 
pire:— 
With  tluimbscrews,  wheels,  with  tooth  and 

spike  and  jag. 
Which  fishers  found  under  the  utmost  crag 
Of  Cornwall  and   the  storm-encompassed 

isles. 
Where   to   the   sky  the    rude  sea  rarely 
smiles 


Unless   in   treacherous   wrath,   as   on   the 

morn 
When  the  exulting  elements  in  scorn,        40 
Satiated  with  destroyed  destruction,  lay 
Sleeping  in  beauty  on  their  niangled  prey, 
As   panthers   sleep ;  —  aud    otbei'   strange 

and  dread 
Magical  forms  the  brick  floor  overspread  — 
Proteus  transformed  to  metal  did  not  make 
More  figures,  or  more  strange;  nor  did  he 

take 
Such  shapes  of  unintelligible  brass, 
Or  heap  himself  in  such  a  horrid  mass 
Of  tin  and  iron,  not  to  be  understood. 
And  forms  of  unimaginable  wood  50 

To  puzzle  Tubal  Cain  and  all  his  brood; 
Great   screws,  and  cones,  and  wheels,  aud 

grooved  blocks,  — 
The  elements  of  what  will  stand  the  shocks 
Of   wave  and  wind  and  time.     Upon  the 

table 
More  knacks  and  quips  there  be  than  I  am 

able 
To  catalogize  in  this  verse  of  mine  :  — 
A  pretty  bowl  of  wood  —  not  full  of  wine. 
But  qiiiclisilver;  that  dew  which  the  gnomes 

drink 
When  at  their  subterranean  toil  tliey  swink. 
Pledging  the  demons  of  the  earthquake, 

who  60 

Reply  to  them  in  lava  —  cry  halloo  ! 
And  call  out  to  the  cities  o'er  their  head,  — 
Roofs,  towers  and  shrines,  the  dying  and 

the  dead, 
Crash  through  the  chinks  of  earth  —  and 

then  all  quaff 
Another  rouse,  and  hold    their   sides   and 

laugh. 
This  quicksilver   no   gnome  has  drunk  — 

within 
The  walnut  bowl  it  lies,  veined  and  thin, 
In  color  like  the  wake  of  light  that  stains 
The   Tuscan   deep,   when   from   the  moist 

moon  rains 
The  inmost  shower  of  its  white  fire  —  the 

breeze  70 

Is  still  —  blue  heaven  smiles  over  the  pale 

seas. 
And  in  this  bowl  of  quicksilver  —  for  I 
Yield  to  the  impulse  of  an  infancy 
Outlasting  manhood  —  I  have  made  to  float 
A  rude  idealism  of  a  paper  boat,  — 
A  hollow   screw   with  cogs  —  Henry   will 

know 
The  thing  I  mean  and  laugh  at  me,  if  so 


392 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


He   fears  not  I  should  do  more  mischief. 

Next 
Lie  bills  and  calculations  much  perplexed, 
With  steamboats,  frigates,  and   machinery 
quaint  80 

Traced  over  them  in  blue  and  yellow  paint. 
Then  comes  a  range  of  mathematical 
Instruments,  for  plans  nautical  and  stati- 
cal; 
A  heap  of  rosin,  a  queer  broken  glass 
With  ink  in  it;  a  china  cup  that  was 
What  it  will  never  be  again,  I  think, 
A  thing  from  which  sweet  lips  were  wont 

to  drink 
The  liquor  doctors  rail  at  —  and  which  I 
Will  quaff  in  spite  of  them  —  and  when  we 

die 

We  '11  toss  up  who  died  first  of  drinking  tea. 

And  cry  out,  •  heads  or  tails  ? '  where'er  we 

be.  91 

Near  that   a  dusty  paint  box,  some  odd 

hooks, 
A  half-burnt  match,  an  ivory  block,  three 

books. 
Where  conic  sections,  spherics,  logarithms. 
To   great  Laplace   from    Saunderson   and 

Sims, 
Lie  heaped  in  their  harmonious  disarray 
Of  figures,  —  disentangle  them  who  may. 
Baron  de  Tott's  Memoirs  beside  them  lie. 
And  some  odd  volumes  of  old  chemistry. 
Near  those  a  most  inexplicable  thing,       100 
With  lead  in  the  middle  —  I  'm  conjectur- 
ing 
How  to  make  Henry  understand ;  but  no  — 
I  '11  leave,  as  Spenser  says,  with  many  mo. 
This  secret  in  the  pregnant  womb  of  time. 
Too  vast  a  matter  for  so  weak  a  rhyme. 

And  here  like  some  weird  Archimage 
sit  1, 
Plotting  dark  spells,  and  devilish  enginery, 
The   self-impelling    steam-wheels    of    the 

mind 
Which   pump   up   oaths  from  clergymen, 

and  grind 
The  gentle  spirit  of  our  meek  reviews     no 
Into  a  powdery  foam  of  salt  abuse. 
Ruffling  the  ocean  of  their  self-content; 
i  sit  —  and  smile  or  sigh  as  is  my  bent. 
But  not  for  them;  Libeccio  rushes  round 
With  an  inconstant  and  an  idle  sound  — 
I  heed  him  more  than  them;  the  thunder- 
smoke 
Is  gathering  on  the  mountains,  like  a  cloak 


Folded   athwart  their  shoulders  broad  and 

bare; 
The  ripe  corn  under  the  undulating  air 
Undulates  like  an  ocean;  and  the  vines    120 
Are   trembling   wide  in  all  their  trellised 

lines. 
The   murmur  of  the  awakening  sea  doth 

fill 
The  empty  pauses  of  the  blast;  the  hill 
Looks   hoary  through    the    white   electric 

rain. 
And  from  the  glens  beyond,  in  sullen  strain, 
Tlie  interrupted  thunder  howls;  above 
One  chasm  of  heaven  smiles,  like  the  eye 

of  Love 
On  the  unquiet  world;  —  while  such  things 

are. 
How  could  one  worth  your  friendship  heed 

the  war 
Of  worms  ?  the  shriek  of  the  world's  car- 
rion jays,  130 
Their  censure,  or  their  wonder,   or  their 

praise  ? 

You   are  not  here  !    the   quaint    witch 
Memory  sees 
In  vacant  chairs  your  absent  images, 
And  points  where  once  you  sat,  and  now 

should  be 
But  are  not.     I  demand  if  ever  we 
Shall  meet  as  then  we  met;  and  she  re- 
plies, 
Veiling  in  awe  her  second-sighted  eyes; 
*  I   know   the   past    alone  —  but    summon 

home 
My  sister   Hope,  —  she  speaks   of  all   to 

come.' 
But  I,  an  old  diviner,  who  knew  well       140 
Every  false  verse  of  that  sweet  oracle, 
Turned  to  the  sad  enchantress  once  again. 
And  sought  a  respite  from  my  gentle  pain. 
In  citing  every  passage  o'er  and  o'er 
Of  our  communion  —  how  on  the  seashore 
We  watched   the   ocean  and   the  sky  to- 
gether. 
Under  the  roof  of  blue  Italian  weather; 
How  I  ran  home  through   last  year's  thun- 
der-storm. 
And  felt   the  transverse   lightning  linger 
warm  149 

Upon  my  cheek;  and  how  we  often  made 
Feasts  for  each  other,  where  good-will  out- 
weighed 
The  frugal  luxury  of  our  country  cheer. 
As  well  it  might,  were  it  less  firm  and  clear 


POEMS  WRITTEN   IN    1820 


393 


Than   ours  must  ever  be;    and    how   we 

spun 
A  shroud  of  talk  to  hide  us  from  the  sun 
Of  this  familiar  life  which  seems  to  be 
But  is  not  —  or  is  but  quaint  mockery 
Of  all  we  would  believe  —  and  sadly  blame 
The  jarring  and  inexplicable  frame  159 

Of  this  wrong  world ;  and  then  anatomize 
The  purposes  and  thoughts  of  men  whose 

eyes 
Were  closed   in  distant  years;  or  widely 

guess 
The  issue  of  the  earth's  great  business, 
When  we  shall  be  as  we  no  longer  are,  — 
Like  babbling  gossips  safe,  who  hear  the 

war 
Of  winds,  and  sigh,  but  tremble  not;  —  or 

how 
You  listened  to  some  interrupted  flow 
Of  visionary  rhyme,  —  in  joy  and  pain 
Struck  from  the  inmost   fountains  of  my 

brain,  169 

With  little  skill  perhaps ;  or  how  we  sought 
Those  deepest  wells  of  passion  or  of  thought 
Wrought   by  wise  poets   in   the  waste  of 

years. 
Staining    their    sacred    waters   with    our 

tears,  — 
Quenching  a  thirst  ever  to  be  renewed. 
Or  how  I,  wisest  lady  !  then  indued 
The    language   of    a   land   which    now   is 

free, 
And,  winged  with  thoughts  of   truth  and 

majesty. 
Flits  round  the  tyrant's  sceptre  like  a  cloud. 
And  bursts  tlie  peopled  prisons,  and  cries 

aloud, 
*  My    name   is   Legion  ! '  —  that   majestic 

tongue  t8o 

Which  Calderon  over  the  desert  flung 
Of  ages  and  of  nations,  —  and  which  found 
An   echo   in   our   hearts,  —  and    with    the 

sound 
Startled  oblivion;  —  thou  wert  then  to  me 
As  is  a  nurse  —  when  inarticulately 
A  child  would  talk  as  its  grown  parents  do. 
If  living  winds  the  rapid  clouds  pursue, 
If  hawks  chase  doves  through  the  ethereal 

way, 
Huntsmen   the  innocent  deer,  and  beasts 

their  prey, 
Why  should  not  we  rouse  with  the  spirit's 

blast  190 

Out  of  the  forest  of  the  pathless  past 
These  recollected  pleasures  ? 


You  are  now 

In  London,  that  great  sea,  whose  ebb  and 
flow 

At  once  is  deaf  and  loud,  and  on  the  shore 

Vomits  its  wrecks,  and  still  howls  on  for 
more. 

Yet  in  its  depth  what  treasures  !  You  will 
see 

That  which  was  Godwin,  —  greater  none 
than  he 

Though  fallen  —  and  fallen  on  evil  times 
—  to  stand 

Among  the  spirits  of  our  age  and  land, 

Before  the  dread  tribunal  of  to  come        200 

The  foremost,  —  while  Rebuke  cowers  pale 
and  dumb. 

You  will  see  Coleridge  —  he  who  sits  ob- 
scure 

In  the  exceeding  lustre  and  the  pure 

Intense  irradiation  of  a  mind. 

Which,  with  its  own  internal  lightning 
blind. 

Flags  wearily  through  darkness  and  de- 
spair — 

A  cloud-encircled  meteor  of  the  air, 

A  hooded  eagle  among  blinking  owls. 

You  will  see  Hunt  —  one  of  those  happy 
souls 

Which  are  the  salt  of  the  earth,  and  with- 
out whom  210 

This  world  would  smell  like  what  it  is  —  a 
tomb ; 

Who  is  what  others  seem;  his  room  no 
doubt 

Is  still  adorned  by  many  a  cast  from  Shout, 

With  graceful  flowers  tastefully  placed 
about. 

And  coronals  of  bay  from  ribbons  hung. 

And  brighter  wreaths  in  neat  disorder 
flung,  — 

The  gifts  of  the  most  learned  among  some 
dozens 

Of  female  friends,  sisters-in-law  and  cous- 
ins. 

And  there  is  he  with  his  eternal  puns, 

Which  beat  the  dullest  brain  for  smiles, 
like  duns  220 

Thundering  for  money  at  a  poet's  door; 

Alas  !  it  is  no  use  to  say,  '  I  'm  poor  ! ' 

Or  oft  in  graver  mood,  when  he  will 
look 

Things  wiser  than  were  ever  read  in  book, 

Except  in  Shakespeare's  wisest  tender- 
ness. — 

You  will  see  Hogg,  —  and  I  cannot  express 


394 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


His  virtues,  —  though   I   know  that  they 

are  great, 
Because  he  locks,  then  barricades  the  gate 
Within  which  they  inhabit;  of  his  wit 
And  wisdom  you  '11  cry  out  when  you  are 

bit.  230 

He  is  a  pearl  within  an  oyster  shell, 
One  of  the  richest  of  the  deep.     And  there 
Is  English  Peacock,  with  his  mountain  fair, 
Turned  into  a  Flamingo,  —  that  shy  bird 
That  gleams  i'  the  Indian  air;  —  have  you 

not  heard 
When  a  man  marries,  dies,  or  turns  Hindoo, 
His  best  friends  hear  no  more  of  him  ?  — 

but  you 
Will  see  him,  and  will  like  him  too,  I  hope, 
With  the  milk-white  Snovvdonian  Antelope 
Matched  with    this    camelopard;   his  fine 

wit  240 

Makes  such  a  wound,  the  knife  is  lost  in 

it; 
A  strain  too  learned  for  a  shallow  age, 
Too  wise  for  selfish  bigots;  let  his  page 
Which  charms   the  chosen  spirits   of    the 

time. 
Fold  itself  up  for  the  serener  clime 
Of  years  to  come,  and  find  its  recompense 
In  that  just  expectation.     Wit  and  sense. 
Virtue   and   human   knowledge;    all   that 

might 
Make   this  dull   world   a  business  oJ   de- 
light, — 
Are  all  combined  in  Horace  Smith.     And 

these,  250 

With  some  exceptions,  which  I  need  not 

tease 
Your  patience  by  descanting  on,  are  all 
You  and  I  know  in  London. 

I  recall 
My  thoughts,  and  bid  you  look  upon  the 

night. 
As  water  does  a  sponge,  so  the  moonlight 
Fills  the  void,  hollow,  universal  air. 
What  see  you  ?  —  unpavilioned  heaven  is 

fair 
Whether  the  moon,  into  her  chamber  gone. 
Leaves  midnight  to  the  golden  stars,  or  wan 
Climbs  with  diminished  beams  the  azure 

steep ;  260 

Or  whether  clouds  sail   o'er  the  inverse 

deep, 
Piloted  by  the  many-wandering  blast, 
And  the  rare  stars  rush  through  them  dim 

and  fast: — 


All  this  is  beautiful  in  ever}'  land. 

But  what  see  you  beside  ?  —  a  shabby  stand 

Of   Hackney  coaches — a   brick   house  or 

wall 
Fencing  some  lonely  court,  white  with  the 

scrawl 
Of  our  unhappy  politics ;  or  worse  — 
A  wretched  woman  reeling  by,  whose  curse 
Mixed  with  the  watchman's,  partner  of  her 

trade,  270 

You  must  accept  in  place  of  serenade,  — 
Or  yellow-haired  Pollonia  murmuring 
To  Henry,  some  unutterable  thing. 
I  see  a  chaos  of  green  leaves  and  fruit 
Built  round  dark  caverns,  even  to  the  root 
Of   the  living  stems  that  feed  them  —  in 

whose  bowers 
There  sleep  in  their  dark  dew  the  folded 

flowers ; 
Beyond,  the  surface  of  the  unsickled  corn 
Trembles  not  in  the  slumbering  air,  and 

borne  279 

In  circles  quaint  and  ever  changing  dance, 
Like    winged   stars,  the  fireflies  flash  and 

glance, 
Pale  in  the  open  moonshine,  but  each  one 
Under  the  dark  trees  seems  a  little  sun, 
A  meteor  tamed,  a  fixed  star  gone  astray 
From  tiie  silver  regions  of  the  milky  way; 
Afar  the  Contadino's  song  is  heard. 
Rude,  but  made  sweet  by  distance  —  and  a 

bird 
Which  cannot  be  the  Nightingale,  and  yet 
I  knpw  none  else  that  sings  so  sweet  as 

it 
At  this  late  hour;  —  and  then  all  is  still.  — 
Now  Italy  or  London,  which  you  will  !    291 

Next  winter  you  must  pass  with  me;  I  '11 

have 
My  house  by  that  time  turned  into  a  grave 
Of  dead  despondence  and   low-thoughted 

care. 
And  all  the  dreams  which  our  tormentors 

are; 
Oh  I  that  Hunt,  Hogg,  Peacock  and  Smith 

were  there, 
With  every  thing  belonging  to  them  fair!  — 
We    will    have    books,    Spanish,    Italian, 

Greek; 
And  ask  one  week  to  make  another  week 
As  like  his  father,  as  I'm  unlike  mine,    300 
Which  is  not  his  fault,  as  you  may  divine. 
Though   we  eat  little  flesh  and  drink  no 

wine, 


POEMS   WRITTEN   IN   1820 


395 


Yet  let's  be   merry:  we'll  have  tea  and 

toast; 
Custards  for  supper,  and  an  endless  host 
Of  syllabubs  and  jellies  and  minee-pies, 
And  other  such  lady-like  luxuries,  — 
Feasting  on  which  we  will  philosophize  ! 
And   we  '11  have   fires   out  of  the   Grand 

Duke's  wood. 
To  thaw  the  six  weeks'  winter  in  our  blood. 
And  then  we  '11  talk;  —  what  shall  we  talk 

about?  310 

Oh  !  there  are  themes  enough  for  many  a 

bout 
Of    thought-entangled    descant; — as    to 

nerves  — 
With  cones  and  parallelograms  and  curves 
I  've  sworn   to  strangle   them  if  once  they 

dare 
To   bother   me  —  when  you  are  with   me 

there. 
And  they  shall  never  more  sip  laudanum. 
From  Helicon  or  Himeros;  —  well,  come, 
And  in  despite  of  God  and  of  the  devil. 
We  '11  make  our  friendly  philosophic  revel 
Outlast   the   leafless   time;   till   buds   and 

flowers  320 

Warn  the  obscure  inevitable  hours 
Sweet  meeting  by  sad  parting  to  renew;  — 
'  To-morrow  to   fresh  woods  and  pastures 

new.' 

ODE   TO   NAPLES 

The  revolutionary  uprisings  of  this  year  af- 
fected Shelley  as  powerfully  as  the  Manchester 
Riot  of  1819,  and  this  poem  is  the  fruit  of  that 
fleeting  renascence  of  political  hope  so  often 
illustrated  in  his  verse.  He  composed  it  at  the 
Baths  of  San  Ginliano,  August  17-25,  and  it 
was  published  by  Mrs.  Shelley,  Posthumous 
Poems,  1824.  Shelley  added  a  note  to  the 
poem,  as  follows  :  '  The  author  has  connected 
many  recollections  of  his  visit  to  Pompeii 
and  Baiae  with  the  enthusiasm  excited  by  the 
intelligence  of  the  proclamation  of  a  Constitu- 
tional Government  at  Naples.  This  has  given 
a  tinge  of  picturesque  and  descriptive  imagery 
to  the  introductory  Epodes  which  depicture 
these  scenes,  and  some  of  the  majestic  feelings 
permanently  connected  with  the  scene  of  the 
animating  event.' 

EPODB   I   a 

1  STOOD  within  the  city  disinterred ; 

And  heard    the    autumnal    leaves  like 
light  footfalls 


Of  spirits  passing  through  the  streets;  and 
heard 
The    Mountain's   slumberous    voice    at 
intervals 
Thrill  through  those  roofless  halls; 
The  oracular  thunder  penetrating  shook 
The    listening    soul    in    my    suspended 
blood ; 
I  felt  that  Earth  out  of  her  deep  heart 
spoke  — 
I   felt,  but  heard  not.     Through    white 
columns  glowed 
The  isle-sustaining  Ocean-flood,  lo 

A  plane  of  light  between  two  Heavens  of 
azure: 
Around  me  gleamed  many  a  bright  sep- 
ulchre 
Of  whose  pure  beauty.  Time,  as  if  his  plea- 
sure 
Were  to  spare  Death,  had  never  made 
erasure ; 
But  every  living  lineament  was  clear 
As   in    the    sculptor's    thought;    and 
there 
The    wreaths    of    stony   myrtle,   ivy  and 
pine, 
Like  winter  leaves  o'ergrown  by  moulded 

snow. 
Seemed  only  not  to  move  and  grow 

Because  the  crystal  silence  of  the  air  20 
Weighed  on  their  life;  even  as  the  Power 

divine, 
Wliich  then  lulled  all  things,  brooded 
upon  mine. 

EPODE  n  a 
Then  gentle  winds  arose, 
With  many  a  mingled  close 
Of  wild  iEolian  sound  and  mountain  odor 
keen; 
And  where  the  Baian  ocean 
Welters  with  air-like  motion, 
Within,  above,  around  its  bowers  of  starry 
green. 
Moving  the  sea-flowers  in  those  purple 
caves,  29 

Even  as  the  ever  stormless  atmosphere 
Floats  o'er  the  Elysian  realm. 
It  bore  me,  like  an  angel,  o'er  the  waves 
Of  sunlight,   whose  swift  pinnace    of 
dewy  air 
No  storm  can  overwhelm. 
I  sailed  where  ever  flows 
Under  the  calm  Serene 
A  spirit  of  deep  emotion 


396 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


From  the  unknown  graves 
Of  the  dead  kings  of  Melody. 
Shadowy  Aornus  darkened  o'er  the  helm  40 
The    horizontal    ether ;     heaven    stripped 

bare 
Its  depths  over  Elysiura,  where  the  prow 
Made  the  invisible  water  white  as  snow; 
From  that  Typhaean  mount,  Inarimd, 
There  streamed  a  suubright  vapor,  like 
the  standard 
Of  some  ethereal  host; 
Whilst  from  all  the  coast, 
Louder  and    louder,    gathering    round, 
there  wandered 
Over  the  oracular  woods  and  divine  sea 
Prophesyiugs  which  grew  articulate  —      50 
They  seize  me  —  I  must  speak  them  —  be 
they  fate  ! 

STROPHE  a  1 

Naples,  thou   Heart  of   men,  which  ever 
pante'^t 
Naked,  beneath  the  lidless  eye  of  hea- 
ven ! 
Elysian  City,  which  to  calm  enchantest 
The  mutinous  air  and  sea !  they  round 

thee,  even 
As  sleep  round  Love,  are  driven  ! 
Metropolis  of  a  ruined  Paradise 

Long  lost,  late  won,  and  yet  but  half  re- 
gained ! 
Bright  Altar  of  the  bloodless  sacrifice, 
Which    armfed   Victory    offers    up    un- 
stained 60 
To  Love,  the  flower-enchained  ! 
Thou  which  wert  once,  and  then  didst  cease 

to  be. 
Now  art,  and  henceforth   ever   shalt  be, 
free, 
If   Hope,   and   Truth,  and   Justice  can 
avail,  — 

Hail,  hail,  all  hail ! 

STROPHE  $  2 
Thou  youngest  giant  birth. 
Which  from  the  groaning  earth 
Leap'st,  clothed  in  armor  of  impenetrable 
scale  ! 
Last  of  the  intercessors 
Who   'gainst   the   Crowned   Trans- 
gressors 70 
Pleadest  before  God's  love  I     Arrayed  in 
Wisdom's  mail, 
Wave  thy  lightning  lance  in  mirth. 
Nor  let  thy  high  heart  fail, 


Though    from    their    hundred    gates    the 
leagued  Oppressors, 
With  hurried  legions  move  ! 
Hail,  hail,  all  hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE    a  1 

What  though  Cimmerian  anarchs  dare  blas- 
pheme 
Freedom  and  thee  ?  thy  shield  is  as  a 
mirror 
To  make  their  blind  slaves  see,  and  with 
fierce  gleam 
To   turn   his    hungry   sword    upon   the 
wearer;  So 

A  new  Actseon's  error 
Shall  theirs  have  been  —  devoured  by  their 
own  hounds  ! 
Be  thou  like  the  imperial  Basilisk, 
Killing  thy  foe  with  unapparent  wounds  ! 
Gaze  on  oppression,   till,  at  that  dread 

risk 
Aghast,    she     pass     from    the    Earth's 
disk; 
Fear  not,  but  gaze  —  for  freemen  mightier 

grow. 
And  slaves  more  feeble,  gazing  on  their 
foe. 
If  Hope,  and  Truth,  and  Justice  may 

avail. 
Thou  shalt  be  great.  —  All  hail  I  90 

ANTISTROPHE   /3  2 

From  Freedom's  form  divine, 
From  Nature's  inmost  shrine. 
Strip  every  impious  gaud,  rend  Error  veil 
by  veil; 
O'er  Ruin  desolate. 
O'er  Falsehood's  fallen  state. 
Sit  thou  sublime,  unawed ;  be  the  Destroyer 
pale  t 
And  equal  laws  be  thine. 
And  winged  words  let  sail, 
Freighted  with  truth  even  from  the  throne 
of  God; 
That  wealth,  surviving  fate,  loo 

Be  thine.  —  All  hail  ! 

AKTISTROPHE   a  y 

Didst  thou  not  start  to  hear  Spain's  thrill- 
ing psean 
From  land  to  land  reechoed  solemnly, 
Till  silence    became    music  ?     From    the 
^sean 
To  the  cold  Alps,  eternal  Italy 
Starts  to  hear  thine  !     The  Sea 


POEMS   WRITTEN  IN   1820 


397 


Which  paves  the  desert  streets  of  Venice 
laughs 
In  light  and    music ;    widowed   Genoa 
wan 
By  moonlight  spells  ancestral  epitaphs, 
Murmuring,  Where  j.s  Doria  ?  Fair  Milan, 
Within  whose  veins  long  ran  m 

The  viper's  palsying  venom,  lifts  her  heel 
To  bruise  his  head.     The  signal  and  the 
seal 
(If  Hope,  and  Truth,  and  Justice  can 

avail) 
Art  thou  of  all  these  hopes.  —  O  hail ! 

ANTISTBOPHE    j8  7 

Florence  !  beneath  the  sun, 
Of  cities  fairest  one, 
Blushes  within  her  bower  for  Freedom's 
expectation 
From  eyes  of  quenchless  hope 
Rome  tears  the  priestly  cope,        120 
As  ruling  once  by  power,  so  now  by  ad- 
miration, — 
An  athlete  stripped  to  run 
•     From  a  remoter  station 
For    the    high    prize    lost    on    Philippi's 
shore  :  — 
As  then  Hope,  Truth,  and  Justice  did 

avail. 
So  now  may  Fraud  and  Wrong  !     O 
hail  I 

EPODE   I  iS 

Hear  ye  the  march  as  of  the  Earth-bom 
Forms 
Arrayed  against  the  ever-living  Gods  ? 
The    crash  and   darkness   of  a   thousand 
storms 
Bursting  their  inaccessible  abodes        130 
Of  crags  and  thunder-clouds  ? 
See  ye  the  banners  blazoned  to  the  day, 
Inwrought   with   emblems    of    barbaric 
pride  ? 
Dissonant  threats  kill  Silence  far  away. 
The   serene   Heaven  which   wraps    our 
Eden  wide 
With  iron  light  is  dyed, 
The  Anarchs  of  the  North  lead  forth  their 
legions 
Like  Chaos  o'er  creation,  uncreat- 
ing; 
An  hundred  tribes  nourished  on  strange  re- 
ligions 
And  lawless  slaveries,  —  down  the   aerial 
regions  140 


Of  the  white  Alps,  desolating. 
Famished  wolves  that  bide  no  wait- 
ing, 
Blotting  the  glowing  footsteps  of  old  glory. 
Trampling  our  columned  cities  into  dust, 
Their  dull  and  savage  lust 
On  Beauty's   corse  to   sickness    satiat- 
ing— 
They  come  !     The  fields  they  tread  look 

black  and  hoary 
With  fire  —  from  their  red  feet  the  streams 
run  gory ! 

EPODE  II  j3 
Great  Spirit,  deepest  Love  ! 
Which  rulest  and  dost  move  150 

All  things  which  live  and  are,  within  the 
Italian  shore; 
Who  spreadest  heaven  around  it. 
Whose   woods,   rocks,   waves,   sur- 
round it; 
Who  sittest  in  thy  star,  o'er  Ocean's  west- 
ern floor; 
Spirit  of    beauty !  at  whose   soft  com- 
mand 
The  sunbeams  and  the  showers  distil  its 
foison 
From  the  Earth's  bosom  chill ; 
Oh,  bid  those  beams  be  each  a  blinding 
brand 
Of  lightning  !  bid  those  showers  be  dews  of 
poison  ! 
Bid  the  Earth's  plenty  kill  !  160 

Bid  thy  bright  Heaven  above. 
Whilst  light  and  darkness  bound  it, 
Be  their  tomb  who  planned 
To  make  it  ours  and  thine  ! 
Or  with  thine  harmonizing  ardors  fill 
And  raise  thy  sons,  as  o'er  the  prone  hori- 
zon 
Thy  lamp  feeds  every  twilight  wave  with 

fire  ! 
Be   man's  high  hope   and  unextinct    de- 
sire 
The  instrument  to  work  thy  will  divine  ! 
Then  clouds   from  sunbeams,  antelopes 
from  leopards,  170 

And  frowns  and  fears  from  Thee, 
Would  not  more  swiftly  flee. 
Than  Celtic  wolves  from  the  Ausonian 
shepherds.  — 
Whatever,   Spirit,    from    thy    starry 

shrine 
Thou  yieldest  or  withholdest,  oh,  let  be 
This  aity  of  thy  worship,  ever  free  I 


398 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


AUTUMN 


A  DIRGE 


Published    by    Mrs.     Shelley,    Posthumous 
Poems,  1824. 

The  warm  sun  is  failing,  the  bleak  wind  is 

wailing, 
The  bare    boughs   are   sighing,   the   pale 
flowers  are  dying, 

And  the  j'ear 
On  the  earth,  her  death-bed,  in  a  shroud  of 
leaves  dead. 

Is  lying. 
Come,  ^lonths,  come  away, 
From  November  to  May, 
In  your  saddest  array; 
Follow  the  bier 
Of  the  dead  cold  year. 
And  like  dim  shadows  watch  by  her  sepul- 
chre. 

The  chill  rain  is  falling,  the  nipped  worm 

is  crawling, 
The   rivers   are  swelling,  the   thunder   is 
knelling 

For  the  year; 
The  blithe  swallows  are  flown,  and  the  liz- 
ards each  gone 

To  his  dwelling; 
Come,  Months,  come  away. 
Put  on  white,  black,  and  gray; 
Let  your  light  sisters  play  — 
Ye,  follow  the  bier 
Of  the  dead  cold  year. 
And  make  her  grave  green  with  tear  on 
tear. 

DEATH 

Published    by    Mrs.    Shelley,    Posthumous 
Poems,  1824. 


Death  is  here,  and  death  is  there, 
Death  is  busy  everywhere. 
All  around,  within,  beneath, 
Above,  is  death  —  and  we  are  death. 

II 
Death  has  set  his  mark  and  seal 
On  all  we  are  and  all  we  feel, 
On  all  we  know  and  all  we  fear, 


First  our  pleasures  die  —  and  then 
Our  hopes,  and  then  our  fears  —  and  when 
These  are  dead,  the  debt  is  due. 
Dust  claims  dust  —  and  we  die  too. 


All  things  that  we  love  and  cherish. 
Like  ourselves,  must  fade  and  perish; 
Such  is  our  rude  mortal  lot  — 
Love  itself  would,  did  they  not. 

LIBERTY 

Published    by    Mrs.    Shelley,    Posthumous 
Poems,  1824. 

I 
The  fiery  mountains  answer  each  other. 
Their  thunderings  are  echoed  from  zone  to 

zone; 
The  tempestuous  oceans  awake  one  another, 
And  the  ice-rocks  are  shaken  round  Win- 
ter's throne. 
When   the   clarion  of    the   Typhoon   is 
blown. 

II 
From  a  single  cloud  the  lightning  flashes, 
Whilst  a    thousand    isles    are    illumined 

around ; 
Earthquake  is  trampling  one  city  to  ashes, 
An  hundred  are  shuddering  and  tottering; 
the  sound 
Is  bellowing  underground. 

Ill 

But  keener  thy  gaze  than  the  lightning's 

glare. 
And  swifter  thy  step  than  the  earthquake's 

tramp ; 
Thou  deafenest  the  rage  of  the  ocean;  thy 

stare 
Makes    blind    the    volcanoes;     the    suu's 

bright  lamp 
To  thine  is  a  fen-fire  damp. 


From  billow  and  mountain  and  exhalation 
The  sunlight  is  darted  through  vapor  and 

blast; 
From  spirit  to  spirit,  from  nation  to  nation, 
From  city  to  hamlet,  thy  dawning  is  cast,  — 
And  tyrants  and  slaves  are  like  shadows  of 

night 
In  the  van  of  the  morning  light. 


POEMS   WRITTEN   IN   1820 


399 


SUMMER  AND  WINTER 

Published  by  Mrs.  Shelley,  The  Keepsake, 

1829. 

It  was  a  bright  and  cheerful  afternoon 
Towards  the  end  of  the  sunny  month  of 

June, 
When  the  north  wind  congregates  in  crowds 
The  floating  aiountaius  of  the  silver  clouds 
From  the  horizon  —  and  the  stainless  sky 
Opens  beyond  them  like  aternity. 
All  things  rejoiced  beneath  the  sun;   the 

weeds, 
The    river,   and    the    cornfields,  and   the 

reeds; 
The  willow  leaves  that  glanced  in  the  light 

breeze. 
And  the  firm  foliage  of  the  larger  trees. 

It  was  a  winter  such  as  when  birds  die 
In  the  deep  forests;  and  the  fishes  lie 
Stiffened    in   the    translucent    ice,   wliich 

makes 
Even  the  mud  and  slime  of  the  warm  lakes 
A  wrinkled   clod  as   hard  as  brick;   and 

when 
Among  their  children  comfortable  men 
Gather    about    great   fires,  and   yet   feel 

cold: 
Alas,  then,  for  the  homeless  beggar  old  ! 


THE    TOWER   OF   FAMINE 

Published  by  Mrs.   Shelley,  The  Keepsake, 

1829. 

Amid  the  desolation  of  a  city, 

Which  was  the  cradle  and  is  now  the  grave 

Of  an  extinguished  people,  —  so  that  pity 

Weeps   o'er  the   shipwrecks  of  oblivion's 

wave, 
There  stands  the  Tower  of   Famine.     It  is 

built 
Upon   some  prison-homes,  whose  dwellers 

rave 

For  bread,  and  gold,  and  blood ;  pain,  linked 

to  guilt. 
Agitates  the  light  flame  of  their  hours. 
Until  its  vital  oil  is  spent  or  spilt. 

There  stands  the  pile,  a  tower  amid  the 

towers 


And  sacred  domes,  —  each  marble-ribbfed 

roof. 
The  brazen-gated  temples  and  the  bowers 

Of  solitary  wealth;  the  tempest-proof 
Pavilions  of  the  dark  Italian  air 
Are  by  its  presence  dimmed  —  they  stand 
aloof. 

And  are  withdrawn  —  so  that  the  world  is 
bare; 

As  if  a  spectre,  wrapped  in  shapeless  ter- 
ror, 

Amid  a  company  of  ladies  fair 

Should  glide   and  glow,  till  it  became  a 

mirror 
Of  all  their  beauty,  —  and  their  hair  and 

hue, 
The   life  of   their  sweet  eyes,  with  all  its 

error, 
Should   be   absorbed,   till   they  to  marble 

grew. 


AN  ALLEGORY 

Published    by    Mrs.    Shelley,    Posthumous 
Poems,  1824. 


A  PORTAL  as  of  shadowy  adamant 

Stands  yawning  on  the  highway  of  the 

life 
Wliich   we  all   tread,  a  cavern  huge   and 

gaunt; 
Around  it  rages  an  unceasing  strife 
Of  shadows,  like   the  restless  clouds  that 

haunt 
The   gap   of   some   cleft  mountain,   lifted 

high 
Into  the  whirlwinds  of  the  upper  sky. 

II 

And  many  pass  it  by  with  careless  tread, 

Not  knowing  that  a  shadowy  .  .   . 
Tracks   every  traveler  even  to  where  the 
dead 
Wait  peacefully    for    their  companion 
new; 
But  others,  by  more  curious  humor  led, 

Pause  to  examine;  these  are  very  few. 
And  they  learn  little  there,  except  to  know 
That  shadows  follow  them  where'er  they 
go- 


2100 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


THE   WORLD'S   WANDERERS 


Published     by 
Poems,  1824. 


Mrs.    Shelley,    Posthumous 


Tell  me,  thou  star,  whose  wings  of  light 
(Speed  thee  in  thy  fiery  flight, 
lu  what  cavern  of  the  night 

Will  thy  pinions  close  now  ? 


Tell  me,  moon,  thou  pale  and  gray 
Pilgrim  of  heaven's  homeless  way, 
In  what  depth  of  night  or  day 
Seekest  thou  repose  now  ? 


Weary  wind,  who  wanderest 
Like  the  world's  rejected  guest, 
Hast  thou  still  some  secret  nest 
On  the  tree  or  billow  ? 


SONNET 

Published  by  Hunt,   The  Literary  Pocket- 
Book,  1824. 

Ye  hasten   to  the  grave  !    What  seek  ye 

there, 
Ye  restless  thoughts  and  busy  purposes 
Of  the  idle  brain,  which  the  world's  livery 

wear  ? 
O  thou  quick  heart,  which  pantest  to  pos- 
sess 
All  that  pale  expectation  feigneth  fair  ! 
Thou  vainly  curious  mind  which  wouldest 

guess 
Whence  thou  didst  come,  and  whither  thou 

must  go, 
And  all  that  never  yet   was  known  would 

know,  — 
Oh,    whither    hasten    ye,    that    thus    ye 

press 
With  such  swift  feet  life's  green  and  plea^ 

sant  path. 
Seeking  alike  from  happiness  and  woe 
A  refuge  in  tlie  cavern  of  gray  death  ? 
O   heart,  and   mind,  and   thoughts  I  what 

thing  do  yon 
Hope  to  inherit  iu  the  grave  below  ? 


LINES   TO   A   REVIEWER 

Published  by  Hunt,     The   Litaary   Pocket- 
Book,  1823. 

Alas  !  good  friend,  what  profit  can  you  see 
In  hating  such  a  hateless  thing  as  me  ? 
There  is  no  sport  in  hate  when  all  the  rage 
Is  on  one  side.     In  vain  would  you  assuage 
Your  frowns  upon  an  unresisting  smile, 
In  which  not  even  contempt  lurks  to  beguile 
Your  heart  by  some  faint  sympathy  of  hate. 
Oh,  conquer  what  you  cannot  satiate  ! 
For  to  your  passion  I  am  far  more  coy 
Than  ever  yet  was  coldest  maid  or  boy 
In  winter  noon.     Of  your  antipathy 
If  I  am  the  Narcissus,  you  are  free 
To  pine  into  a  sound  with  hating  me. 


TIME    LONG    PAST 
Published  by  Rossetti,  1870. 


Like  the  ghost  of  a  dear  friend  dead 

Is  Time  long  past. 
A  tone  which  is  now  forever  fled, 
A  hope  which  is  now  forever  past, 
A  love  so  sweet  it  could  not  last, 

Was  Time  long  past. 


There  were  sweet  dreams  in  the  night 

Of  Time  long  past. 
And,  was  it  sadness  or  delight, 
Each  day  a  shadow  onward  cast 
Which  made  us  wish  it  yet  might  last  • 

That  Time  long  past. 


There  is  re^et,  almost  remorse, 

For  Time  long  past. 
'T  is  like  a  child's  beloved  corse 
A  father  watches,  till  at  last 
Beauty  is  like  remembrance  cast 
From  Time  long  past. 


BUONA   NOTTE 

Published  by  Medwin,  The  Angler  in  Wales, 
1834. 

Medwin  writes  in  hij  Life  of  Shelley :  '  I 
often  asked  Shelley  if  he  had  never  attempted 
to  write,  like  Matthias,  in   Italian,   and  he 


POEMS   WRITTEN   IN    1821 


401 


showed  me  a  sort  of  serenade  -which  I  give  as  a 
curiosity, — but  proving  that  he  had  not  made 
a  profound  study  of  the  language,  which,  like 
Spanish,  he  had  acquired  without  a  grammar, 
—  trusting  to  his  fine  ear  and  memory,  rather 
than  to  rules.' 


'  BuoNA  notte,  buona  notte  ! '  —  Come  mai 
La  notte  sark  buona  senza  te  ? 

Non  dirmi  buona  notte,  —  chfe  tu  sai, 
La  notte  sk  star  buona  da  per  sb. 

II 
Solinga,  scura,  cupa,  senza  speme, 

La  notte  quando  Lilla  m'abbandona; 
Pei  cuori  clii  si  batton  insieme 

Ogni  notte,  senza  dirla,  sark  buona. 

Ill 

Come  male  buona  notte  si  suona 
Con  sospiri  e  parole  iuterrotte  !  — 

II  modo  di  aver  la  notte  buona 
E  mai  non  di  dir  la  buona  notte. 


GOOD-NIGHT 


Published  by  Hunt,    The  Literary  Pocket 
Book,  1822. 


Good-night  ?  ah,  no  !  the  hour  is  ill 
Which  severs  those  it  should  unite; 

Let  us  remain  together  still, 
Then  it  will  be  good  night. 


How  can  I  call  the  lone  night  good, 

Though  thy  sweet  wishes  wing  its  flight  ? 

Be  it  not  said,  thought,  understood, 
Then  it  will  be  good  night. 

Ill 

To  hearts  which  near  each  other  move 
From  evening  close  to  morning  light, 

The  night  is  good;  because,  my  love, 
They  never  say  good-night. 


POEMS  WRITTEN   IN   182 1 


Mrs.  Shelley  gives,  as  usual,  the  general  scene 
and  atmosphere  of  the  year,  which  was  spent 
at  Pisa  or  the  Baths  of  San  Giuliano :  '  We 
were  not,  as  our  wont  had  been,  alone  —  friends 
had  gathered  round  us.  Nearly  all  are  dead ; 
and  when  memory  recurs  to  the  past,  she 
wanders  among  tombs :  the  genius  with  all  his 
blighting  errors  and  mighty  powers  ;  the  com- 
panion of  Shelley's  ocean-wanderings,  and  the 
sharer  of  his  fate,  than  whom  no  tnan  ever 
existed  more  gentle,  generous,  and  fearless ; 
and  others,  who  found  in  Shelley's  society,  and 
in  his  great  knowledge  and  warm  sympathy, 
delight,  instruction  and  solace,  have  joined  him 
beyond  the  grave.  .  .  . 

'  Shelley's  favorite  taste  was  boating ;  when 
living  near  the  Tliames,  or  by  the  lake  of 
Geneva,  much  of  his  life  was  spent  on  the 
water.  On  the  shore  of  every  lake,  or  stream, 
or  sea,  near  which  he  dwelt,  he  had  a  boat 
moored.  He  had  latterly  enjoyed  this  pleasure 
again.  There  are  no  pleasure-boats  on  the 
Arno,  and  the  shallowness  of  its  waters,  ex- 
cept in  winter  time,  when  the  stream  is  too 
turbid  and  impetuous  for  boating,  rendered  it 
difficult  to  get  any  skiff  light  enough  to  float. 
Shelley,  however,  overcame  the  difficulty ;  he, 
together  with  a  friend,  contrived  a  boat  such 
as  the  huntsmen  carry  about  with  them  in  the 
Maremma,   to    cross   the    sluggish  but   deep 


streams  that  intersect  the  forests,  a  boat  of 
laths  and  pitched  canvas;  it  held  three  per- 
sons, and  he  was  often  seen  on  the  Arno  in  it, 
to  the  horror  of  the  Italians,  who  remonstrated 
on  the  danger,  and  could  not  understand  how 
any  one  could  take  pleasure  in  an  exercise  that 
risked  life.  "Ma  va  per  la  vita!"  they  ex- 
claimed. I  little  thought  how  true  their  words 
would  prove.  He  once  ventured  with  a  friend 
[Williams],  on  the  glassy  sea  of  a  calm  day, 
down  the  Arno  and  round  the  coast,  to  Leg- 
horn, which  by  keeping  close  in  shore  was  very 
practicable.  They  returned  to  Pisa  by  the 
canal,  when,  missing  the  direct  cut,  they  got 
entangled  among  weeds,  and  the  boat  upset ; 
a  wetting  was  all  the  harm  done  except  that 
the  intense  cold  of  his  drenched  clothes  made 
Shelley  faint.  Once  I  went  down  .with  him  to 
the  mouth  of  the  Arno,  where  the  stream,  then 
high  and  swift,  met  the  tideless  sea  and  dis- 
turbed its  sluggisli  waters  ;  it  was  a  waste  and 
dreary  scene  ;  the  desert  sand  stretched  into  a 
point  surrounded  by  waves  that  broke  idly 
though  perpetually  aroimd ;  it  was  a  scene 
very  similar  to  Lido,  of  which  he  had  said,  — 
'  "  I  love  all  waste 
And  solitary  places,  where  we  taste 
The  pleasure  of  believing  what  we  see 
Is  botHidless,  as  we  wish  our  souls  to  be; 
And  such  was  this  wide  ocean,  and  this  shore 
More  barren  than  its  billows." 


402 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


'  Our  little  boat  was  of  greater  use,  unac- 
companied by  any  danger,  when  we  removed 
to  the  baths.  Some  friends  [the  Williamses] 
lived  at  zhe  village  of  Pugnano,  four  miles  off, 
and  we  went  to  and  fro  to  see  them,  in  our  boat, 
by  the  canal,  which,  fed  by  the  Serchio,  was. 
though  an  artihcial,  a  full  and  picturesque 
■^tream,  making  its  way  under  verdant  banks, 
«heltered  by  trees  that  dipped  their  boughs 
into  the  murmuring  waters.  By  day,  multi- 
tudes of  ephemera  darted  to  and  fro  on  the 
surface  ;  at  night,  the  fireflies  came  out  among 
the  shrubs  on  the  banks ;  the  cicale  at  noonday 
kept  up  their  hum ;  the  aziola  cooed  in  the 
quiet  evening.  It  was  a  pleasant  summer, 
bright  in  all  but  Shelley's  health  and  inconstant 
spirits ;  yet  he  enjoyed  himself  greatly,  and 
became  more  and  more  attached  to  the  part  of 
the  country  where  chance  appeared  to  cast  us. 
Sometimes  he  projected  taking  a  farm,  situated 
on  the  height  of  one  of  the  near  hills,  sur- 
rounded by  chestnut  and  pine  woods,  and  over- 
looking a  wide  extent  of  country  ;  or  of  settling 
still  further  in  the  maritime  Apennines,  at 
Massa  Several  of  his  slighter  and  unfinished 
poems  were  inspired  by  these  scenes,  and  by 
the  companions  around  us.  It  is  the  nature  of 
that  poetry,  however,  which  overflows  from  the 


soul,  oftener  to  express  sorrow  and  regret  than 
joy  ;  for  it  is  when  oppressed  by  the  weight  of 
life,  and  away  from  those  he  loves  th?.t  the  poei 
has  recourse  to  the  sclace  of  expression  in  verse. 
'  Still  Shelley's  passion  was  the  ocean  ;  and 
he  wished  that  our  summers,  instead  of  being 
passed  among  the  hills  near  Pisa,  should  be 
spent  on  the  shores  of  the  sea.  It  was  very 
difficult  to  find  a  spot.  We  shrank  from  Na- 
ples from  a  fear  that  the  heats  would  disagree 
with  Percy ;  Leghorn  had  lost  its  only  attrac- 
tion, since  our  friends  who  had  resided  there 
were  returned  to  England ;  and  Monte  Nero 
being  the  resort  of  many  English,  we  did  not 
wish  to  find  ourselves  in  the  midst  of  a  colony 
of  chance  travellers.  No  one  then  thought  it 
possible  to  reside  at  Viareggio,  which  latterly 
has  become  a  summer  resort.  The  low  lands 
and  bad  air  of  Maremma  stretch  the  whole 
length  of  the  western  shores  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean, till  broken  by  the  rocks  and  hills  of 
Spezia.  It  was  a  vague  idea ;  but  Shelley  sug- 
gested an  excursion  to  Spezia,  to  see  whether 
it  would  be  feasible  to  spend  a  summer  there. 
The  beauty  of  the  bay  enchanted  him  —  we 
saw  no  house  to  suit  us  —  but  the  notion  took 
root,  and  many  circumstances,  enchained  as  by 
fatality,  occurred  to  urge  him  to  execute  it.' 


DIRGE  FOR  THE  YEAR 

Composed  January  1,  and  published  by  Mrs. 
Shelley,  Posthumous  Poems,  1824. 


Orphan  hours,  the  year  is  dead, 
Come  and  sigh,  come  and  weep  ! 

Merry  hours,  smile  instead, 
For  the  year  is  but  asleep. 

See,  it  smiles  as  it  is  sleeping. 

Mocking  your  untimely  weeping. 


As  an  earthquake  rocks  a  corse 

In  its  coffin  in  the  clay, 
So  White  Winter,  that  rough  nurse, 

Rocks  the  death-cold  year  to-day; 
Solemn  hours  !  wail  aloud 
For  your  mother  in  her  shroud. 

Ill 

As  the  wild  air  stirs  and  sways 
The  tree-swung  cradle  of  a  child, 

So  the  breath  of  these  rude  days 

Rocks  the  year:  —  be  calm  and  mild, 

Trembling  hours;  she  will  arise 

With  new  love  within  her  eyes. 


IV 

January  gray  is  here. 

Like  a  sexton  by  her  grave; 

February  bears  the  bier, 

March  with  grief  doth  howl  and  rave, 

And  April  weeps  —  but,  O  ye  hours  ! 

Follow  with  May's  fairest  flowers. 

TIME 

Published    by    Mrs.    Shelley,    Posthumous 
Poems,  182i. 

Unfathomable   Sea !    whose   waves  are 
years, 
Ocean  of  Time,  whose  waters  of  deep  woe 
Are  brackish  with  the  salt  of  human  tears  ! 
Thou  shoreless  flood,  which  in  thy  ebb 
and  flow 
Claspest  the  limits  of  mortality. 

And  sick  of   prey,  yet   howling  on  for 
more, 
Vomitest   thy  wrecks  on   its   inhospitable 
shore ; 
Treacherous    in  calm,  and    terrible  in 
storm. 
Who  shall  pnt  forth  on  thee. 
Unfathomable  Sea  ? 


POEMS   WRITTEN   IN   1821 


403 


FROM  THE  ARABIC 

AN   IMITATION 

Published    by    Mrs.    Shelley,    Posthumous 
Poems,  1824. 


My  faint  spirit  was  sitting  in  the  light 
Of  thy  looks,  my  love; 
It  panted  for  thee  like  the  hind  at  noon 
For  the  brooks,  my  love. 
Thy  barb,  whose  hoofs  outspeed  the  tem- 
pest's flight, 
Bore  thee  far  from  me; 
My  heart,  for  my  weak  feet  were  weary 
soon, 
Did  companion  thee. 


Ah  !  fleeter  far  than  fleetest  storm  or  steed, 
Or  the  death  they  bear, 
The  heart  which  tender  thought  clothes 
like  a  dove 
With  the  wings  of  care; 
In  the  battle,  in  the  darkness,  in  the  need, 
Shall  mine  cling  to  thee. 
Nor  claim  one  smile  for  all  the  comfort, 
love. 
It  may  bring  to  thee. 

SONG 

Published    by    Mrs.    Shelley,    Posthumous 
Poems,  1824. 


Rarely,  rarely,  comest  thou, 

Spirit  of  Delight ! 
Wherefore  hast  thou  left  me  now 

Many  a  day  and  night  ? 
Many  a  weary  night  and  day 
'T  is  since  thou  art  fled  away. 


How  shall  ever  one  like  me 
Win  thee  back  again  ? 

With  the  joyous  and  the  free 
Thou  wilt  scoff  at  pain. 

Spirit  false  !  thou  hast  forgot 

All  but  those  who  need  thee  not. 

Ill 

As  a  lizard  with  the  shade 
Of  a  trembling  leaf- 


Thou  with  sorrow  art  dismayed; 

Even  the  sighs  of  grief 
Reproach  thee,  that  thou  art  not  near, 
And  reproach  thou  wilt  not  hear. 

IV 

Let  me  set  my  mournful  ditty 

To  a  merry  measure; 
Thou  wilt  never  come  for  pity. 

Thou  wilt  come  for  pleasure; 
Pity  then  will  cut  away 
Those  cruel  wings,  and  thou  wilt  stay. 


I  love  all  that  thou  lovest, 

Spirit  of  Delight ! 
The  fresh  Earth  in  new  leaves  dressed, 

And  the  starry  night; 
Autumn  evening,  and  the  mom 
When  the  golden  mists  are  bom. 

VI 

I  love  snow,  and  all  the  forms 

Of  the  radiant  frost; 
I  love  waves,  and  winds,  and  storms, 

Everything  almost 
Which  is  Nature's,  and  may  be 
Untainted  by  man's  misery. 

VII 

I  love  tranquil  solitude, 

And  such  society 
As  is  quiet,  wise,  and  good; 

Between  thee  and  me 
What  difference  ?  but  thou  dost  possess 
The  things  I  seek,  not  love  them  less. 


I  love  Love  —  though  he  has  wings, 

And  like  light  can  flee. 
But  above  all  other  things. 

Spirit,  I  love  thee. 
Thou  art  love  and  life  !     Oh,  come, 
Make  once  more  my  heart  thy  home. 

TO    NIGHT 

Published    by    Mrs.    Shelley,    Posthumous 
Poems,  1824. 

I 
Swiftly  walk  o'er  the  western  wave. 

Spirit  of  Night  ! 
Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave, 
Where  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight 


404 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear, 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear,  — 
Swift  be  thy  flight ! 


Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray, 

Star-inwrought ! 
Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day; 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out; 
Then  wander  o'er  city,  and  sea,  and  land, 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand  — 

Come,  long-sought  t 


When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

1  sighed  for  thee; 
When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew   was 

gone, 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree. 
And  the  w^eary  Day  turned  to  his  rest, 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 
I  sighed  for  thee. 

IV 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 

Wouldst  thou  me  ? 
Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 
Murmured  like  a  noontide  bee, 
Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side  ? 
Wouldst  thou  me  ?  —  and  I  replied. 

No,  not  thee  ! 


Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  soon; 
Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled; 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night,  — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 

Come  soon,  soon  I 

TO 

Published    by    Mrs.    Shelley,    Posthumous 
Poems,  1824. 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die, 
Vibrates  in  the  memory; 
Odors,  when  sweet  violets  sicken. 
Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken. 

Rose  leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead, 
Are  heaped  for  the  beloved's  bed ; 
And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  thou  art  gone. 
Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 


Published    by 

Poems,  1824. 


TO 

Mrs.  Shelley,     Posthumoui 


When  passion's  trance  is  overpast, 
If  tenderness  and  truth  could  last, 
Or  live,  whilst  all  wild  feelings  keep 
Some  mortal  slumber,  dark  and  deep, 
I  should  not  weep,  I  should  not  weep  ! 


It  were  enough  to  feel,  to  see 

Thy  soft  eyes  gazing  tenderly, 

And  dream  the  rest  —  and  burn  and  be 

The  secret  food  of  fires  unseen, 

Couldst  thou  but  be  as  thou  hast  been. 


After  the  slumber  of  the  year 
The  woodland  violets  reappear; 
All  things  revive  in  field  or  grove, 
And  sky  and  sea,  but  two,  which  move 
And  form  all  others,  life  and  love. 


MUTABILITY 

Published    by    Mrs.    Shelley,    Posthumous 
Poems,  1824. 


The  flower  that  smiles  to-day 

To-morrow  dies; 
All  that  we  wish  to  stay, 

Tempts  and  then  flies. 
What  is  this  world's  delight? 
Lightning  that  mocks  the  night, 
Brief  even  as  bright. 


Virtue,  how  frail  it  is  ! 

Friendship  how  rare  ! 
Love,  how  it  sells  poor  bliss 

For  proud  despair  ! 
But  we,  though  soon  they  fall, 
Survive  their  joy  and  all 
Which  ours  we  call. 


Whilst  skies  are  blue  and  bright, 
Whilst  flowers  are  gay, 

Whilst  eyes  that  change  ere  night 
Make  glad  the  day, 


POEMS  WRITTEN   IN   182 1 


405 


Whilst  yet  the  calm  hours  creep, 
Dream  thou  —  and  from  thy  sleep 
Then  wake  to  weep. 

LINES 

Published    by    Mrs.    Shelley,  Posthumous 
Poems,  1824. 

I 

Far,  far  away,  O  ye 
Halcyons  of  Memory, 
Seek  some  far  calmer  nest 
Than  this  abandoned  breast  ! 
No  news  of  your  false  spring 
To  my  heart's  winter  bring; 
Once  having  gone,  in  vain 
Ye  come  again. 


Vultures,  who  build  your  bowers 
High  in  the  Future's  towers. 
Withered  hopes  on  hopes  are  spread  I 
Dying  joys,  choked  by  the  dead, 
Will  serve  your  beaks  for  prey 
Many  a  day. 

THE  FUGITIVES 

Published     by    Mrs.    Shelley,     Posthumous 
Poems,  1824, 

I 
The  waters  are  flashing, 
The  white  hail  is  dashing, 
The  lightnings  are  glancing, 
The  hoar-spray  is  dancing  — 
Away  ! 

The  whirlwind  is  rolling, 
The  thunder  is  tolling, 
The  forest  is  swinging, 
The  minster  bells  ringing  — 
Come  away  ! 

The  Earth  is  like  Ocean, 
Wreck-strewn  and  in  motion; 
Bird,  beast,  man  and  worm 
Have  crept  out  of  the  storm  — 
Come  away  ! 


■  Our  boat  has  one  sail. 
And  the  helmsman  is  pale ; 


A  bold  pilot  I  trow. 
Who  should  follow  us  now,'  —    ' 
Shouted  he; 

And  she  cried,  '  Ply  the  oar; 
Put  off  gayly  from  shore  ! '  — 
As  she  spoke,  bolts  of  death 
Mixed  with  hail  specked  their  path 
O'er  the  sea. 

And  from  isle,  tower  and  rock, 
The  blue  beacon  cloud  broke 
And  though  dumb  in  the  blast, 
The  red  cannon  flashed  fast 
From  the  lee. 

HI 

And  fear'st  thou,  and  fear'st  thou  ? 
And  see'st  thou,  and  hear'st  thou  ? 
And  drive  we  not  free 
O'er  the  terrible  sea, 
I  and  thou  ?  ' 

One  boat-cloak  did  cover 
The  loved  and  the  lover; 
Their  blood  beats  one  measure. 
They  murmur  proud  pleasure 
Soft  and  low; 

While  around  the*  lashed  Ocean, 
Like  mountains  in  motion, 
Is  withdrawn  and  uplifted. 
Sunk,  shattered  and  shifted 
To  and  fro. 


In  the  court  of  the  fortress 
Beside  the  pale  portress. 
Like  a  bloodhound  well  beaten 
The  bridegroom  stands,  eaten 
By  shame; 

On  the  topmost  watch-turret, 
As  a  death-boding  spirit, 
Stands  the  gray  tyrant  father; 
To  his  voice  the  mad  weather 
Seems  tame; 

And  with  curses  as  wild 
As  e'er  clung  to  child. 
He  devotes  to  the  blast 
The  best,  loveliest,  and  last 
Of  his  name ! 


4o6 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


LINES 

linUTTEN  ON  HEARING  THE  NEWS  OF  THE 
DEATH    OF   NAPOLEON 

Published  with  Hellas,  1821. 

What  !  alive  and  so  bold,  O  Earth  ? 
Art  thou  not  over-bold  ? 
What  !  leapest  thou  forth  as  of  old 
In  the  light  of  thy  morning  mirth, 
The  last  of  the  flock  of  the  starry  fold  ? 
Ha  !  leapest  thou  forth  as  of  old  ? 
Are  not  the  limbs  still  when  the  ghost  is  fled, 
And  canst  thou  move,  Napoleon  being  dead  ? 

How  !  is  not  thy  quick  heart  cold  ? 
What  spark  is  alive  on  thy  hearth? 
How  !  is  not  Jus  death-knell  knoUed  ? 
And  livest  thou  still.  Mother  Earth  ? 
Thou  wert  warming  thy  fingers  old 
O'er  the  embers  covered  and  cold 
Of  that  most  fiery  spirit,  when  it  fled; 
What,  Mother,  do  you  laugh  now  he  is  dead? 

•Who  has   known  me   of   old,'  replied 
Earth, 

*  Or  who  has  my  story  told  ? 
It  is  thou  who  art  over-bold.' 

And  the  lightning. of  scorn  laughed  forth 
As  she  sung,  '  To  my  bosom  I  fold 
All  my  sons  when  their  knell  is  knolled. 
And  so  with  living  motion  all  are  fed, 
And  the  quick  spring  like  weeds  out  of  the 
dead. 

*  Still  alive  and  still  bold,'  shouted  Earth, 

*  I  grow  bolder,  and  still  more  bold. 
The  dead  fill  me  ten  thousand-fold 

Fuller  of  speed,  and  splendor,  and  mirth. 

I  was  cloudy,  and  sullen,  and  cold, 

Like  a  frozen  chaos  uproUed, 
Till  by  the  spirit  of  the  mighty  dead 
My  heart  grew  warm.   I  feed  on  whom  I  fed. 

•Ay,  alive  and  still  bold,'  muttered  Earth, 

*  Napoleon's  fierce  spirit  rolled, 
In  terror,  and  blood,  and  gold, 

A  torrent  of  ruin  to  death  from  his  birth. 
Leave  the  millions  who  follow  to  mould 
The  metal  before  it  be  cold; 
And  weave  into  his  shame,  which  like  the 

dead 
Shrouds  me,  the  hopes  that  from  his  glory 
fled.' 


SONNET 

POLITICAL  GREATNESS 

Published  by  Mrs.  Shelley,  Posthumous 
Poems,  1824. 

Nor  happiness,  nor  majesty,  nor  fame, 
Nor  peace,  nor  strength,  nor  skill  in  arms 

or  arts. 
Shepherd  those  herds  whom  tyranny  makes 

tame ; 
Verse  echoes  not  one  beating  of  their  hearts. 
History  is  but  the  shadow  of  tlieir  shame, 
Art  veils  her  glass,  or  from  the   pageant 

starts 
As  to  oblivion  their  blind  millions  fleet. 
Staining  that  Heaven  with  obscene  imagery 
Of  their  own  likeness.    What  are  numbers 

knit 
By  force  or  custom?  Man  who  man  would  be 
Must  rule  the  empire  of  himself;  in  it 
Must  be  supreme,  establishing  his  throne 
On  vanquished  will,  quelling  the  anarchy 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  being  himself  alone. 

A  BRIDAL  SONG 

The  poem  was  coniposed  for  insertion  in  a 
projected  play  of  Williams,  The  Promise,  or  a 
Year,  a  Month,  and  a  Day.  Published  by 
Mrs.  Shelley,  Posthumous  Poems,  1824. 


The  golden  gates  of  sleep  unbar 

Where   strength   and    beauty,   met  to- 
gether. 
Kindle  tlieir  image  like  a  star 
In  a  sea  of  glassy  weather  ! 
Niglit,  with  all  thy  stars  look  down; 

Darkness,  weep  thy  holiest  dew; 
Never  smiled  the  inconstant  moon 

On  a  pair  so  true. 
Jjp.t  eyes  not  see  their  own  delight;  — 
Haste,  swift  hour,  and  thy  flight 
Oft  renew. 


Fairies,  sprites,  and  angels,  keep  her  I 

Holy  stars,  permit  no  wrong  ! 
And  return  to  wake  the  sleeper. 

Dawn,  —  ere  it  be  long. 
O  joy  !  O  fear!  what  will  be  done 
In  the  absence  of  tlie  sun! 
Come  along  1 


POEMS   WRITTEN   IN    182 1 


407 


EPITHALAMIUM 
Published  by  Medwin,  Life  of  Shelley,  1847. 

Night,  with  all  thine  eyes  look  down  ! 

Darkness,  shed  its  holiest  dew  ! 
When  ever  smiled  the  inconstant  moon 

On  a  pair  so  true  ? 
Hence,  coy  hour  !  and  quench  thy  light, 
Lest  eyes  see  their  own  delight! 
Hence,  swift  hour  !  and  thy  loved  flight 
Oft  renew. 


O  joy  !  O  fear  !  what  may  be  done 
In  the  absence  of  the  sun  ? 

Come  along ! 

The  golden  gates  of  sleep  unbar  ! 

When  strength  and  beauty  meet  together, 
Kindles  their  image  like  a  star 

In  a  sea  of  glassy  weather. 
Hence,  coy  hour  !  and  quench  thy  light, 
Lest  eyes  see  their  own  delight ! 
Hence,  swift  hour  !  and  thy  loved  flight 
Oft  renew. 


O  joy  !    O  fear  !  what  may  be  done 
In  the  absence  of  the  sun  ? 

Come  along  ! 
Fairies  !  sprites  !  and  angels  keep  her  ! 

Holiest  powers,  permit  no  wrong  ! 
And  return,  to  wake  the  sleeper, 

Dawn,  ere  it  be  long. 
Hence,  swift  hour  !  and  quench  thy  light, 
Lest  eyes  see  their  own  delight  ! 
Hence,  coy  hour  !  and  thy  loved  flight 
Oft  renew. 

BOYS  AND  GIBLS 

O  joy  !  O  fear  !  what  will  be  done 
In  the  absence  of  the  sun  ? 

Come  along ! 

ANOTHER   VERSION 
Published  by  Rosaetti,  1870. 

BOYS  SING 

Night  !  with  all  thine  eyes  look  down  I 
Darkness  !   weep  thy  holiest  dew  ! 

Never  smiled  the  inconstant  moon 
On  a  pair  so  true. 


Haste,  coy  hour  !  and  quench  all  light, 
Lest  eyes  see  their  own  delight  ! 
Haste,  swift  hour  !  and  thy  loved  flight 
Oft  renew ! 

GIBLS  Bvsa 
Fairies,  sprites,  and  angels,  keep  her  ! 

Holy  stars  !  permit  no  wrong  ! 
And  return  to  wake  the  sleeper. 

Dawn,  ere  it  be  long  ! 
O  joy  !  O  fear  !  there  is  not  one 
Of  us  can  guess  what  may  be  done 
In  the  absence  of  the  sun:  — 
Come  alons: ! 


Oh,  linger  long,  thou  euvions  eastern  lamp 
In  the  damp 

Caves  of  the  deep  ! 

GIBLS 

Nay,  return.  Vesper  !  urge  thy  lazy  car  ! 
Swift  unbar 

Tlie  gates  of  Sleep  ! 


The  golden  gate  of  Sleep  unbar. 

When    Strength    and    Beauty,  met    to- 
gether. 
Kindle  their  image,  like  a  star 

In  a  sea  of  glassy  weather. 
May  the  purple  mist  of  love 
Round  them  rise,  and  with  them  move. 
Nourishing  each  tender  gem 
AVhich,  like  flowers,  will  burst  from  them. 
As  the  fruit  is  to  the  tree 
May  their  children  ever  be  ! 

EVENING 

PONTE  AL   MARE,   PISA 

Published     by    Mrs.    Shelley,    Posthumous 
Poems,  1824. 


The  sun  is  set;  the  swallows  are  asleep; 

The  bats  are  flitting  fast  in  the  gray  air; 
The  slow   soft   toads  out  of  damp  corners 
creep. 
And   evening's   breath,  wandering  here 
and  there 
Over  the  quivering  surface  of  the  stream. 
Wakes  not   one   ripple    from  its  summer 
dream. 


4o8 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


There  is  no  dew  on  the  dry  grass  to-night, 
Nor  damp   within  the  shadow  of    the 

trees ; 
The  wind  is  intermitting,  dry,  and  light ; 
And    in    the  inconstant  motion   of  the 

breeze 
The  dust  and  straws  are  driven  up  and 

down. 
And  whirled  about    the  pavement  of  the 

town. 

in 

Within  the  surface  of  the  fleeting  river 
The  wrinkled  image  of  the  city  lay, 

Immovably  unquiet,  and  forever 

It  trembles,  but  it  uever  fades  away; 

Go  to  the 

Tou,  being  changed,  will  find  it  then  as 
now. 

IV 
The  chasm  in  which  the  sun  has  sunk  is 
shut 
By  darkest  barriers  of  enormous  cloud, 
Like  mountain   over  mountain  huddled  — 
but 
Growing     and    moving   upwards     in    a 
crowd, 
And  over  it  a  space  of  watery  blue, 
Which   the  keeu  evening  star   is  shining 
through. 


THE   AZIOLA 


Published  by  Mrs.  Shelley,  The  Keepsake, 
1829. 


'  Do  yon  not  hear  the  Aziola  cry  ? 
Methinks  she  must  be  nigh,' 
Said  Mary,  as  we  sate 
In  dusk,  ere    stars   were   lit,   or  candles 
brought; 
And  I,  who  thought 
This  Aziola  was  some  tedious  woman. 

Asked,  '  Who  is  Aziola  ?  '     How  elate 
I  felt  to  know  that  it  was  nothing  human, 
No  mockery  of  myself  to  fear  or  hate  ! 
And  Mary  saw  my  soul, 
And  laughed,  and  said,  '  Disquiet  yourself 
not, 
'T  is  nothing  but  a  little  downy  owl.' 


Sad  Aziola  !  many  an  eventide 

Thy  music  I  had  heard 
By  wood  and  stream,  meadow  and  monn- 
tain-side. 

And  fields  and  marshes  wide,  — 
Such  as  nor  voice,  nor  lute,  nor  wind,  nor 
bird. 

The  soul  ever  stirred ; 
Uulike  aud  far  sweeter  than  them  all. 
Sad  Aziola  !  from  that  moment  I 

Loved  thee  and  thy  sad  cry. 


Published    by 
Poems,  1824. 


TO 


Mrs.    Shelley,    Posthumous 


One  word  is  too  often  profaned 

For  me  to  profane  it, 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdained 

For  thee  to  disdain  it; 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  prudence  to  smother, 
And  pity  from  thee  more  dear 

Than  that  from  another. 

II 

I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love, 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above 

And  the  Heavens  reject  not,  — 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow  ? 


REMEMBRANCE 

Shelley  sent  these  lines  enclosed  in  a  letter 
to  Mrs.  Williams  :  '  Dear  Jane,  —  If  this  mel- 
ancholy old  song  suits  any  of  your  tunes,  or 
any  that  hunujr  of  the  moment  may  dictate, 
you  are  welcome  to  it.  Do  not  say  it  is  mine 
to  any  one,  even  if  you  think  so  ;  indeed,  it  is 
from  the  torn  leaf  of  a  book  out  of  date.  How 
are  you  to-day,  and  how  is  Williams  ?  Tell 
him  that  I  dreamed  of  nothing'  but  sailing 
and  fishing  up  coral.  Your  ever  affectionate 
P.  B.  S.'  It  was  publislied  by  Mrs.  Shelley, 
Posthumous  Poems,  18i'4. 


POEMS   WRITTEN   IN   182 1 


409 


Swifter  far  than  summer's  flight, 
Swifter  far  than  youth's  delight, 
Swifter  far  than  happy  night, 

Art  thou  come  and  gone. 
As  the  wood  when  leaves  are  shed. 
As  the  night  when  sleep  is  fled, 
As  the  heart  when  joy  is  dead, 

I  am  left  lone,  alone. 


The  swallow  summer  comes  again, 
The  owlet  night  resumes  his  reign, 
But  the  wild  swan  youth  is  fain 

To  fly  with  thee,  false  as  thou. 
My  heart  each  day  desires  the  morrow; 
Sleep  itself  is  turned  to  sorrow; 
Vainly  would  my  winter  borrow 

Sunny  leaves  from  any  bough. 

Ill 

Lilies  for  a  bridal  bed, 
Roses  for  a  matron's  head, 
Violets  for  a  maiden  dead  — 

Pansies  let  my  flowers  be; 
On  the  living  grave  I  bear, 
Scatter  them  without  a  tear  — 
Let  no  friend,  however  dear, 

Waste  one  hope,  one  fear  for  me. 


TO   EDWARD   WILLIAMS 
Published  by  Ascham,  1834. 


The  serpent  is  shut  out  from  paradise. 
The  wounded  deer  must  seek  the  herb 
no  more 
In  which  its  heart-cure  lies; 
The  widowed  dove  must  cease  to  haunt 
a  bower. 
Like    that    from    which    its    mate     with 
feigned  sighs 
Fled  in  the  April  hour. 
I,  too,  must  seldom  seek  again 
Near  happy  friends  a  mitigated  pain. 


Of  hatred  I  am  proud,  —  with  scorn  con- 
tent; 
Indifference,  that  once  hurt  me,  now  is 
grown 
Itself  indifferent; 
But,  not  to  sptak  of  love,  pity  alone 


Can    break   a  spirit    already  more    than 
bent. 
The  miserable  one 
Turns  the  mind's  poison  into  food,  — 
Its  medicine  is  tears,  —  its  evil  good. 

Ill 
Therefore  if  now  I  see  you  seldomer. 
Dear  friends,  dear  friend!  know  that  I 
only  fly 
Your  looks,  because  they  stir 
Griefs  that  should  sleep,  and  hopes  that 
cannot  die. 
The  very  comfort  that  they  minister 
I  scarce  can  bear;  yet  I, 
So  deeply  is  the  arrow  gone. 
Should    quickly   perish  if    it   were   with- 
drawn. 

IV 

When  I  return  to  my  cold    home,  you 
ask 
Why  I  am  not  as  I  have  ever  been. 

You  spoil  me  for  the  task 
Of  acting  a  forced  part  in  life's  dull 
scene, 
Of  wearing  on  my  brow  the  idle  mask 
Of  author,  great  or  mean, 
In  the  world's  carnival.     I  sought 
Peace   thus,  and  but   in  you   I   found  it 
not. 


Full  half  an  hour,  to-day,  I  tried  my  lot 
With  various  flowers,  and  every  one  still 
said, 
'  She  loves  me  —  loves  me  not.' 
And   if   this  meant  a  vision  long  since 
fled  — 
If  it   meant  fortune,  fame,  or  peace   of 
thought  — 
If  it  meant,  —  but  I  dread 
To  speak  what  you  may  know  too  well: 
Still  there  was  truth  in  the  sad  oracle. 

VI 

The  crane  o'er  seas  and  forests  seeks  her 
home; 
No  bird  so  wild  but  has  its  quiet  nest, 

When  it  no  more  would  roam; 
The    sleepless    billows  on    the   ocean's 
breast 
Break  like  a  bursting  heart,  and  die   in 
foam. 
And  thus  at  length  find  rest: 


41  o 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Doubtless  there  is  a  place  of  peace 
Where  my  weak  heart  and  all  its  throbs 
will  cease. 


VII 

I  asked  her,  yesterday,  if  she  believed 
That  I  had  resolution.     One  who  had 

Would  ne'er  have  thus  relieved 
His   heart  with  words,  —  but  what   his 
judgment  bade 
Would  do,  and   leave   the   scorner  unre- 
lieved. 
These  verses  are  too  sad 
To  send  to  you,  but  that  I  know, 
Happy  yourself,  you  feel  another's  woe. 


TO-MORROW 

Published    by    Mrs.    Shelley,    Posthumous 
Poems,  1824. 

Where  art  thou,  belovfed  To-morrow  ? 

When  young  and   old,  and   strong  and 
weak, 
Rich  and  poor,  through  joy  and  sorrow, 

Thy  sweet  smiles  we  ever  seek,  — < 
In  thy  place  —  ah  !  well-a-day  ! 
We  &id  the  thing  we  fled  —  To-day. 


LINES 
Published  by  Rossetti,  1870. 

Lf  I  walk  in  Autumn's  even 
While  the  dead  leaves  pass, 

If  I  look  on  Spring's  soft  heaven, — 
Something  is  not  there  which  was. 

Winter's  wondrous  frost  and  snow, 

Summer's  clouds,  where  are  they  now  ? 

A  LAMENT 

Published    by    Mrs.    Shelley,    Posthumous 
Poems,  1824. 

I 
O  WORLD  !  O  life  !  O  time  ! 
On  whose  last  steps  I  climb. 

Trembling  at  that  where  I   had  stood 
before ; 
When  will  return  the  glory  of  your  prime  ? 
No  more  —  oh,  never  more  I 


Out  of  the  day  and  night 
A  joy  has  taken  flight; 

Fresh  spring,  and  summer,  and  winter 
hoar, 
Move  my  faint  heart  with  grief,  but  with 
delight 
No  more  —  oh,  never  more  ! 


POEMS   WRITTEN   IN    1822 


The  last  months  of  Shelley's  life  were  passed 
at  Pisa  and  Lerici.  The  incidents,  and  the 
general  character  of  the  household  with  its 
group  of  friends,  are   minutely  recorded  in 


Mrs.  Shelley's  long  note,  in  Trelawny's  Rec- 
ords, and  in  nearly  all  biographies  of  later  date. 
A  brief  narrative  is  inadequate  to  tell  the 
story. 


Published    by 
Poems,  1824. 


LINES 

Mrs.    Shelley,    Posthumous 


When  the  lamp  is  shattered, 
The  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead; 

When  the  cloud  is  scattered, 
The  rainbow's  glory  is  shed; 

When  the  lute  is  broken. 
Sweet  tones  are  remembered  not; 

When  the  lips  have  spoken, 
Loved  accents  are  soon  forgot. 


As  music  and  splendor 
Survive  not  the  lamp  and  the  lute, 

The  heart's  echoes  render 
No  song  when  the  spirit  is  mute:  — 

No  song  but  sad  dirges. 
Like  the  wind  through  a  ruined  cell, 

Or  the  mournful  surges 
That  ring  the  dead  seaman's  knell. 

Ill 
When  hearts  have  once  mingled, 
Love  first  leaves  the  well-built  nest; 


POEMS   WRITTEN   IN   1822 


411 


The  weak  one  is  singled 
To  endure  what  it  once  possessed. 

O  Love  !  who  bewailest 
The  frailty  of  all  things  here, 

Why  choose  you  the  frailest 
For  your  cradle,   your    home,   and  your 
bier? 


Its  passions  will  rock  thee, 
As  the  storms  rock  the  ravens  on  high; 

Bright  reason  will  mock  thee. 
Like  the  sun  from  a  wintry  sky. 

From  thy  nest  every  rafter 
Will  rot,  and  thine  eagle  home 

Leave  thee  naked  to  laughter, 
When  leaves  fall  and  cold  winds  come. 


THE   MAGNETIC   LADY   TO   HER 
PATIENT 

Shelley  wrote  on  this  poem,  '  For  Jane  and 
Williams  only  to  see.'  Medwin,  who  published 
it.  The  AthencBum,  1832,  g^ves  an  account  of 
the  experiments  out  of  which  it  grew,  in  his 
Shelley  Papers :  '  Shelley  was  a  martyr  to  a 
most  painful  complaint,  which  constantly  men- 
aced to  terminate  fatally  ;  and  was  subject  to 
violent  paroxysms  which,  to  his  irritable  nerves, 
were  each  a  separate  death.  I  had  seen  mag- 
netism practised  in  India  and  at  Paris,  and  at 
his  earnest  request  consented  to  try  its  efficacy. 
Mesmer  himself  could  not  have  hoped  for  more 
complete  success.  The  imposition  of  my  hand 
on  his  forehead  instantaneously  put  a  stop  to 
the  spasm,  and  threw  him  into  a  magnetic 
sleep,  which  for  want  of  a  better  word  is  called 
somnambulism.  Mrs.  Shelley  and  another  lady 
[Mrs.  Williams]  were  present.  The  experi- 
ment was  repeated  more  than  once.  During 
his  trances  I  put  some  questions  to  him.  He 
always  pitched  his  voice  in  the  same  tone  as 
mine.  I  enquired  about  his  complaint,  and  its 
cure  —  the  usual  magnetic  enquiries.  His 
reply  was,  "  What  would  cure  me  would  kill 
me  "...  [Shelley  answered  in  Italian.]  He 
improvised  also  verses  in  Italian,  in  which  lan- 
guage he  was  never  known  to  write  poetry.' 
Medwin  adds,  in  his  Life  of  Shelley :  '  After 
my  departure  from  Pisa  he  was  magnetized  by 
a  lady,  which  gave  rise  to  the  beautiful  stanzas 
entitled  The  Magnetic  Lady  to  her  Patient,  and 
during  which  operation  he  made  the  same  re- 
ply to  an  enquiry  as  to  his  disease  and  its  cure 
as  he  had  done  to  me,  —  "  What  would  cure 
me  would  kill  me."  .  .  .  Mrs.  Shelley  also 
magnetized  him,  but  soon  discontinued  the 


practice,  from  finding  that  he  got  np  in  hia 
sleep,  and  went  one  night  to  the  window  (for- 
tunately barred),  having  taken  to  his  old  habit 
of  sleep-walking,  which  I  mentioned,  in  hia 
boyhood  and  also  in  Loudon.' 


*  Sleep,  sleep  on  !  forget  thy  pain; 

My  hand  is  on  thy  brow, 
My  spirit  on  thy  brain; 
My  pity  on  thy  heart,  poor  friend; 

And  from  my  fingers  flow 
The  powers  of  life,  and  like  a  sign. 

Seal  thee  from  thine  hour  of  woe; 
And  brood  on  thee,  but  may  not  blend 
With  thine. 


'  Sleep,  sleep  on  !  I  love  thee  not; 

But  when  I  think  that  he 
Who  made  and  makes  my  lot 
As  full  of  flowers,  as  thine  of  weeds, 

Might  have  been  lost  like  thee; 
And  that  a  hand  which  was  not  mine 

Might  then  have  charmed  his  agony 
As  I  another's  —  my  heart  bleeds 
For  thine. 


'  Sleep,  sleep,  and  with  the  slumber  of 

The  dead  and  the  unborn 
Forget  thy  life  and  love; 
Forget  that  thou  must  wake  forever; 

Forget  the  world's  dull  scorn; 
Forget  lost  health,  and  the  divine 

Feelings   which  died    in  youth's    brief 
morn; 
And  forget  me,  for  I  can  never 
Be  thine. 

IV 

'  Like  a  clond  big  with  a  May  shower, 

My  soul  weeps  healing  rain 
On  thee,  thou  withered  flower; 
It  breathes  mute  music  on  thy  sleep; 

Its  odor  calms  thy  brain  ! 
Its  light  within  thy  gloomy  breast 

Spreads  like  a  second  youth  again. 
By  mine  thy  being  is  to  its  deep 
Possessed. 


'  The  spell  is  done.     How  feel  you  now  ?' 

'  Better  —  quite  well,'  replied 
The  sleeper,  —  '  What  would  do 


412 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


You  good  when  sufEering  and  awake  ? 

What  cure  your  head  and  side  ?  ' 
*  What   would  cure,  that   would  kill  me, 
Jane; 
And  as  I  must  on  earth  abide 
Awhile,  yet  tempt  me  not  to  break 
My  chain.' 

TO   JANE 

THE   INVITATION 

Williams,  in  his  Journal,  February  2,  de- 
scribes such  an  excursion :  '  Fine  warni  day. 
Jane  accompanies  Mary  and  S.  to  the  sea-shore 
through  the  Cascine.  They  return  about 
three.'  The  poem  was  published  by  Mrs. 
Shelley,  in  an  earlier  form,  in  Posthumous 
Poems,  1824,  and,  as  here  given,  in  her  second 
collected  edition,  1839. 

Best  and  brightest,  come  away  ! 
Fairer  far  than  this  fair  Day, 
Which,  like  thee  to  those  in  sorrow, 
Comes  to  bid  a  sweet  good-morrow 
To  the  rough  Year  just  awake 
In  its  cradle  on  the  brake. 
The  brightest  hour  of  unborn  Spring 
Through  the  winter  wandering, 
Found  it  seems  the  halcyon  Morn, 
To  hoar  February  born.  lo 

Bending  from  Heaven,  in  azure  mirth, 
It  kissed  the  forehead  of  the  Earth, 
And  smiled  upon  the  silent  sea. 
And  bade  the  frozen  streams  be  free, 
And  waked  to  music  all  their  fountains. 
And  breatlied  upon  the  frozen  mountains. 
And  like  a  prophetess  of  May 
Strewed  flowers  upon  the  barren  way, 
Making  the  wintry  world  appear 
Like  one  on  whom  thou  smilest,  dear.   20 

Away,  away,  from  men  and  towns, 

To  the  wild  wood  and  the  downs; 

To  the  silent  wilderness 

Where  the  soul  need  not  repress 

Its  music,  lest  it  should  not  find 

An  echo  in  another's  mind. 

While  the  touch  of  Nature's  art 

Harmonizes  heart  to  heart. 

I  leave  this  notice  on  my  door 

For  each  accustomed  visitor: —  30 

'  I  am  gone  into  the  fields 

To  take  what  this  sweet  hour  yields. 

Reflection,  you  msiy  come  to-morrow. 

Sit  by  the  fireside  with  Sorrow. 


You  with  the  unpaid  bill.  Despair,— 
You,  tiresome  verse-reciter.  Care,  — ' 
I  will  pay  you  in  the  grave,  — 
Death  will  listen  to  your  stave. 
Expectation  too,  be  off  ! 
To-day  is  for  itself  enough.  40 

Hope,  in  pity  mock  not  Woe 
With  smiles,  nor  follow  where  I  go; 
Long  having  lived  on  thy  sweet  food. 
At  length  I  find  one  moment's  good 
After  long  pain  —  with  all  your  love, 
This  you  never  told  me  of.' 

Radiant  Sister  of  the  Day, 

Awake  !  arise  !  and  come  away  ! 

To  the  wild  woods  and  the  plains, 

And  the  pools  where  winter  rains  50 

Image  all  their  roof  of  leaves, 

Where  the  pine  its  garland  weaves 

Of  sapless  green,  and  ivy  dnn, 

Round  stems  that  never  kiss  the  sun; 

Where  the  lawns  and  pastures  be 

And  the  sand-hills  of  the  sea; 

Where  the  melting  hoar-frost  wets 

The  daisy-star  that  never  sets. 

And  wind-flowers  and  violets. 

Which  yet  join  not  scent  to  hue,  60 

Crown  the  pale  year  weak  and  new: 

When  the  night  is  left  behind 

In  the  deep  east,  dun  and  blind, 

And  the  blue  noon  is  over  us, 

And  the  multitudinous 

Billows  murmur  at  our  feet, 

Where  the  earth  and  ocean  meet, 

And  all  things  seem  only  one, 

In  the  universal  sun. 

THE    RECOLLECTION 

Shelley  sent  the  lines  to  Mrs.  Williams  — 
'  not  to  be  opened  unless  you  are  alone  or  with 
Williams.' 

I 
Now  the  last  day  of  many  days, 
All  beautiful  and  bright  as  thou. 

The  loveliest  and  the  last,  is  dead,  — 
Rise,  Memory,  and  write  its  praise  ! 
Up,  —  to  thy  wonted  work  !  come,  trace 

The  epitaph  of  glory  fled. 
For  now  the  Earth  has  changed  its  face, 
A  frown  is  on  the  Heaven  s  brow. 

11 

We  wandered  to  the  Pine  Forest 
That  skirts  the  Ocean's  foam, 


POEMS   WRITTEN   IN    1822 


413 


The  lightest  wind  was  in  its  nest, 

The  tempest  in  its  home. 
The  whispering  waves  were  half  asleep, 

The  clouds  were  gone  to  play, 
And  on  the  bosom  of  the  deep 

The  smile  of  Heaven  lay; 
It  seemed  as  if  the  hour  were  one 

Sent  from  beyond  the  skies, 
Whitth  scattered  from  above  the  sun 

A  light  of  Paradise. 


We  paused  amid  the  pines  that  stood 

The  giants  of  the  waste, 
Tortured  by  storms  to  shapes  as  rude 

As  serpents  interlaced, 
And  soothed  by  every  azure  breath, 

That  under  heaven  is  blown, 
To  harmonies  and  hues  beneath. 

As  tender  as  its  own; 
Now  all  the  treetops  lay  asleep. 

Like  green  waves  on  the  sea. 
As  still  as  in  the  silent  deep 

The  ocean  woods  may  be. 

IV 

How  calm  it  was  !  —  the  silence  there 

By  such  a  chain  was  bound 
That  even  the  busy  woodpecker 

Made  stiller  by  her  sound 
The  inviolable  quietness; 

The  breath  of  peace  we  drew 
With  its  soft  motion  made  not  less 

The  calm  that  round  us  grew. 
There  seemed,  from  the  remotest  seat 

Of  the  white  mountain  waste 
To  the  soft  flower  beneath  our  feet, 

A  magic  circle  traced, 
A  spirit  interfused  around, 

A  thrilling  silent  life, — 
To  momentary  peace  it  bound 

Our  mortal  nature's  strife; 
And  still  I  felt  the  centre  of 

The  magic  circle  there 
Was  one  fair  form  that  filled  with  love 

The  lifeless  atmosphere. 


We  paused  beside  the  pools  that  lie 
Under  the  forest  bough,  — 

Each  seemed  as  't  were  a  little  sky 
Gulfed  in  a  world  below; 

A  firmament  of  purple  light, 
Which  in  the  dark  earth  lay, 


More  boundless  than  the  depth  of  night,, 

And  purer  than  the  day,  — 
In  which  the  lovely  forests  grew, 

As  in  the  upper  air, 
More  perfect  both  in  shape  and  hue 

Thau  any  spreading  there. 
There  lay  the  glade  and  neighboring  lawn, 

And  through  the  dark  green  wood 
The  white  sun  twinkling  like  the  dawn 

Out  of  a  speckled  cloud. 
Sweet  views  which  in  our  world  above 

Can  never  well  be  seen, 
Were  imaged  by  the  water's  love 

Of  that  fair  forest  green. 
And  all  was  interfused  beneath 

With  an  Elysian  glow, 
An  atmosphere  without  a  breath, 

A  softer  day  below. 
Like  one  beloved  the  scene  had  lent 

To  the  dark  water's  breast, 
Its  every  leaf  and  lineament 

With  more  than  truth  expressed; 
Until  an  envious  wind  crept  by, 

Like  an  unwelcome  thought, 
Which  from  the  mind's  too  faithful  eye 

Blots  one  dear  image  out. 
Though  thou  art  ever  fair  and  kind. 

The  forests  ever  green. 
Less  oft  is  peace  in  Shelley's  mind, 

Than  calm  in  waters  seen. 


WITH   A  GUITAR:   TO  JANE 

Shelley  originally  intended  to  give  a  harp  to 
Mrs.  Williams,  and  wrote  to  Horace  Smith  with 
regard  to  its  purchase.  The  suggestion  for  the 
poem  is  found  by  Dr.  Garnett  in  the  fact  that 
'  the  front  portion  of  the  guitar  is  made  of 
Swiss  pine.'  He  continues:  'It  is  now  clear 
how  the  poem  took  shape  in  Shelley's  mind. 
The  actual  thought  of  the  imprisonment  of  the 
Spirit  of  Music  in  the  material  of  the  instru- 
ment suggested  Ariel's  penance  in  the  cloven 
pine  ;  the  identification  of  himself  with  Ariel 
and  of  Jane  Williams  with  Miranda  was  the 
easiest  of  feats  to  his  brilliant  imagination ; 
and  hence  an  allegory  of  unequalled  grace  and 
charm,  which  could  never  have  existed  if  the 
instrument  had  not  been  partly  made  of  pine 
wood.  The  back,  it  should  be  added,  is  of 
mahogany,  the  finger  board  of  ebony,  and 
minor  portions,  chiefly  ornamental,  of  some 
wood  not  identified.  It  was  made  by  Ferdi- 
nando  Bottari  of  Pisa  in  1816.  Having  been 
religiously  preserved  since  Shelley's  death,  it 
is  in  as  perfect  condition  as  when  made.    The 


414 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


strings,  it  is  said,  are  better  than  those  that  are 
produced  now. 

'  This  guitar  is  also  in  a  measure  the  subject 
of  another  of  Shelley's  most  beautiful  lyrics, 
"  The  keen  stars  were  twinkling."  In  a  letter 
dated  June  18,  1822,  speaking  of  his  cruises 
"  in  the  evening  wind  under  the  summer  moon," 
he  adds,  "Jane  brings  her  guitar."  There  is 
probably  no  other  relic  of  a  great  poet  so  in- 
timately associated  with  the  arts  of  poetry  and 
music,  or  ever  will  be,  unless  Milton's  organ 
should  turn  up  at  a  broker's  or  some  excavat- 
ing explorer  should  bring  to  light  the  lyre  of 
Sappho.' 

The  guitar  was  given  to  the  Bodleian  Li- 
brary by  E.  W.  Silsbee,  of  Salem,  Mass.,  who 
bought  it  of  the  grandson  of  Mrs.  Williams  on 
condition  that  it  should  be  so  disposed  of.  The 
composition  of  the  poem  is  described  by  Tre- 
lawny :  '  The  strong  light  streamed  through 
the  opening  of  the  trees.  One  of  the  pines, 
nndermined  by  the  water,  had  fallen  into  it. 
Under  its  lee,  and  nearly  hidden,  sat  the  Poet, 
gazing  on  the  dark  mirror  beneath,  so  lost  in 
his  bardish  reverie  that  he  did  not  hear  my 
approach.  .  .  .  The  daj'  I  found  Shelley  in  the 
pine-forest  he  was  writing  verses  on  a  guitar. 
I  picked  up  a  fragment,  but  could  only  make 
out  the  first  two  lines.  ...  It  was  a  frightful 
scrawl ;  words  smeared  out  with  his  finger,  and 
one  upon  the  other,  over  and  over  in  tiers,  and 
all  run  together  "  in  most  admired  disorder  ;  " 
it  might  have  been  taken  for  a  sketch  of  a 
marsh  overrun  with  bulrushes,  and  the  blots 
for  wild  ducks  ;  such  a  dashed-off  daub  as 
self-conceited  artists  mistake  for  a  manifesta- 
tion of  genius.'  The  poem  was  published  by 
Medwin,  in  two  parts,  The  AthencEum,  1832,  and 
Fraser's,  1833. 


Ariel  to  Miranda:  —  Take 
This  slave  of  IMnsic,  for  the  sake 
Of  him  who  is  the  slave  of  thee; 
And  teach  it  all  the  harmony 
In  which  thou  canst,  and  only  thou, 
Make  the  delighted  spirit  glow, 
Till  joy  denies  itself  again, 
And,  too  intense,  is  turned  to  pain. 
For  by  permission  and  command 
Of  thine  own  Prince  Ferdinand, 
Poor  Ariel  sends  this  silent  token 
Of  more  than  ever  can  be  spoken; 
Your  guardian  spirit,  Ariel,  who 
From  life  to  life  must  still  pursue 
Your  happiness,  —  for  thus  alcne 
Can  Ariel  ever  find  his  oAvn. 
From  Prospero's  enchanted  cell, 
As  the  mighty  verses  tell, 


To  the  throne  of  Naples  he 

Lit  you  o'er  the  trackless  sea,  ae 

Flitting  on,  your  prow  before, 

Like  a  living  meteor. 

When  you  die,  the  silent  Moon, 

In  her  interlunar  swoon, 

Is  not  sadder  in  her  cell 

Than  deserted  Ariel. 

When  you  live  again  on  earth. 

Like  an  unseen  star  of  birth 

Ariel  guides  you  o'er  tiie  sea 

Of  life  from  your  nativity.  30 

Many  changes  have  been  run 

Since  Ferdinand  and  you  begun 

Your  course  of  love,  and  Ariel  still 

Has   tracked  your  steps  and  served  your 

will; 
Now  in  humbler,  happier  lot. 
This  is  all  remembered  not; 
And  now,  alas  !  the  poor  sprite  is 
Imprisoned,  for  some  fault  of  his. 
In  a  body  like  a  grave. 
From  you,  he  only  dares  to  crave,  46 

For  his  service  and  his  sorrow, 
A  smile  to-day,  a  song  to-morrow. 

The  artist  w^ho  this  idol  wrought 

To  eclio  all  harmonious  thought, 

Felled  a  tree,  while  on  the  steep 

The  woods  were  in  their  winter  sleep, 

Rocked  in  that  repose  divine 

On  the  wind-swept  Apennine; 

And  dreaming,  some  of  Autumn  past. 

And  some  of  Spring  approaching  fast,       5c 

And  some  of  April  buds  and  showers. 

And  some  of  songs  in  July  bowers. 

And  all  of  love ;  and  so  this  tree  — 

Oh,  that  such  our  death  may  be  1  —    , 

Died  in  sleep,  and  felt  no  pain. 

To  live  in  happier  form  again: 

From    which,    beneath    Heaven's    fairest 

star. 
The  artist  wrought  this  loved  guitar. 
And  taught  it  justly  to  reply. 
To  all  who  question  skilfully,  6c 

In  language  gentle  as  thine  o%vn; 
Whispering  in  enamoured  tone 
Sweet  oracles  of  woods  and  dells. 
And  summer  winds  in  sylvan  cells; 
For  it  had  learned  all  harmonies 
Of  the  plains  and  of  the  skies, 
Of  the  forests  and  the  mountains, 
And  the  many-voiced  fountains; 
The  clearest  echoes  of  the  hills. 
The  softest  notes  of  falling  rilla,  7c 


POEMS   WRITTEN   IN   1822 


415 


The  melodies  of  birds  and  bees, 

The  murmuring  of  summer  seas, 

And  pattering  rain,  and  breathing  dew. 

And  airs  of  evening;  and  it  knew 

That  seldoin-heard  mysterious  sound. 

Which,  driven  on  its  diurnal  round, 

As  it  floats  through  boundless  day. 

Our  world  enkindles  on  its  way. 

All  this  it  knows,  but  will  not  tell 

To  those  who  cannot  question  well         80 

The  spirit  that  inhabits  it; 

It  talks  according  to  the  wit 

Of  its  companions;  and  no  more 

Is  heard  than  has  been  felt  before 

By  those  who  tempt  it  to  betray 

These  secrets  of  an  elder  day. 

But,  sweetly  as  its  answers  will 

Flatter  hands  of  perfect  skill. 

It  keeps  its  highest,  holiest  tone 

For  our  belovfed  Jane  alone.  90 

TO   JANE 

Shelley  sent  the  lines  to  Mrs.  Williams  with 
a  note.  '  I  sat  down  to  write  some  words  for 
an  ariette  which  might  be  profane  ;  but  it  was 
in  vain  to  struggle  with  the  ruling  spirit  who 
compelled  me  to  speak  of  things  sacred  to 
yours  and  to  Wilhelra  Meister's  indulgence.  I 
commit  them  to  your  secrecy  and  your  mercy, 
and  will  try  to  do  better  another  time.' 

The  poem  was  published  in  part  by  Med  win, 
The  AthencEUin,  1S32,  and  complete  by  Mrs. 
Shelley  in  her  second  collected  edition,  1839. 


The  keen  stars  were  twinkling. 
And  the  fair  moon  was  rising  among  them, 
Dear  Jane. 
The  guitar  was  tinkling. 
But  the  notes  were  not  sweet  till  you  sung 
them 
Again. 

II 
As  the  moon's  soft  splendor 
O'er  the  faint  cold  starlight  of  heaven 
Is  thrown, 
So  your  voice  most  tender 
To  the  strings  without  soul  had  then  given 
Its  own. 

Ill 
The  stars  will  awaken, 
Though  the  moon  sleep  a  full  hour  later 
To-night ; 
No  leaf  will  be  shaken 


Whilst  the  dews  of  your  melody  scatter 
Delight. 

IV 

Though  the  sound  overpowers, 
Sing  again,  with  your  dear  voice  revealing 
A  tone 
Of  some  world  far  from  ours. 
Where  music  and  moonlight  and  feeling 
Are  one. 


EPITAPH 

Published    by    Mrs.    Shelley,    Posthumous 
Foems,  1824, 

These  are  two  friends  whose  lives  were 
undivided; 

So  let  their  memory  be,  now  they  have 
glided 

Under  the  grave;  let  not  their  bones  be 
parted. 

For  their  two  hearts  in  life  were  single- 
hearted. 


Published 
Poems,  1824. 


THE    ISLE 
by    Mrs.    Shelley,    Posthumous 


There  was  a  little  lawny  islet 
By  anemone  and  violet. 

Like  mosaic,  paven; 
And  its  roof  was  flowers  and  leaves 
Which  the  summer's  breath  enweaves, 
Where  nor  sun  nor  showers  nor  breeze 
Pierce  the  pines  and  tallest  trees, 

Each  a  gem  engraven;  — 
Girt  by  many  an  azure  wave 
With  which  the  clouds  and  mountains  pave 

A  lake's  blue  chasm. 


A   DIRGE 

Published    by    Mrs.    Shelley,     Posthumout 
Poems,  1824. 

Rough  wind,  that  moanest  lond 

Grief  too  sad  for  song; 

Wild  wind,  when  sullen  cloud 
Knells  all  the  night  long; 
Sad  storm,  whose  tears  are  vain, 
Bare  woods  whose  branches  strain, 
Deep  caves  and  dreary  main,  — 

Wail,  for  the  world's  wrong. 


4i6 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


LINES    WRITTEN    IN    THE    BAY 
OF   LERICI 

Published  by  Gamett,  Macmillan's,  1862. 

She  left  me  at  the  silent  time 

When  the  moon  had  ceased  to  climb 

The  azure  path  of  Heaven's  steep, 

And  like  an  albatross  asleep, 

Balanced  on  her  wings  of  light, 

Hovered  in  the  purple  night, 

Ere  she  sought  her  ocean  nest 

In  the  chambers  of  the  West. 

She  left  me,  and  I  stayed  alone 

Thinking  over  every  tone  lo 

Which,  though  silent  to  the  ear, 

The  enchanted  heart  could  hear, 

Like  notes  which  die  when  born,  but  still 

Haunt  the  echoes  of  the  hill; 

And  feeling  ever  —  oh,  too  much  !  — 

The  soft  vibration  of  her  touch. 

As  if  her  gentle  hand,  even  now. 

Lightly  trembled  on  my  brow; 

And  thus,  although  she  absent  were, 

Memory  gave  me  all  of  her  20 

That  even  Fancy  dares  to  claim:  — 

Her  presence  had  made  weak  and  tame 

All  passions,  and  I  lived  alone 

In  the  time  which  is  our  own; 


The  past  and  future  were  forgot. 

As  they  had  been,  and  would  be,  not. 

But  soon,  the  guardian  angel  gone, 

The  dffimon  reassumed  liis  throne 

In  my  faint  heart.     I  dare  not  speak 

My    thoughts,    but     thus    disturbed    and 

weak 
I  sat  and  saw  the  vessels  glide  30 

Over  the  ocean  bright  and  wide. 
Like  spirit-wingfed  chariots  sent 
O'er  some  sereuest  element 
For  ministrations  strange  and  far; 
As  if  to  some  Elysian  star 
They  sailed  for  drink  to  medicine 
Such  sweet  and  bitter  pain  as  mine. 
And  the  wind  that  winged  their  flight 
From  the  land  came  fresh  and  light,         4c 
And  the  scent  of  winged  flowers. 
And  the  coolness  of  the  hours 
Of  dew,  and  sweet  warmth  left  by  day, 
Were  scattered  o'er  the  twinkling  bay. 
And  the  fisher  with  his  lamp 
And  spear  about  the  low  rocks  damp 
Crept,  and  struck  the  fish  which  came 
To  worship  the  delusive  flame. 
Too  happy  they,  whose  pleasure  sought 
Extinguishes  all  sense  and  thought  st 

Of  the  regret  that  pleasure  leaves, 
Destroying  life  alone,  not  peace  I 


FRAGMENTS 


Under  Fragments  are  included,  with  a  few 
exceptions,  incomplete  poems,  sketches  and  can- 
celled passages,  and  those  more  inchoate  pas- 
sages which  have  been  recovered  from  Shelley's 
notebooks.  The  exceptions  are  the  Frologue 
to  Hellas,  which  his  been  put  with  that  drama, 
A  Vision  of  the  Sea,  published  by  fehelley  with 
the  poems  accompanying  Prometheus  Unbound, 
and  five  pieces,  To  Mary  Wollstonecraft  God- 
win, 1814,  Death,  An  Allegory,  On  the  Medusa 
of  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  and  Evening,  Pisa, 
which,  though  lacking  a  word  or  a  line,  are  in 
effect  complete.  The  order  of  the  Fkaoments 
is  not  strictly  chronological  in  the  first  division, 
and  is  altogether  arbitrary  in  the  second.    The 


THE    D^MON  OF  THE  WORLD 

Nee  tanttun  prodere  vatl, 
Quantum  scire  licet.    Venit  setas  omnia  in  unam 
Congeriem,  miserumque  premunt  tot  8a>cula  pectus. 
LUCAN,  Phars.  v.  17C-178. 

Shelley  in  his  preface  to  Alastor,  where  this 
poem  was   published,   says :  '  The   Fragment 


dates  assigned  are  those  generally  accepted^ 
but,  as  a  rule,  they  are  conjectural  and  approx- 
imate only,  not  exact.  The  text  is  derived 
from  the  editions  of  Mrs.  Shelley,  the  studies  of 
Dr.  Gamett  in  the  Bosconibe  MSS.,  published 
by  him  mainly  in  Relics  of  Shelley,  18(52,  or  by 
Rossetti,  1870,  and  Rossetti's  own  studies  both 
in  the  same  and  other  MSS.  of  which  the  re- 
sults were  given  in  his  edition.  A  few  pieces, 
originally  published  elsewhere,  were  al.so  gath- 
ered by  Rossetti  and  Forman  in  their  edi- 
tions, and  Forman  was  enabled  to  add  some- 
thing more  from  independent  MSS.  The  date 
and  original  publication  of  each  piece  are  biiefly 
indicated  under  each  poem. 

entitled  The  Dcemon  of  the  World  is  a  detached 
part  of  a  poem  which  the  author  does  not  in- 
tend for  publication.  The  metre  in  which  it  is 
composed  is  that  of  Samson  Agonistes  and  the 
Italian  pastoral  drama,  and  may  be  considered 
as  the  natural  measure  into  which  poetical  con- 
ceptions, expressed  in  harmonious  language 
necessarily  fall.'  The  poem  is  part  of  a  revi 
sion  of  Queen  Mab. 


FRAGMENTS 


417 


How  wonderful  is  Death, 

Death  and  his  brother  Sleep  I 
One,  pale  as  yonder  wan  and  hornfed  moon, 

With  lips  of  lurid  blue; 
The  other,  glowing  like  the  vital  morn 

When  throned  on  ocean's  wave 

It  breathes  over  the  world ; 
Yet  both  so  passing  strange  and  wonder- 
ful! 

Hath  then  the  iron-sceptred  Skeleton, 
Whose  reign  is  in  the  tainted  sepulchres,  10 
To  the   hell  dogs  that  couch  beneath  his 

throne 
Cast   that  fair  prey  ?     Must  that  divinest 

form, 
Which  love  and  admiration  cannot  view 
Without  a  beating  heart,  whose  azure  veins 
Steal   like   dark   streams  along  a  field  of 

snow. 
Whose  outline  is  as  fair  as  marble  clothed 
In  light  of  some  sublimest  mind,  decay  ? 

Nor  putrefaction's  breath 
Leave  aught  of  this  pure  spectacle 

But  loathsomeness  and  ruin  ?  20 

Spare  aught  but  a  dark  theme, 
On  which  the  lightest  heart  might  moral- 
ize ? 
Or  is  it  but  that  downy-winged  slumbers 
Have  charmed  their  nurse,  coy  Silence,  near 
her  lids 
To  watch  their  own  repose  ? 
Will  they,  when  morning's  beam 
Flows  through  those  wells  of  light. 
Seek  far  from  noise  and  day  some  western 

cave. 
Where   woods  and   streams  with  soft  and 
pausing  winds 
A  lulling  murmur  weave  ?  —  30 

lanthe  doth  not  sleep 
The  dreamless  sleep  of  death; 
Nor  in  her  moonlight  chamber  silently 
Doth  Henry  hear  her  regular  pulses  throb. 

Or  mark  her  delicate  cheek 
With  interchange  of  hues  mock  the  broad 
moon, 
Outwatcliing  weary  night. 
Without  assured  reward. 
Her  dewy  eyes  are  closed; 
On  their  translucent    lids,  whose   texture 
fine  40 

Scarce  hides  the  dark  blue  orbs  that  burn 
below 


With  unapparent  fire. 
The  baby  Sleep  is  pillowed; 
Her  golden  tresses  shade 
The  bosom's  stainless  pride, 
Twining  like  tendrils  of  the  parasite 
Around  a  marble  column. 

Hark  !  whence  that  rushing  sound  ? 
'T  is    like    a      wondrous    strain    that 

sweeps 
Around  a  lonely  ruin  50 

When  west  winds  sigh  and  evening  waves 
respond 
In  whispers  from  the  shore: 
'T  is  wilder  than  the  unmeasured  notes 
Which  from  the  unseen  lyres  of  dells  and 
groves 
The  genii  of  the  breezes  sweep.   . 

Floating  on  waves  of  music  and  of  light 
The  chariot  of  the  Daemon  of  the  World 

Descends  in  silent  power. 
Its  shape   reposed  within;  slight  as  some 

cloud 
That  catches  but  the  palest  tinge  of  day  60 

When  evening  yields  to  night; 
Bright  as   that  fibrous   woof    when   stars 
endue 
Its  transitory  robe. 
Four  shapeless  shadows  bright  and  beauti- 
ful 
Draw  that  strange  car  of  glory;  reins  of 

light 
Check  their  unearthly  speed;  they  stop  and 
fold 
Their  wings  of  braided  air. 
The  Daemon,  leaning  from  the  ethereal  car. 

Gazed  on  the  slumbering  maid. 
Human  eye  hath  ne'er  beheld  70 

A  shape  so  wild,  so  bright,  so  beautiful. 
As  that  which  o'er  the   maiden's  charmed 
sleep, 
Waving  a  starry  wand. 
Hung  like  a  mist  of  light. 
Such  sounds  as  breathed  around  like  odor- 
ous winds 
Of  wakening  spring  arose. 
Filling  the  chamber  and  the  moonlight  sky. 

'Maiden,  the  world's  supremest spirit 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  her  wings 
Folds  all  thy  memory  doth  inherit  80 

From  ruin  of  divinest  things,  — 
Feelings  that  lure  thee  to  betray, 
And  light  of  thoughts  that  pass  away 


4x8 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


'For  thou  hast  earned  a  mighty  boon; 

The  truths,  which  wisest  poets  see 
Dimly,  thy  miud  may  make  its  owu, 
Rewarding  its  own  majesty. 

Entranced  in  some  diviner  mood 
Of  self-oblivious  solitude. 

*  Custom  and  Faith  and  Power  thou  spurn- 

est;  90 

From  hate  and  awe  thy  heart  is  free; 
Ardent  and  pure  as  day  thou  burnest, 
For  dark  and  cold  mortality 
A  living  light,  to  cheer  it  long, 
The  watch-fires  of  the  world  among. 

'  Therefore  from  Nature's  inner  shrine, 

Where  gods  and  fiends  in  worship  bend, 
Majestic  spirit,  be  it  thine 

The  flame  to  seize,  the  veil  to  rend, 
Where  the  vast  snake  Eternity  100 

In  charmed  sleep  doth  ever  lie. 

•  All  that  inspires  thy  voice  of  love, 

Or  speaks  in  thy  unclosing  eyes. 
Or  through  thy  frame  doth  burn  or  move, 
Or  think  or  feel,  awake,  arise  ! 
Spirit,  leave  for  mine  and  me 
Earth's  unsubstantial  mimicry  ! ' 

It  ceased,  and  from  the  mute  and  move- 
less frame 

A  radiant  spirit  arose. 
All  beautiful  in  naked  purity.  no 

Robed  in  its  human  hues  it  did  ascend, 
Disparting  as  it  went  the  silver  clouds 
It  moved  towards  the  car,  and  took  its  seat 

Beside  the  Daemon  shape. 

Obedient  to  the  sweep  of  aery  song, 
The  mighty  ministers 

Unfurled  their  prismy  wings. 
The  magic  car  moved  on. 

The  night  was  fair  —  innumerable  stars 
Studded  heaven's  dark  blue  vault;    120 
The  eastern  wave  grew  pale 
With  the  first  smile  of  morn. 

The  magic  car  moved  on. 

From  the  swift  sweep  of  wings 
The  atmosphere  in  flaming  sparkles  flew; 

And  where  the  burning  wheels 
Eddied  above  the  mountain's  loftiest  peak 

Was  traced  a  line  of  lightning. 
Now  far  above  a  rock,  the  utmost  verge 

Of  the  wide  earth,  it  flew,  —  130 


The  rival  of  the  Andes,  whose  dark  brow 
Frowned  o'er  the  silver  sea. 

Far,  far  below  the  chariot's  stormy  path, 

Calm  as  a  slumbering  babe. 

Tremendous  ocean  lay. 
Its  broad  and  silent  mirror  gave  to  view 

The  pale  and  waning  stars, 

The  chariot's  fiery  track. 

And  the  gray  light  of  morn 

Tingeing  those  fleecy  clouds  140 

That    cradled  in   their  folds    the    infant 
dawn. 

The  chariot  seemed  to  fly 
Through  the  abyss  of  an  immense  concave. 
Radiant  with  million  constellations,  tinged 

With  shades  of  infinite  color. 

And  semieircled  with  a  belt 

Flashing  incessant  meteors. 

As  they  approached  their  goal, 
The    winged   shadows    seemed  to   gather 

speed. 
Tlie  sea  no  longer  was  distinguished;  earth 
Appeared  a  vast  and  shadowy  sphere,  sus- 
pended 151 

In  the  black  concave  of  heaven 

With  the  sun's  cloudless  orb, 

Whose  rays  of  rapid  light 
Parted  around  the  chariot's  swifter  course. 
And  fell  like  ocean's  feathery  spray 

Dashed  from  the  boiling  surge 

Before  a  vessel's  prow. 

The  magic  car  moved  on. 
Earth's  distant  orb  appeared  160 

The   smallest  light  that  twinkles   in  the 
heavens. 
Whilst  round  the  chariot's  way 
Innumerable  systems  widely  rolled, 
And  countless  spheres  diffused 
An  ever-varying  glory. 
It  was  a  sight  of   wonder !     Some   were 

horned. 
And   like   the  moon's   argentine  crescent 

hung 
In  the  dark  dome  of  heaven;  some  did  shed 
A  clear  mild  beam  like  Hesperus,  while  the 

sea 
Yet   glows   with   fading  sunlight;    others 
dashed  17a 

Athwart  the  night  with  trains  of  bickering 

fire, 
Like  sphered  worlds  to  death   and    ruin 
driven  ; 


FRAGMENTS 


419 


Some  shone  like  stars,  and  as  the  chariot 
passed 
Bedimmed  all  other  light. 

Spirit  of  Nature  !  here, 
In  this  interminable  wilderness 
Of  worlds,  at  whose  involved  immensity 

Even  soaring  fancy  staggers, 

Here  is  thy  fitting  temple  ! 

Yet  not  the  lightest  leaf  180 

That  quivers  to  the  passing  breeze 

Is  less  instinct  with  thee; 

Yet  not  the  meanest  worm, 
That  lurks  in  graves   and  fattens  oa  the 
dead, 

Less  shares  thy  eternal  breath. 

Spirit  of  Nature  !  thou, 
Imperishable  as  this  glorious  scene, 

Here  is  thy  fitting  temple  ! 

If  solitude  hath  ever  led  thy  steps 

To  the  shore  of  the  immeasurable  sea,     190 

And  thou  hast  lingered  there 

Until  the  sun's  broad  orb 
Seemed  resting  on  the  fiery  line  of  ocean. 
Thou  must  have  marked  the  braided  webs 
of  gold 

That  without  motion  hang 

Over  the  sinking  sphere; 
Thou  must  have  marked  the  billowy  moun- 
tain clouds. 
Edged  with  intolerable  radiancy. 

Towering  like  I'ocks  of  jet 

Above  the  burning  deep;  aoo 

And  yet  there  is  a  moment. 

When  the  sun's  highest  point 
Peers  like  a  star  o'er  ocean's  western  edge. 
When  those  far  clouds  of  feathery  purple 

gleam 
Like   fairy  lands  girt  by  some   heavenly 

sea; 
Then  has  thy  rapt  imagination  soared 
Where  in  the  midst  of  all  existing  things 
The  temple  of  the  mightiest  Daemon  stands. 

Yet  not  the  golden  islands 
That  orleam  amid  yon  flood  of  purple  light. 

Nor  the  feathery  curtains  211 

That  canopy  the  sun's  resplendent  couch, 

Nor  the  burnished  ocean  waves 

Paving  that  gorgeous  dome, 

So  fair,  so  wonderful  a  sinfht 
As  the  eternal  temple  could  afford. 
The  elements  of  all  that  human  thought 
Can  frame  of  lovely  or  sublime  did  join 


To  rear  the  fabric  of  the  fane,  nor  aught 
Of  earth  may  image  forth  its  majesty.     220 
Yet  likest  evening's  vault  that  faery  hall; 
As   heaven   low  resting  on    the   wave   it 

spread 
Its  floors  of  flashing  light, 
Its  vast  and  azure  dome; 
And  on  the  verge  of  that  obscure  abyss. 
Where  crystal   battlements   o'erhang  the 

gulf 
Of  the  dark  world,  ten  thousand  spheres 

diffuse 
Their  lustre  through  its  adamantine  gates. 

The  magic  car  no  longer  moved. 

The  Dtemon  and  the  Spirit  230 

Entered  the  eternal  gates. 

Those  clouds  of  aery  gold. 

That  slept  in  glittering  billows 

Beneath  the  azure  canopy. 
With  the  ethereal  footsteps  trembled  not; 

While  sliglit  and  odorous  mists 
Floated  to  strains  of  thrilling  melody 
Through  the  vast  columns  and  the  pearly 
shriues. 

The  Daemon  and  the  Spirit 
Approached  the  overhanging  battlement. 
Below    lay   stretched   the    boundless   uni- 
verse !  241 

There,  far  as  the  remotest  line 
That  limits  swift  imagination's  flight, 
Unending  orbs  mingled  in  mazy  motion, 

Imuuitably  fulfilling 

Eternal  Nature's  law. 

Above,  below,  around, 

The  circling  systems  formed 

A  wilderness  of  harmony  — 

Each  with  undeviating  aim  250 

In  eloquent  silence  through  the  depths  of 
space 

Pursued  its  wondrous  way. 

Awhile  the  Spirit  paused  in  ecstasy. 

Yet  soon  she  saw,  as  the  vast  spheres  swept 

Strange    things   within   their   belted   orbs 

appear. 
Like  animated  frenzies,  dimly  moved 
Shadows,  and  skeletons,  and  fiendly  shapes. 
Thronging  round  human  graves,  and  o'er 

the  dead 
Sculpturing  records  for  each  memory 
In  verse,   such    as    malignant  gods   pro- 
nounce, a6a 


420 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Blasting  the  hopes  of  men,  when  Leaven 
and  hell 

Confounded  burst  in  ruin  o'er  the  world; 

And  they  did  build  vast  trophies,  instru- 
ments 

Of  murder,  human  bones,  barbaric  gold, 

Skins  torn  from  living  men,  and  towers  of 
skulls 

With  sightless   holes  gazing  on    blinder 
heaven, 

Mitres,  and  crowns,  and   brazen   chariots 
staiued 

With  blood,  and  scrolls  of  mystic  wicked- 
ness. 

The  sanguine  codes  of  venerable  crime. 

The  likeness  of  a  throned  king  came  by, 

When  these  had  passed,  bearing  upon  his 
brow  271 

A  threefold  crown;  his  countenance  was 
calm. 

His  eye  severe  and  cold;  but  his  right  hand 

Was  charged  with  bloody  coin,  and  he  did 
gnaw 

By  fits,  with  secret  smiles,  a  human  heart 

Concealed   beneath  his   robe;   and  motley 
shapes, 

A  multitudinous  throng,  around  him  knelt, 

With  bosoms  bare,  and  bowed  heads,  and 
false  looks 

Of  true  submission,  as  the  sphere  rolled  by, 

Brooking   no    eye    to    witness    their    foul 
shame,  2S0 

Which  human  hearts  must  feel,  while  hu- 
man tongues 

Tremble  to  speak  ;  they  did  rage  horribly. 

Breathing    in    self-contempt    fierce    blas- 
phemies 

Against  the   Daemon   of  the  World,  and 
high 

Hurling  tlieir  armfed  hands  where  the  pure 
Spirit, 

Serene  and  inaccessibly  secure. 

Stood  on  an  isolated  pinnacle. 

The  flood  of  ages  combating  below, 

The  depth  of  the  unbounded  universe 

Above,  and  all  around  ago 

Necessity's  unchanging  harmony. 

THE    D^MON  OF  THE    WORLD 

This  second  part  of  the  poem  was  published 
by  Forman,  1876,  from  a  printed  copy  <if 
Queen  Mab,  on  which  Shelley  had  made  MS. 
revisions,  with  a  view  to  republication  under 
the  new  title. 


O  HAPPY  Earth  !  reality  of  Heaven  ! 

To  which  those  restless  powers  that  cease- 
lessly 

Throng  through  the  human  universe 
aspire  ! 

Thou  consummation  of  all  mortal  hope  ! 

Thou  glorious  prize  of  blindly-working 
will, 

Whose  rays,  diffused  throughout  all  space 
and  time, 

Verge  to  one  point  and  blend  forever  there  ! 

Of  purest  spirits  thou  pure  dwelling-place, 

Where  care  and  sorrow,  impotence  and 
crime. 

Languor,  disease,  and  ignorance  dare  not 
come  !  10 

0  happy  Earth,  reality  of  Heaven  ! 

Genius  has  seen  thee  in  her  passionate 
dreams. 
And  dim  forebodings  of  thy  loveliness 
Haunting  the  human  heart  have  there  en- 
twined 
Those  rooted  hopes,  that  the  proud  Power 

of  Evil 
Shall  not  forever  on  this  fairest  world 
Shake  pestilence  and  war,  or  that  his  slaves 
With   blasphemy  for   prayer,  and   human 

blood 
For  sacrifice,  before  his  shrine  forever 
In  adoration  bend,  or  Erebus  jo 

With  all  its  banded  fiends  shall  not  uprise 
To  overwhelm  in  envy  and  revenge 
The  dauntless  and  the  good,  who  dare  to 

hurl 
Defiance  at  his  throne,  girt  though  it  be 
With  Death's  omnipotence.    Thou  hast  be- 
held 
His  empire,  o'er  the  present  and  the  past; 
It  was  a  desolate  sight  —  now  gaze  on  mine. 
Futurity.     Thou  hoarj'  giant  Time, 
Render  thou  up  thy  half-devoured  babes. 
And  from  the  cradles  of  eternity,  30 

Where  millions  lie  lulled  to  their  portioned 

sleep 
By  the  deep  murmuring  stream  of  passing 

things. 
Tear  thou  that  gloomy  shroud  !    Spirit,  be- 
hold 
Thy  glorious  destiny  1 

The  Spirit  saw 
Tlie  vast  frame  of  the  renovated  world 
Smile  in  the  lap  of  Chaos,  and  the  sense 


FRAGMENTS 


421 


Of  hope  through  her  fine  texture  did  suffuse 
Such   varying  glow,   as  summer  eveuiug 

casts 
Oil  undulating  clouds  and  deepening  lakes. 
Like  the  vague  sighings  of  a  wind  at  even, 
That  wakes  the  wavelets  of  the  slumbering 

sea  4t 

And  dies  on  the  creation  of  its  breath, 
And  sinks  and  rises,  fails  and  swells  by  fits, 
Was  the  sweet  stream  of  thought  that  with 

mild  motion 
Flowed  o'er  the  Spirit's  human  sympathies. 
The  mighty  tide   of  thought  had  paused 

awhile. 
Which  from  the  Daemon  now  like  Ocean's 

stream 
Again  began  to  pour.  — 

To  me  is  given 
The  wonders  of  the  human  world  to  keep  — 
Space,  matter,  time  and   mind  —  let  the 

sight  50 

Renew  and  strengthen  all  thy  failing  hope. 
All  things  are  recreated,  and  the  flame 
Of  consentaneous  love  inspires  all  life; 
The  fertile  bosom  of  the  earth  gives  suck 
To  myriads,  who  still  grow  beneath  her  care. 
Rewarding  her  with  their  pure  perfectness; 
The  balmy  breathings  of  the  wind  inhale 
Her  virtues,  and  diffuse  them  all  abroad; 
Health  floats  amid  the  gentle  atmosphere. 
Glows  in  the   fruits,  and   mantles   on  the 

stream ;  60 

No  storms  deform  the  beaming  brow  of 

heaven, 
Nor  scatter  in  the  freshness  of  its  pride 
The  foliage  of  the  undecaying  trees; 
But  fruits  are  ever  ripe,  flowers  ever  fair. 
And   Autumn   proudly  bears   her   matron 

grace, 
Kindling  a  flush  on  the  fair  cheek  of  Spring, 
Whose   virgin   bloom    beneath   the   ruddy 

fruit 
Reflects  its  tint  and  blushes  into  love. 

The  habitable  earth  is  full  of  bliss; 
Those  wastes  of  frozen  billows  that  were 
hurled  70 

By  everlasting  snowstorms  round  the  poles. 
Where  matter  dared  nor  vegetate  nor  live, 
But  ceaseless  frost  round  the  vast  solitude 
Bound  its  broad  zone  of  stillness,  are  un- 
loosed ; 
And  fragrant  zephyrs  there  from  spicy  isles 
Ruffle  the  placid  ocean-deep,  that  rolls 
Its  broad,  bright  surges  to  the  sloping  sand, 


Whose  roar  is  wakened  into  echoings  sweet 
To  murmur  through  the  heaven-breathing 

groves 
And  melodize  with  man's  blest  nature  there. 

The  vast  tract  of  the  parched  and  sandy 

waste  81 

Now  teems  with  countless  rills  and  shady 

woods. 
Cornfields  and  pastures  and  white  cottages; 
And  where  the  startled  wilderness  did  hear 
A  savage  conqueror  stained  in  kindred  blood 
Hymning  his  victory,  or  the  milder  snake 
Crushing  the  bones  of  some  frail  antelope 
Within  his  brazen  folds,  the  dewy  lawn. 
Offering  sweet  incense  to  the  sunrise,  smiles 
To  see  a  babe  before  his  mother's  door     90 
Share  with  the  green  and  golden  basilisk, 
That  comes  to  lick  his  feet,  his  morning's 
meal. 

Those   trackless   deeps,  where   many  a 

weary  sail 
Has  seen  above  the  illimitable  plain 
Morning  on  night,  and  night  on  morning 

rise. 
Whilst  still  no  land  to  greet  the  wanderer 

spread 
Its  shadowy  mountains  on  the  sun-bright 

sea. 
Where  the  loud  roarings  of  the  tempest- 
waves 
So  long  have  mingled  with  the  gusty  wind 
In  melancholy  loneliness,  and  swept         loo 
The  desert  of  those  ocean  solitudes 
But  vocal  to  the  sea-bird's  harrowing  shriek, 
The  bellowing  monster,   and   the  rushing 

storm. 
Now   to    the   sweet   and   many  -  mingling 

sounds 
Of  kindliest  human  impulses  respond; 
Those   lonely   realms    bright   garden-isles 

begem. 
With   lightsome   clouds  and  shining  seas 

between, 
And  fertile  valleys,  resonant  with  bliss. 
Whilst  green  woods  overcanopy  the  wave, 
Which  like  a  toil-worn   laborer  leaps   to 

shore  1 10 

To  meet  the  kisses  of  the  flowerets  there. 

Man   chief   perceives   the   change  ;    his 
being  notes 
The  gradual  renovation,  and  defines 
Each  movement  of  its  progress  on  his  mind 


422 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Man,  where  the  gloom  of  the  long  polar 

night 
Lowered   o'er  the   snow  -  clad  rocks  and 

frozen  soil, 
Where  scarce  the  hardest  herb  that  braves 

the  frost 
Basked  in  the  moonlight's  ineffectual  glow, 
Shrank  with  the  plants,  and  darkened  with 

the  night; 
Nor  where  the  tropics  bound  the  realms  of 

day  120 

With  a  broad  belt  of  mingling  cloud  and 

flame, 
Where  blue  mists  through   the  unmoving 

atmosphere 
Scattered  the  seeds  of  pestilence,  and  fed 
Unnatural  vegetation,  where  the  land 
Teemed  with  all  earthquake,  tempest  and 

disease. 
Was  man  a  nobler  being;  slavery 
Had  crushed  him  to   his  country's  blood- 
stained dust. 

Even  where  the  milder  zone  afforded  man 
A  seeming  shelter,  yet  contagion  there,    129 
Blighting  his  being  with  unnumbered  ills. 
Spread   like   a  quenchless  fire;    nor  truth 

availed 
Till  late  to  arrest  its  progress,  or  create 
That  peace  which  first  in  bloodless  victory 

waved 
Her    snowy   standard    o'er    this    favored 

clime; 
There  man  was  long  the  train-bearer  of 

slaves, 
The  mimic  of  surrounding  misery. 
The  jackal  of  ambition's  lion-rage, 
The  bloodhound  of  religion's  hungry  zeal. 

Here  now  the  human  being  stands  adorn- 
ing 

This  loveliest  earth  with  taintless  body  and 
mind;  140 

Blest  from  his  birth  with  all  bland  im- 
pulses, 

Which  gently  in  his  noble  bosom  wake 

All  kindly  passions  and  all  pure  desires. 

Him,  still  from  hope  to  hope  the  bliss  pur- 
suing 

Which  from  the  exhaustless  lore  of  human 
\»eal 

Draws  on  the  virtuous  mind,  the  thoughts 
that  rise 

In  time-destroying  infiniteness  gift 

With  self-enshrined  eternity,  that  mocks 


The  unpre vailing  hoariness  of  age; 

And  man,  once  fleeting  o'er  the  transient 

scene  150 

Swift  as  an  unremembered  vision,  stands 
Immortal  upon  earth ;  no  longer  now 
He  slays  the  beast  that  sports  around  his 

dwelling. 
And  horribly  devours  its  mangled  flesh, 
Or    drinks   its   vital    blood,    which   like  a 

stream 
Of  poison   through  his  fevered  veins  did 

flow 
Feeding  a  plague  that  secretly  consumed 
His  feeble  frame,  and  kindling  in  his  mind 
Hatred,  despair,  and  fear  and  vain  belief. 
The  germs  of  misery,  death,  disease,  and 

crime.  160 

No  longer  now  the  winged  habitants, 
That  in  the  woods  their  sweet  lives  sing 

away, 
Flee  from  the  form  of  man;  but  gather 

round. 
And  prune   their  sunny  feathers  on   the 

hands 
Which  little  children  stretch  in   friendly 

sport 
Towards  these  dreadless  partners  of  their 

play. 
All  things  are  void  of  terror;  man  has  lost 
His  desolating  privilege,  and  stands 
An  equal  amidst  equals;  happiness 
And  science  dawn  though  late  upon  the 

earth ;  170 

Peace  cheers  the  mind,  health  renovates  the 

frame ; 
Disease  and  pleasure  cease  to  mingle  here, 
Reason  and  passion  cease  to  combat  there ; 
Whilst  mind  unfettered  o'er  the  earth  ex- 
tends 
Its  all-subduing  energies,  and  wields 
The  sceptre  of  a  vast  dominion  there. 

Mild  is  the  slow  necessity  of  death. 
The  tranquil  spirit  fails  beneath  its  grasp. 
Without  a  groan,  almost  without  a  fear, 
Resigned  in  peace  to  the  necessity,  180 

Calm  as  a  voyager  to  some  distant  land, 
And  full  of  wonder,  full  of  hope  as  he. 
The  deadly  germs  of  languor  and  disease 
Waste  in  the  human    frame,  and   Nature 

gifts 
With  choicest  boons  her  human  worship- 
pers. 
How   vigorous  now  the  athletic  form  of 
age! 


FRAGMENTS 


423 


How  clear  its  open  and  unwriiikled  brow  ! 
Where  neither  avarice,  cunning,  pride,  or 

care, 
Had  stamped  the  zeal  of  gray  deformity 
On  all  the  mingling  lineaments  of  time.  190 
How  lovel}'  the  intrepid  front  of  youth  ! 
How  sweet  the  smiles  of  taintless  infancy. 

Within  the  massy  prison's   mouldering 

courts 
Fearless  and  free  the  ruddy  children  play, 
Weaving  gay  chaplets  for  their  innocent 

brows 
With  the  green  ivy  and  the  red  wall-flower, 
That  mock  tlie  dungeon's  unavailing  gloom ; 
The    ponderous    chains,   and   gratings    of 

strong  iron, 
There  rust  amid  the  accumulated  ruins 
Novir   mingling    slowly   with   their   native 

earth ;  200 

There  the  broad  beam  of  day,  which  feebly 

once 
Lighted  the  cheek  of  lean  captivity 
With  a  pale  and  sickly  glare,  now  freely 

shines 
On  the  pure  smiles  of  infant  playfulness; 
No  more  the  shuddering  voice  of  hoarse 

despair 
Peals    through    the    echoing    vaults,    but 

soothing  notes 
Of  ivy-fingered  winds  and  gladsome  birds 
And  merriment  are  resonant  around. 

The  fanes  of  Fear  and  Falsehood  hear  no 

more 
The  voice  that  once  waked  multitudes  to 

war  2IO 

Thundering   through  all  their  aisles,  but 

now  respond 
To  the  death  dirge  of  the  melancholy  wind. 
It  were  a  sight  of  awfulness  to  see 
The  works  of  faith  and  slavery,  so  vast. 
So  sumptuous,  yet  withal  so  perishing. 
Even  as  the  corpse  that  rests  beneath  their 

wall! 
A  thousand   mourners  deck  the   pomp  of 

death 
To-day,  the  breathing  marble  glows  above 
To  decorate  its  memory,  and  tongues 
Are  busy  of  its  life ;  to-morrow,  worms  220 
In   silence    and   in   darkness    seize    their 

prey. 
These  ruins  soon  leave  not  a  wreck  behind ; 
Iheir   elements,   wide   scattered   o'er  the 

globe, 


To  happier  shapes  are  moulded,  and  be- 
come 

Miuistrant  to  all  blissful  impulses; 

Thus  human  things  are  perfected,  and 
earth. 

Even  as  a  child  beneath  its  mother's  love. 

Is  strengthened  in  all  excellence,  and 
grows 

Fairer  and  nobler  with  each  passing  year. 

Now  Time  his  dusky  pennons  o'er  the 

scene  230 

Closes  in  steadfast  darkness,  and  the  past 
Fades  from  our  charmed  sight.     My  task 

is  done; 
Thy  lore  is  learned.     Earth's  wonders  are 

thine  own, 
With  all  the  fear  and  all  the  hope  they 

bring. 
My  spells  are  past;  the  present  now  recurs. 
Ah  me  !  a  pathless  wilderness  remains 
Yet  unsubdued  by  man's  reclaiming  hand. 

Yet,   human   Spirit,   bravely    hold    thy 

course. 
Let  virtue  teach  thee  firmly  to  pursue     239 
The  gradual  paths  of  an  aspiring  change. 
For   birth   and   life   and  death,  and  that 

strange  state 
Before  the  naked  powers,  that  through  the 

world 
Wander  like  winds,  have  found  a  human 

home; 
All  tend  to  perfect  happiness,  and  urge 
The  restless  wheels  of  being  on  their  way, 
Whose  flashing  spokes,  instinct  with  infinite 

life, 
Bicker  and  burn  to  gain   their  destined 

For  birth  but  wakes  the  universal  mind. 
Whose  mighty  streams  might  else  in  silence 

flow 
Through  the  vast  world,  to  individual  sense 
Of   outward   shows,  whose   unexperienced 

shape  251 

New  modes  of  passion  to  its   frame  may 

lend; 
Life  is  its  state  of  action,  and  the  store 
Of  all  events  is  aggregated  there 
That  variegate  the  eternal  universe; 
Death  is  a  gate  of  dreariness  and  gloom, 
That   leads   to  azure   isles    and    beaming 

skies 
And  happy  regions  of  eternal  hope. 
Therefore,  O  Spirit !  fearlessly  bear  on- 


424 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Though  storms  may  break  the  primrose  on 

its  stalk,  260 

Though  frosts  may  blight  the  freshness  of 

its  bloom, 
Yet   spring's   awakening  breath  will  woo 

the  earth 
To  feed  with  kindliest  dews  its   favorite 

flower. 
That  blooms  in  mossy  banks  and  darksome 

glens, 
Lighting   the   green  wood  with  its  sunny 

smile. 

Fear  not  then.  Spirit,  death's  disrobing 

hand. 
So  welcome  when  the  tyrant  is  awake, 
So  welcome   when   the   bigot's   hell-torch 

flares; 
'T  is  but  the  voyage  of  a  darksome  hour. 
The  transient   gulf-dream  of  a,  startling 

sleep.  270 

For  what  thou  art  shall  perish  utterly, 
But  what  is  thine  may  never  cease  to  be; 
Death  is  no  foe  to  virtue;  earth  has  seen 
Love's    brightest    roses   on    the    scaffold 

bloom, 
Mingling  with  freedom's  fadeless   laurels 

there, 
And  presaging  the  truth  of  visioned  bliss. 
Are  there  not  hopes  within  thee,  which  this 

scene 
Of  linked  and  gradual  being  has  confirmed  ? 
Hopes  that  not  vainly  thou,  and  living  fires 
Of  mind,  as  radiant  and  as  pure  as  thou 
Have  shone  upon  the  paths  of  men  —  re- 
turn 281 
Surpassing  Spirit,  to  that  world,  where  thou 
Art  destined  an  eternal  war  to  wage 
With  tyranny  and  falsehood,  and  uproot 
The  germs  of  misery  from  the  human  heart. 
Thine  is  the  hand  whose  piety  would  soothe 
The  thorny  pillow  of  unhappy  crime. 
Whose  impotence  an  easy  pardon  gains, 
Watching    its   wanderings    as   a    friend's 

disease ; 
Thine  is  the  brow  whose  mildness  would 

defy  290 

Its  fiercest  rage,  and  brave  its  sternest  will. 
When  fenced  by  power  and  master  of  the 

world. 
Thou   art   sincere  and   good;  of  resolute 

mind, 
Free   from   heart-withering  custom's  cold 

control, 
Of  passion  lofty,  pure  and  unsubdued. 


Earth's  pride  and  meanness  could  not  vaiw 

quish  thee. 
And  therefore  art  thou  worthy  of  the  boon 
Which  thou  hast  now  received;  virtue  shall 

keep 
Thy  footsteps  in  the  path  that  thou  hast 

trod,  2gq 

And  many  days  of  beaming  hope  shall  bless 
Thy  spotless  life  of  sweet  and  sacred  love. 
Go,  happy  one,  and  give  that  bosom  joy 
Whose  sleepless  spirit  waits  to  catch 
Light,  life  and  rapture  from  thy  smile. 

The  Daemon  called  its  wingfed  ministers. 
Speechless  with  bliss  the  Spirit  mounts  the 

car, 
That  rolled  beside  the  crystal  battlement, 
Bending  her  beamy  eyes  in  thankfulness. 

The  burning  wheels  inflame 
The  steep  descent  of  Heaven's  untrodden 
way.  310 

Fast  and  far  the  chariot  flew. 
The  mighty  globes  that  rolled 
Around  the  gate  of  the  Eternal  Fane 
Lessened   by  slow  degrees,  and   soon  ap« 

peared 
Such  tiny  twinklers  as  the  planet  orbs. 
That,  ministering  on  the  solar  power, 
With  borrowed   light,  pursued  their  nar- 
rower way. 
Earth  floated  then  below. 
The  chariot  paused  a  moment; 
The  Spirit  then  descended ;  320 

And  from  the  earth  departing 
The  shadows  with  swift  wings 
Speeded    like   thought  upon   the    light  of 
Heaven. 

The  Body  and  the  Soul  united  then; 
A  gentle  start  convulsed  lanthe's  frame; 
H2r  veiny  eyelids  quietly  unclosed; 
Moveless  awhile   the   dark  blue   orbs  re- 
mained. 
She  looked  around  in  wonder  and  beheld 
Henry,  who  kneeled  in  silence  by  her  couch. 
Watching  her  sleep  with  looks  of  speech- 
less love,  330 
And  the  bright  beaming  stars 
That  through  the  casement  shone. 

PRINCE   ATHANASE 

Shelley  writes  in  a  note  :  '  The  Author  was 
pursuing  a  fuller  development  of  the  ideal 
character  of  Athanase,  when  it  struck  liim  thai 


FRAGMENTS 


425 


in  an  attempt  at  extreme  refinement  and  anal- 
ysis, his  conceptions  might  be  betraj'ed  into 
the  assuming  a  morbid  character.  The  reader 
■will  judge  whether  he  is  a  loser  or  gainer  by 
the  difEerence.' 

Mrs.  Shelley  adds :  *  The  idea  Shelley  had 
formed  of  Piince  Athanase  was  a  good  deal 
modelled  on  Alastor.  In  the  first  sketch  of 
the  poem,  he  named  it  Pandemos  and  Urania. 
Athanase  seeks  through  the  world  the  One 
whom  he  may  love.  He  meets,  in  the  ship  in 
which  he  is  embarked,  a  lady  who  appears  to 
him  to  embody  his  ideal  of  love  and  beauty. 
But  she  proves  to  be  Pandemos,  or  the  earthly 
and  unworthy  Venus  ;  who,  after  disappoint- 
ing his  cherished  dreams  and  hopes,  deserts 
him.  Athanase,  crushed  by  sorrow,  pines  and 
dies.  "  On  his  deathbed,  the  lady  who  can 
really  reply  to  his  soul  comes  and  kisses  his 
lips."  {The  Deathbed  of  Athanase.)  The  poet 
describes  her  [ii.  1.55-160].  This  slender  note 
is  all  we  have  to  aid  our  imagination  in  shap- 
ing out  the  form  of  the  poem,  such  as  its  au- 
thor imagined.'  Date,  1817.  Published,  Mrs. 
Shelley,  1824. 

PART  I 

There  was  a  youth,  who,  as  with  toil  and 

travel, 
Had  grown  quite  weak  and  gray  before  his 

time; 
Nor  any  could  the  restless  griefs  unravel 

Which  burned  within  him,  withering  up  his 

prime 
And  goading  him,  like  fiends,  from  land  to 

land. 
Not  his  the  load  of  any  secret  crime. 

For  nought  of  ill  his  heart  could  understand, 
But  pity  and  wild  sorrow  for  the  same ; 
Not  his  the  thirst  for  glory  or  command, 

Baffled    with    blast    of    hope-consuming 

shame;  10 

Nor  evil  joys,  which  fire  the  vulgar  breast 

And  quench   in  speedy  smoke   its    feeble 

flame, 

Had  left  within  his  soul  their  dark  unrest; 
Nor  what  religion  fables  of  the  grave 
Feared  he,  —  Philosophy's  accepted  guest. 

For  none  than  he  a  purer  heart  could  have. 
Or  that  loved  good  more  for  itself  alone; 
Of  nought  in  heaven  or  earth  was  he  the 
slave. 


What   sorrow  strange,  and  shadowy,  and 

unknown. 
Sent  him,  a   hopeless   wanderer,  through 

mankind  ?  —  20 

If  with  a  human  sadness  he  did  groan. 

He  had  a  gentle  yet  aspiring  mind; 
Just,  innocent,  with  varied  learning  fed; 
And  such  a  glorious  consolation  find 

In  others'  joy,  when  all  their  own  is  dead. 
He  loved,  and  labored  for  his  kind  in  grief. 
And  yet,  unlike  all  others,  it  is  said, 

That  from  such  toil  he  never  found  relief. 
Although  a  child  of  fortune  and  of  power, 
Of  an  ancestral  name  the  orphan  chief,    30 

His  soul    had   wedded    wisdom,   and   her 

dower 
Is  love  and  justice,  clothed  in  which  he  sate 
Apart  from  men,  as  in  a  lonely  tower. 

Pitying  the  tumult  of  their  dark  estate. 
Yet  even  in  youth  did  he  not  e'er  abuse 
The  strength  of  wealth  or  thought  to  con- 
secrate 

Those  false  opinions  which  the  harsh  rich 

use 
To  blind  the  world  they  famish  for  their 

pride; 
Nor  did  he  hold  from  any  man  his  dues, 

But,  like  a  steward  in  honest  dealings  tried 
With  those  who  toiled  and  wept,  the  poor 
and  wise,  41 

His  riches  and  his  cares  he  did  divide. 

Fearless  he  was,  and  scorning  all  disguise; 
What  he  dared  do  or   think,  though  men 

might  start, 
He  spoke  with  mild  yetunaverted  eyes; 

Liberal  he  was  of  soul,  and  frank  of  heart, 
And  to  his  many  friends  —  all  loved  him 

well  — 
Whate'er  he  knew  or  felt  he  would  impart. 

If  words  he  found  those  inmost  thoughts  to 

tell; 
If  not,  he  smiled  or  wept;  and  his  weak 

foes  so 

He  neither  spurned  nor  hated,  though  with 

fell 


426 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


And  mortal   hate    their  thousand    voices 

rose, — 
They  passed  like  aim^less  arrows  from  his 

ear; 
Nor  did  his  heart  or  mind  its  portal  close 

To   those,   or  them,   or  any   whom   life's 

sphere 
May  comprehend  w-ithin  its  wide  array. 
What    sadness    made    that    vernal    spirit 


He  knew  not.     Though  his  life,  day  after 

day, 
Was  failing  like  an  unreplenished  stream, 
Though  in  his  eyes  a  cloud  and  burden  lay. 

Through  which  his  soul,  like  Vesper's  se- 
rene beam  6i 
Piercing  the  chasms  of  ever  rising  clouds. 
Shone,  softly  burning;  though  his  lips  did 
seem 

Like  reeds  which  quiver  in  impetuous 
floods ; 

And  through  his  sleep,  and  o'er  each  wak- 
ing hour, 

Thoughts  after  thoughts,  unresting  multi- 
tudes. 

Were  driven  within  him  by  some  secret 

power, 
Which  bade  them  blaze,  and  live,  and  roll 

afar, 
Like  lights  and  sounds  from  haunted  tower 

to  tower 

O'er  castled  mountains  borne,  when  tem- 
pest's war  70 
Is  levied  by  the  night-contending  winds 
And  the  pale  dalesmen  watch  with  eager 
ear;  — 

Though   such   were   in  his   spirit,   as  the 

fiends 
Which    wake    and    feed    on   ever    living 

woe,  — 
What  was  this  grief,  which  ne'er  in  other 

minds 

A  mirror  found,  he  knew  not  —  none  could 

know; 
But   on   whoe'er  might   question   him  he 

turned 
The  light  of  his  frank  eyes,  as  if  to  show 


He    knew  not  of  the   grief  within    that 

burned. 
But  asked   forbearance   with  a  mournful 

look ;  80 

Or  spoke  in  words  from  which  none  ever 

learned 

The  cause  of  his  disquietude;  or  shook 
With  spasms   of  sUent  passion;  or  turned 

pale: 
So  that  his  friends  soon  rarely  undertook 

To  stir  his  secret  pain  without  avail; 
For  all  who  knew  and  loved  him  then  per- 
ceived 
That  there  was  drawn  an  adamantine  veil 

Between  his  heart  and  mind,  —  both  unre- 
lieved 

Wrought  in  his  brain  and  bosom  separate 
strife. 

Some  said  that  he  was  mad;  others  be- 
lieved go 

That  memories  of  an  antenatal  life 

Made  this,  where  now  he  dwelt,  a  penal 

hell; 
And  others  said  that  such  mysterious  grief 

From  God's  displeasure,  like  a  darkness, 

fell 
On  souls  like  his  which  owned  no  higher  law 
Than  love;  love  calm,  steadfast,  invincible 

By  mortal  fear  or  supernatural  awe; 

And    others,  —  •  'T  is    the    shadow    of    a 

dream 
Which  the  veiled  eye  of  memory  never  saw, 

'  But  through  the  soul's  abyss,  like  some 
daik  stream  100 

Through  shattered  mines  and  caverns 
underground. 

Rolls,  shaking  its  foundations;  and  no 
beam 

'Of  joy  may  rise  but  it  is  quenched  and 
drowned 

In  the  dim  whirlpools  of  this  dream  ob- 
scure; 

Soon  its  exhausted  waters  will  have  found 

'  A  lair  of  rest  beneath  thy  spirit  pure, 
O  Athanase  I  —  in  one  so  good  and  great. 
Evil  or  tumult  cannot  long  endure.'         108 


FRAGMENTS 


427 


So  spake  they  —  idly  of  .another's  state 
Babbling  vaiu  words  and  fond  philosophy; 
This  was  their  consolation;  such  debate 

Men  held  with  one  another;  nor  did  he, 
Like  one  who  labors  with  a  human  woe, 
Decline  this  talk ;  as  if  its  theme  might  be 

Another,  not  himself,  he  to  and  fro 
Questioned  and  canvassed  it  with  subtlest 

wit, 
And  none  but  those  who  loved  him  best 

could  know 

That  which  he  knew  not,  how  it  galled  and 

bit 
His  weary  mind,   this  converse   vain  and 

cold;  119 

For  like  an  eyeless  nightmare  grief  did  sit 

Upon  his  being;  a  snake  which  fold  by  fold 
Pressed  out  the  life  of  life,  a  clinging  fiend 
Which   clenched    him   if   he   stirred  with 

deadlier  hold;  — 
And  so  his  grief  remained  —  let  it  remain 

—  untold. 

PART  II 

Prince  Athanase  had  one  belovfed  friend, 
An  old,  old  man,  with  hair  of  silver  white, 
And   lips   where    heavenly    smiles    would 
hang  and  blend 

With   his    wise    words,   and    eyes    whose 

arrowy  light 
Shone  like  the  reflex  of  a  thousand  minds. 
He  was  the  last  whom  superstition's  blight 

Had  spared  in   Greece  —  the   blight  that 

cramps  and  blinds  — 
And  in  his  olive  bower  at  CEnoe 
Had  sate  from  earliest  youth.  Like  one  who 

finds 

A  fertile  island  in  the  barren  sea,  10 

One  mariner  who  lias  survived  his  mates 
Many  a  drear  month  in  a  great  ship  —  so 
he 

With  soul-sustaining  songs,  and  sweet  de- 
bates 

Of  ancient  lore  there  fed  his  lonely  being. 

'  The  mind  becomes  that  which  it  contem- 
plates,' — 


And  thus  Zonoras,  by  forever  seeing 
Their   bright   creatious,  grew  like   wisest 

men; 
And  when  he  heard  the  crash  of  nations 

fleeing 

A  bloodier  power  than  ruled  thy  ruins  then, 
O  sacred  Hellas  !  xnany  weary  years  20 
He  wandered,  till  the  path  of  Laian's  glen 

Was  grass-grown,  and  the  unremembered 

tears 
Were  dry  in  Laian  for  their  honored  chief, 
Who  fell  in  Byzant,  pierced  by  Moslem 

spears ; 

And  as  the  lady  looked  with  faithful  grief 
From  her  high  lattice  o'er  the  rugged  path, 
Where  she  once  saw  that  horseman  toil, 
with  brief. 

And  blighting  hope,  who  with  the  news  of 
death 

Struck  body  and  soul  as  with  a  mortal 
blight, 

She  saw  beneath  the  chestnuts,  far  be- 
neath, 3« 

An  old  man  toiling  up,  a  weary  wight; 
And  soon  within  her  hospitable  hall 
She  saw  his  white  hairs  glittering  in  the 
light 

Of  the  wood-fire,  and  round  his  shoulders 

fall; 
And  his  wan  visage  and  his  withered  mien 
Yet  calm  and  gentle  and  majestical. 

And  Athanase,  her  child,  who  must  have 

been 
Then  three  years   old,  sate  opposite   and 

gazed 
In  patient  silence. 

Such  was  Zonoras;  and  as  daylight  finds 
One   amaranth   glittering   on  the  path  of 

frost,  41 

When  autumn    nights    have    nipped    all 

weaker  kinds, 

Thus  through  his  age,  dark,  cold,  and  ten*.. 

pest-tossed. 
Shone  truth  upon  Zonoras ;  and  he  filled 
From  fountains  pure,  nigh  overgrown  and 

losl^ 


428 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


The  spirit  of  Prince  Athanase,  a  child, 
With  soul-siistainiiig  songs  of  ancient  lore 
And  philosophic  wisdom,  clear  and  mild. 

And   sweet  and    subtle    talk    they   ever- 
more. 
The  pupil  and  the  master,  shared;  nntil,  50 
Sharing  that  undiminishable  store, 

The  youth,  as  shadows  on  a  grassy  hill 
Outrun  the  winds  that  chase  them,  soon 

outran 
His   teacher,   and   did   teach  with   native 

skill 

Strange  truths  and  new  to  that  experienced 
man; 

Still  they  were  friends,  as  few  have  ever 
been 

Who  mark  the  extremes  of  life's  discord- 
ant span. 

So  in  the  caverns  of  the  forest  green. 
Or  by  the  rocks  of  echoing  ocean  hoar, 
Zonoras  and  Prince  Athanase  were  seen   60 

By  summer  woodmen;  and  when  winter's 

roar 
Sounded  o'er  earth  and  sea  its  blast  of 

war. 
The  Balearic  fisher,  driven  from  shore, 

Hanging  upon  the  peaked  wave  afar, 
Then  saw  their  lamp  from  Laian's  turret 

gleam, 
Piercing  the  stormy  darkness  like  a  star 

Which  pours  beyond  the  sea  one  steadfast 

beam, 
Whilst  all  the  constellations  of  the  sky 
Seemed  reeling  throu<rh  the  storm.     They 

did  but  seem  — 

For,  lo  !  the  wintry  clouds  are  all  gone 
by,  70 

And  bright  Arcturus  through  yon  pines  is 
glowing. 

And  far  o'er  southern  waves,  immovably 

Belted  Orion  hangs  —  warm  light  is  flow- 
ing 

From  the  young  moon  into  the  sunset's 
chasm.       ^ 

•O  summer  eve  with  power  divine,  be- 
stowing 


*  On  thine  own  bird  the  sweet  enthusiasm 
Which  overflows  in  notes  of  liquid  glad- 
ness, 

Filling  the  sky  like  light !  How  many  a 
spasm 

'Of  fevered  brains,  oppressed  with  grief 
and  madness. 

Were  lulled  by  thee,  delightful  nightin- 
gale !  80 

And  these  soft  waves,  murmuring  a  gentle 
sadness, 

*  And  the  far  sighings  of  yon  piny  dale 
Made   vocal   by   some    wind    we   feel   no^' 

here,  — 
I  bear  alone  what  nothing  may  avail 

'  To  lighten  —  a  strange  load  ! '  —  No  hu- 
man ear 

Heard  this  lament;  but  o'er  the  visage 
wan 

Of  Athanase  a  ruffling  atmosphere 

Of  dark  emotion,  a  swift  shadow,  ran. 
Like  wind  upon  some  forest-bosomed  lake. 
Glassy   and   dark.     And   that    divine   old 
man  90 

Beheld  his  mystic  friend's  whole  being 
shake, 

Even  where  its  inmost  depths  were  gloom- 
iest; 

And  with  a  calm  and  measured  voice  he 
spake, 

And  with  a  soft  and  equal  pressure, 
pressed 

That  cold,  lean  hand:  —  'Dost  thou  re- 
member yet. 

When  the  curved  moon,  then  lingering  in 
the  west, 

'  Paused  in  yon  waves  her  mighty  horns  to 
wet. 

How  in  those  beams  we  walked,  half  rest- 
ing on  the  sea  ? 

'T  is  just  one  year  —  sure  thou  dost  not 
forget  — 

'  Then  Plato's  words  of  light  in  thee  and 
me  100 

Lingered  like  moonlight  in  the  moonlesa 
east; 

For  we  had  just  then  read  —  thy  memdry 


FRAGMENTS 


429 


•Is  faithful  now  —  the  story  of  the  feast; 
And  Agathon  and  Diotiraa  seemed 
From  death   and   dark  forgetfulness    re- 
leased.' 

'T  was  at  the  season  when  the  Earth  up- 

springs 
From  slumber,  as  a  sphered  angel's  child, 
Shadowing  its  eyes  with  green  and  golden 

wings, 

Stands  up    before   its  mother  bright  and 

mild. 
Of  whose   soft    voice    the    air  expectant 

seems —  no 

So  stood  before  the  sun,  which  shone  and 

smiled 

To  see  it  rise  thus  joyous  from  its  dreams, 
The  fresh  and  radiant  Earth.     The  hoary 

grove 
Waxed  green,  and  flowers  burst  forth  like 

starry  beams; 

The  grass  in  the  warm  sun  did  start  and 
move, 

And  sea-buds  burst  beneath  the  waves  se- 
rene. 

How  many  a  one,  though  none  be  near  to 
love, 

Loves  then  the  shade  of  his  own  soul,  half 
seen 

In  any  mirror,  or  the  spring's  young  min- 
ions, 

The  wingfed  leaves  amid  the  copses  green  ! 

How  many  a  spirit  then  puts  on  the  pin- 
ions 121 
Of  fancy,  and  outstrips  the  lagging  blast. 
And  his  own  steps,  and  over  wide  domin- 
ions                               • 

Sweeps  in  his   dream-drawn   chariot,  far 

and  fast, 
More  fleet  than   storms  —  the  wide  world 

shrinks  below. 
When  winter  and  despondency  are  passed  ! 

*T  was  at  this  season  that  Prince  Athanase 
Passed  the  white  Alps;  those  eagle-baffling 

mountains 
Slept  in  their  shrouds  of  snow;  beside  the 

ways 


The  waterfalls  were  voiceless,  for  their 
fountains  130 

Were  changed  to  mines  of  sunless  crystal 
now; 

Or,  by  the  curdling  winds,  like  brazen 
wings 

Which  clanged  along  the  mountain's  mar- 
ble brow, 
Warped  into  adamantine  fretwork,  hung. 
And  filled  with  frozen  light  the  chasm  be- 
low. 

Thou  art  the  wine  whose  drunkenness  is 

all 
We    can    desire,    O    Love  !     and    happy 

souls. 
Ere  from  thy  vine  the  leaves  of  autumn 

fall, 

Catch  thee,  and  feed  from  their  o'erflow- 

ing  bowls 
Thousands   who  thirst  for  thy  ambrosial 

dew !  140 

Thou  art  the  radiance  which  where  ocean 

rolls 

Investest  it;  and  when  the   heavens  are 

blue 
Thou  fillest  them;  and  when  the  earth  is 

fair 
The  shadow  of  thy  moving  wings  imbue 

Its  deserts   and  its  mountains,   till    they 

wear 
Beauty  like  some  bright  robe;  thou  ever 

soarest 
Among  the  towers  of  men,  and  as  soft  air 

In  spring,  which  moves  the   unawakened 

forest. 
Clothing  with  leaves  its  branches  bare  and 

bleak. 
Thou    floatest    among  men,  and  aye   im- 

plorest  150 

That  which  from  thee  they  should  implore; 

the  weak 
Alone    kneel    to    thee,    offering    up    the 

hearts 
The  strong  have  broken;  yet  where  shall 

any  seek 

A  garment  whom  thoa  clothest  not  ? 


43° 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Her  hair  was  brown,  her  spberfed  eyes  were 

brown, 
And  in  their  dark  and  liquid    moisture 

swam. 
Like  the  dim  orb  of  the  eclipsed  moon; 

Yet  when  the  spirit  flashed  beneath,  there 
came 

The  light  from  them,  as  when  tears  of  de- 
light 159 

Double  the  western  planet's  serene  flame. 

THE   WOODMAN   AND    THE 
NIGHTINGALE 

Date,  1818.   Published  in  part  by  Mrs.  Shel- 
ley, 1824,  and  the  remainder  by  Gamett,  1862. 

A  WOODMAN,  whose  rough  heart  was  out 

of  tune 
(I  think   such  hearts  yet  never  came   to 

good), 
Hated  to  hear,  under  the  stars  or  moon, 

One  nightingale  in  an  interfluous  wood 
Satiate  the  hungry  dark  with  melody ;  — 
ind  as  a  vale  is  watered  by  a  flood. 

Or  as  the  moonlight  fills  the  open  sky 
Struggling  with  darkness,  as  a  tuberose 
Peoples  some  Indian  dell  with  scents  which 
lie 

Like  clouds  above  the  flower  from  which 

they  rose,  10 

The  singing  of  that  happy  nightingale 
In  this  sweet  forest,  from  the  golden  close 

Of  evening  till  the  star  of  dawn  may  fail, 
Was  interfused  upon  the  silentness. 
The  folded  roses  and  the  violets  pale 

Heard  her  within  their  slumbers,  the  abyss 
Of  heaven  with  all  its  planets;  the  dull  ear 
Of  the  night-cradled  earth ;  the  loneliness 

Of  the  circumfluous  waters;  every  sphere 
And  every  flower  and  beam  aud  cloud  and 

wave,  aoy 

And  every  wind  of  the  mute  atmosphere, 

And  every  beast  stretched  in  its  rugged 

cave, 
And  every  bird  lulled  on  its  mossy  bough. 
And  every  silver  moth  fresh  from  the  grave 


Which  is  its  cradle ;  —  ever  from  below 
Aspiring  like  one  who  loves  too  fair,  too 

far. 
To  be  consumed  within  the  purest  glow 

Of  one  serene  and  unapproached  star, 
As  if  it  were  a  lamp  of  earthly  light, 
Unconscious  as  some  human  lovers  are      30 

Itself  how  low,  how  high  beyond  all  height 
The  heaven  where  it  would  perish  !  —  and 

every  form 
That   worshipped   in  the   temple    of    the 

night 

Was  awed  into  delight,  and  by  the  charm 
Girt  as  with  an  interminable  zone. 
Whilst  that  sweet  bird,  whose  music  was  a 
storm 

Of  sound,  shook  forth  the  dull  oblivion 
Out  of  their  dreams;  harmony  became  love 
In  every  soul  but  one. 

And  so  this  man  returned  with  axe  and 
saw  40 

At  evening  close  from  killing  the  tall  treen, 
The  soul  of  whom  by  nature's  gentle  law 

Was  each  a  wood-nymph,  and  kept  ever 

green 
The  pavement  and  the  roof  of  the  wild 

copse, 
Checkering  the  sunlight  of  the  blue  serene 

With  jagged  leaves,  and  from  the  forest 

tops 
Singing  the  winds  to  sleep,  or  weeping  oft 
Fast  showers  of  aerial  water  drops 

Into  their  mother's  bosom,  sweet  and  soft, 
Nature's  pure  tears  which  have  no  bitter- 
ness ;  —  so 
Around  the  cradles  of  the  birds  aloft 

They  spread  themselves  into  the  loveliness 
Of  fan-like  leaves,  and  over  pallid  flow- 
ers 
Hang  like  moist  clouds;   or,   where  high 
branches  kiss, 

Make  a  green  space  among  the  silent  bow* 

ers, 
Like  a  vast  fane  in  a  metropolis, 
Surrounded  bv  the  columns  and  the  towers 


FRAGMENTS 


431 


All  overwrought  with  branch-like  traceries 
In  which  there  is  religion  —  and  the  mute 
Persuasion  of  unkindled  melodies,  60 

Odors  and  gleams  and  murmurs,  which  the 

lute 
Of  the  blind  pilot-spirit  of  the  blast 
Stirs  as  it  sails,  now  grave  and  now  acute. 

Wakening  the  leaves  and  waves  ere  it  has 

passed 
To  such  brief  unison  as  on  the  brain 
One  tone,  which  never  can  recur,  has  cast. 

One  accent  never  to  return  again. 


The  world  is  full  of  Woodmen  who  expel 
Love's  gentle  Dryads  from  the  haunt  of  life. 
And  vex  the  nightingales  in  every  dell.     70 

OTHO 

Date,  1817.  Published,  in  part,  by  Mrs. 
Shelley,  1839,  first  edition,  and  the  remainder 
by  Garnett,  1862.  Mrs.  Shelley  states  that  the 
poem  was  suggested  by  Tacitus. 


Thou  wert  not,  Cassius,  and  thou  couldst 
not  be, 
Last  of  the  Romans,  though  thy  memory 
claim 
From  Brutus  his  own  glory,  and  on  thee 
Rests   the   full   splendor  of   his  sacred 
fame; 
Nor  he  who  dared  make  the  foul  tyrant 
quail 
Amid  his  cowering  senate  with  thy  name, 
Though  thou  and  he  were  great;  it  will 

avail 
To  thine  own  fame  that  Otho's  should  not 
fail. 

II 

'T  will  wrong  thee  not  —  thou  wouldst,  if 
thou  couldst  feel. 
Abjure  such  envious  fame  —  great  Otho 
died 
Like   thee  —  he    sanctified    his    country's 
steel. 
At  once  the  tyrant  and  tyrannicide, 
In  his  own  blood.     A  deed  it  was  to  bring 
Tears   from  all  men  —  though   full  of 
gentle  pride. 


Such  pride  as  from  impetuous  love  may 

spring. 
That  will  not  be  refused  its  offering. 


Ill 


Dark  is   the  realm  of  grief:  but  human 
things 
Those  may  not  know  who  cannot  weep 
for  them. 


TASSO 

Date,  1818.  Published  by  Gamett,  1862, 
and  the  Song  by  Mrs.  Shelley,  1824.  Shelley 
writes  to  Peacock  regarding  the  drama :  '  I 
have  devoted  this  summer,  and  indeed  the  next 
year,  to  the  composition  of  a  tragedy  on  the 
subject  of  Tasso's  madness ;  which,  I  find  upon 
inspection,  is,  if  properly  treated,  admirably 
dramatic  and  poetical.  But  you  will  say  I 
have  no  dramatic  talent.  Very  true,  in  a  cer- 
tain seBse  ;  but  I  have  taken  the  resolution  to 
see  what  kind  of  tragedy  a  person  without 
dramatic  talent  could  write.  It  shall  be  better 
morality  than  Fazio,  and  better  poetry  than 
Bertram,  at  least.' 


Maddalo,  a  Courtier. 
Maxpiolio,  a  Poet. 


Fiona,  a  Minuter. 
Albano,  an  Usher. 


MADDALO 

No  access   to  the  Duke  !     You  have  not 

said 
That  the  Count  Maddalo  would  speak  with 

him? 

PIGNA 

Did  you  inform   his    Grace   that    Signer 

Pigna 
Waits  with  state  papers  for  his  signature  ? 

MALPIGLIO 

The  Lady  Leonora  cannot  know 
That  I  have  written  a  sonnet  to  her  fame. 
In  which  I  Venus  and  Adonis. 

You  should  not  take  my  gold  and  serve  me 
not. 

ALBANO 

In  truth  I  told  her,  and  she  smiled  and  said, 
'  If  I  am  Venus,  thou,  coy  Poesy, 
Art  the  Adonis  whom  I  love,  and  he 
The  Erymanthian  boar  that  wounded  him.' 
Oh,  trust  to  me,  Signor  Malpiglio, 
Those  nods  and  smiles  were  favors  worth 
the  zecliin. 


432 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


MALPIOLIO 

The  words  are   twisted  in   some    double 

sense 
That  I  reach  not;  the  smiles  fell  not  on 

me. 

PIGNA 

How  are  the  Duke  and  Duchess  occupied  ? 

ALBANO 

Buried  in  some  strange  talk.     The  Duke 

was  leaning, 
His  finger  on  his  brow,  his  lips  unclosed. 
The  Princess  sate  within  the  window-seat, 
And  so  her  face  was  hid;  but  on  her  knee 
Her  hands  were  clasped,  veined,  and  pale 

as  snow, 
And  quivering  —  young  Tasso,   too,    was 

there. 

JtADDALO 

Thon  seest  on  whom  from  thine  own  wor- 
shipped heaven 

Thou  drawest  down  smiles  —  they  did  not 
rain  on  thee. 

MALPIOLIO 

Would  they  were  parching  lightnings  for 

his  sake 
On  whom  they  fell  ! 


SONG 


I  loved  —  alas  f  our  life  is  love; 

But  when  we  cease  to  breathe  and  move 

I  do  suppose  love  ceases  too. 

I  thought,  but  not  as  now  I  do. 

Keen  thoughts  and  bright  of  linked  lore. 

Of  all  that  men^iad  thought  before, 

And  all  that  nature  shows,  and  more. 


And  still  I  love  and  still  I  think. 
But  strangely,  for  my  heart  can  drink 
The  dregs  of  such  despair,  and  live, 
And  love ; 

And  if  I  think,  my  thoughts  come  fast, 
I  mix  the  present  with  the  past. 
And  each  seems  uglier  than  the  last. 

Ill 
Sometimes  I  see  before  me  flee 
A  silver  spirit's  form,  like  thee, 


O  Leonora,  and  I  sit 

still  watching  it. 
Till  by  the  grated  casement's  ledge 
It  fades,  with  such  a  sigh,  as  sedge 
Breathes  o'er  the  breezy  streamlet's  edge. 


MARENGHI 

Date,  1818.  Published  in  part  by  Mrs.  Shel- 
ley, 1824,  and  the  remainder  by  Rossetti,  1870. 
Mrs.  Shelley  gives  as  the  source  Sismondi,  His- 
toire  des  Ripubliques  Italiennes. 


Let  those  who  pine  in  pride  or  in  revenge. 
Or  think  that  ill  for  ill  should  be  repaid. 
Or  barter  wrong  for  wrong,  until  the  ex- 
change 
Ruins  the   merchants  of  such   thriftless 
trade. 
Visit  the  tower  of  Vado,  and  unlearn 
Such  bitter  faith  beside  Marenghi's  urn. 

II 

A  massy  tower  yet  overhangs  the  town, 
A  scattered  group  of   ruined  dwellings 
now. 


Another  scene  ere  wise  Etruria  knew 

Its  second  ruin  through  internal  strife. 
And  tyrants  through  the  breach  of  discord 
threw 
The  chain  which   binds   and   kills.     As 
death  to  life. 
As  winter  to  fair  flowers  (though  some  be 

poison) 
So  Monarchy  succeeds  to  Freedom's  foison. 

IV 

In  Pisa's  church  a  cup  of  sculptured  gold 
Was  brimming  with  the  blood  of  feuds 
forsworn 

At  sacrament;  more  holy  ne'er  of  old 
Etrurians  mingled  with  the  shades  forlorn 

Of  moon-illumined  forests. 


And  reconciling  factions  wet  their  lips 
With  that  dread  wine,  and  swear  to  keep 
each  spirit 
Undarkened  by  their  country's  last  eclipse. 


FRAGMENTS 


433 


Was  Florence  the  liberticide  ?  that  band 
Of  free  and  glorious  brothers  who  had 
pli,,nt3d, 
Like  a  green  isle  'mid  Ethiopian  sand, 
A  nation  amid  slaveries,  disenchanted 
Of  many  impious  faiths  —  wise,  just  —  do 

they, 
Does  Florence,  gorge  the   sated    tyrants' 
prey? 

VII 

O  foster-nurse  of  man's  abandoned  glorj', 
Since  Athens,  its  great  mother,  sunk  in 

splendor; 
Tlion  shadowest  forth  that  mighty  shape  in 

story, 
As  ocean  its  wrecked  fanes,  severe  yet 

tender. 
The  light-invested  angel  Poesy 
Was  drawn  from  the  dim  world  to  welcome 

thee. 

VIII 

And   thou  in  painting  didst  transcribe  all 

taught 
By  loftiest  meditations;  marble  knew 
The   sculptor's    fearless   soul,    and   as   he 

wrought, 
The  grace  of  his  own  power  and  freedom 

grew. 
And  more  than  all,  heroic,  just,  sublime. 
Thou  wert  among  the  false  —  was  this  thy 

crime  ? 

IX 
Yes;  and  on  Pisa's  marble  walls  the  twine 
Of   direst  weeds   hangs  garlanded;  the 
snake 
Inhabits  its  wrecked  palaces ;  —  in  thine 

A  beast  of  subtler  venom  now  doth  make 
Its  lair,  and  sits  amid  their  glories  over- 
thrown, 
And  thus  thy  victim's  fate  is  as  thine  own. 


The  sweetest  flowers  are  ever  frail  and  rare. 
And   love  and  freedom  blossom  but  to 
wither; 
And  good  and  ill  like  vines  entangled  are. 
So  that  their  grapes  may  oft  be  plucked 
together. 
Divide   the  vintage   ere  thou   drink,  then 

make 
Ihy  heart  rejoice  for  dead  Marenghi's  sake. 


No  record  of  his  crime  remains  in  story, 
But  if   the  morning   bright  as   evening 
shone. 
It  was  some  high  and  holy  deed,  by  glory 
Pursued  into  forgetfulness,  which  won 
From  the  blind  crowd  he  made  secure  and 

free 
The  patriot's  meed,  "toil,  death,  and  infamy. 


For  when  by  sound  of  trumpet  was  declared 
A   price   upon   his   life,  and   there  was 
set 
A  penalty  of  blood  on  all  who  shared 
So   much  of  water  with  him  as  might 
wet 
His   lips,   which   speech    divided   not,    he 

went 
Alone,  as  you  may  guess,  to  banishment. 

XIII 
Amid  the  mountains,  like  a  hunted  beast. 
He  hid   himself,  and    hunger,  toil,  and 
cold, 
Month  after  month  endured;  it  was  a  feast 
Whene'er  he  found  those  globes  of  deep- 
red  gold 
Which  in   the  woods   the  strawberry-tree 

doth  bear. 
Suspended  in  their  emerald  atmosphere 


And  in  the  roofless  huts  of  vast  morasses, 

Deserted  by  the  fever-stricken  serf. 
All  overgrown  with  reeds  and  long  rank 

grasses, 
And    hillocks    heaped  of   moss-inwoven 

turf. 
And  where   the  huge  and   speckled  aloe 

made, 
Rooted    in   stones,   a  broad  and  pointed 

shade, 

XV 

He  housed  himself.     There  is  a  point  of 

strand 
Near  Vado's  tower  and  town;  and  on 

one  side 
The  treacherous  marsh  divides  it  from  the 

land, 
Shadowed  by  pine  and  ilex  forests  wide> 
And  on  the  other  creeps  eternally. 
Through  muddy  weeds,  the  shallow  sullen 

sea. 


434 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Here  the  earth's  breath  is  pestilence,  and 

few 
But  things  whose  nature  is  at  war  with 

life  — 
Snakes  and  ill  worms  —  endure  its  mortal 

dew. 
The   trophies  of  the   clime's  victorious 

strife  — 
White  bones,  and  locks  of  dun  and  yellow 

hair, 
And    ringed    horns   which    buffaloes  did 

wear  — 


And  at  tlie  utmost  point  stood  there 

The  relics  of  a  weed-inwoven  cot. 
Thatched  with  broad  flags.     An  outlawed 
murderer 
Had  lived  seven  days  there;  the  pursuit 
was  hot 
When  he  was  cold.     The  birds  that  were 

his  grave 
Fell  dead  upon  their  feast  in  Vado's  wave. 

XVIII 

There  must  have  lived  within  Marenghi's 
heart 
That  fire,  more  warm  and  bright  than 
life  or  liope, 

(Which    to   the   martyr  makes   bis  dun- 
geon .  .  . 
More  joyous  than  the  heaven's  majestic 
cope 

To  his  oppressor),  warring  with  decay,  — 

Or  he  cojild  ne'er  have  lived  years,  day  by 
day. 

XIX 

Nor  was  bis   state  so  lone  as  you   might 

think. 
He  had  tamed  every  newt  and  snake  and 

toad, 
And  every  seagull  which  sailed  down  to 

drink 
Those  ere    the    death-mist    went 

abroad. 
And  each  one,  with  peculiar  talk  and  play, 
Wiled,  not  untaught,  his  silent  time  away. 

XX 

And  the  marsh-meteors,  like  tame  beasts, 
at  night 
Came    licking   with    blue    tongues    his 
veined  feet; 


And  he  would  watch  them,  as,  like  spirits 
bright. 
In  many  entangled   figures  quaint   and 
sweet 

To    some    enchanted    music    they   would 
dance  — 

Until   they   vanished   at    the   first   moon- 
glance. 


He  mocked  the  stars  by  grouping  on  each 

weed 
The  summer  dewdrops   in   the   golden 

dawn ; 
And,  ere  the  hoarfrost  vanished,  he  could 

read 
Its  pictured  footprints,  as  on  spots  of  lawn 
Its  delicate  brief  touch  in  silence  weaves 
Tlie   likeness  of   the  wood's   remembered 

leaves. 


And  many  a  fresh  Spring  morn  would  he 
awaken, 
While  yet  the  unrisen  sun  made  glow, 
like  iron 

Quivering   in  crimson  fire,  the  peaks  un- 
shaken 
Of  mountains  and  blue  isles  which  did 
environ 

With  air-clad  crags  that  plain  of  land  and 
sea,  — 

And  feel  liberty. 

XXIII 

And  in  the  moonless  nights,  when  the  dim 
ocean 
Heaved  underneath  the  heaven,  .  .  . 
Starting  from  dreams  .  .   . 

Communed     with      the      immeasurable 
world ; 
And  felt  his  life  beyond  his  limbs  dilated. 
Till   his  mind  grew  like  that   it   contem- 
plated. 

XXIV 
His  food  was  the  wild  fig  and  strawberry; 
The  milky  pine-nuts  which  the  autumnal 
blast 
Shakes  into  the  tall  grass ;  and  such  small  fry 
As  from   the  sea  by  winter-storms  are 
cast; 
And  the  coarse  bulbs  of  iris   flowers   he 

found 
Knotted  in  clumps  under  the  spongy  ground. 


FRAGMENTS 


435 


And  so  were  kindled  powers  and  thoughts 

which  luade 
His  solitude  less  dark.     When  memory 

came 
(For  years  gone  by  leave  each  a  deepening 

shade), 
His  spirit  basked  in  its  internal  flame,  — 
As,  when  the  black  storm  hurries  round  at 

night 
The  fisher  basks  beside  his  red  firelight. 

XXVI 

Tet  human  hopes  and  cares  and  faiths  and 
errors, 
Like  billows  unawakened  by  the  wind, 
Slept  in  Marenghi  still;  but  that  all  ter- 
rors. 
Weakness,  and  doubt,  had  withered  in 
his  mind. 
His  couch 


XXVII 

And,  when  he  saw  beneath  the   sunset's 
planet 
A  black   ship   walk  over    the   crimson 
ocean, — 

Its  pennons  streaming  on  the  blasts  that 
fan  it. 
Its  sails  and  ropes  all  tense  and  without 
motion. 

Like  the  dark  ghost  of  the  unburied  even 

Striding   across    the   orange-colored    hea- 
ven, — 

XXVIII 

The  thought  of  his  own  kind  who  made  the 

soul 
Which  sped  that  winged  shape  through 

night  and  day,  — 
The  thought  of  his  own  country  .  .  . 


LINES    WRITTEN     FOR     JULIAN 
AND    MADDALO 

Published  by  Gamett,  1862,  who  conjectures 
the  title. 

What  think  you  the  dead  are  ? 

Why,  dust  and  clay. 
What  should  they  be  ? 

'T  is  the  last  hour  of  day. 


Look  on  the  west,  how  beautiful  it  is 
Vaulted  with  radiant  vapors  !     The  deep 

bliss 
Of  that  unutterable  light  has  made 
The  edges  of  that  cloud  fade 

Into  a  hue,  like  some  harmonious  thought. 
Wasting     itself    on    that    which    it    had 

wrought, 
Till  it  dies  and  between 

The  light  hues  of  the  tender,  pure,  serene, 
And  infinite  tranquillity  of  heaven. 
Ay,  beautiful !  but  when  our  .  .  . 

Perhaps  the  only  comfort  which  remains 
Is  the  unheeded  clanking  of  my  chains, 
Th6  which  I  make,  and  call  it  melody. 

LINES   WRITTEN     FOR   PROME- 
THEUS   UNBOUND 

Published  by  Mrs.  Shelley,  1839,  first  edition. 

As  a  violet's  gentle  eye 
Gazes  on  the  azure  sky. 
Until  its  hue  grows  like  what  it  beholds; 
As  a  gray  and  empty  mist 
Lies  like  solid  amethyst 
Over  the  western  mountain  it  enfolds. 
When  the  sunset  sleeps 
Upon  its  snow; 
As  a  strain  of  sweetest  sound 
Wraps  itself  the  wind  around. 
Until  the  voiceless  wind  be  music  too; 
As  aught  dark,  vain  and  dull. 
Basking  in  what  is  beautiful, 
Is  full  of  lijrht  and  love. 


LINES     WRITTEN     FOR      MONT 
BLANC 

Published  by  Gamett,  1862. 

There  is  a  voice,  not  understood  by  all, 
Sent  from  these  desert-caves.    It  is  the  roar 
Of  the  rent  ice-cliff  which  the  sunbeams  call, 
Plunging  into  the  vale  —  it  is  the  blast 
Descending  on  the  pines — the  torrents  pour. 

LINES   WRITTEN    FOR   THE    IN- 
DIAN   SERENADE 

Published  by  Rossetti,  1870,  who  conjectures 

the  title. 

O  PILLOW  cold  and  wet  with  tears  ! 
Thou  breathest  sleep  no  more  1 


436 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


LINES  WRITTEN   FOR   THE  ODE 
TO    LIBERTY 

Published  by  Garnett,  1862. 

Within  a  cavern  of  man's  trackless  spirit 

Is  throned  an  Image,  so  intensely  fair 
That  the  adventurous  thoughts  that  wander 
near  it 
Worship,  and  as  they  kneel  tremble  and 
wear 
The  splendor  of  its  presence,  and  the  light 

Penetrates  their  dreamlike  frame 
Till  they  become  charged  with  the  strength 
of  flame. 


STANZA      WRITTEN     FOR     THE 
ODE  WRITTEN  OCTOBER,  1819 

Published  by  Rossetti,  The  Times. 

Gather,  oh,  gather, 
Foeman  and  friend  in  love  and  peace  ! 

Waves  sleep  together 
When   the   blasts   that   called    them   to 
battle  cease. 
For  fangless  Power,  grown  tame  and  mild. 
Is  at  play  with  Freedom's  fearless  child  — 
The  dove  and  the  serpent  reconciled  ! 

LINES   CONNECTED  WITH    EPI- 
PSYCHIDION 

Published  in  part  by  Mrs.  Shelley,  1839,  sec- 
ond edition,  and  the  remainder  by  Ganiett,  1862. 
From  these  lines,  and  also  from  other  frag- 
ments, it  is  to  be  inferred  that  a  poem,  substan- 
tially Epipsychidion,  was  in  Shelley's  mind 
before  his  meeting'  with  Emilia  Viviani,  and 
that  she  was  less  the  inspiration  of  it  than  the 
occasion  of  the  form  it  took. 

Here,  my  dear  friend,  is  a  new  book  for 
you; 

I  have  already  dedicated  two 

To  other  friends,  one  female  and  one 
male,  — 

What  you  are  is  a  thing  that  I  must  veil; 

What  can  this  be  to  those  who  praise  or 
rail? 

I  never  was  attached  to  that  great  sect 

Whose  doctrine  is  that  each  one  should  se- 
lect 

Out  of  the  world  a  mistress  or  a  friend. 

And  all  the  rest,  though  fair  and  wise, 
commend  9 


To  cold  oblivion  —  thougli  't  is  in  the  code 
Of  modern  morals,  and  the  beaten  road 
Which  those  poor  slaves  with  weary  foot- 
steps tread 
Who  travel  to  their  home  among  the  dead 
By  the  broad  highway  of  the  world  —  and  so 
With  one  sad  friend,  and  many  a  jealous 

foe. 
The  dreariest  and  the  longest  journey  go. 

Free  love  has  this,  different  from  gold 

and  clay, 
That  to  divide  is  not  to  take  away. 
Like  ocean,  which  the   general  north  wind 

breaks 
Into  ten   thousand   waves,  and   each  one 

makes  20 

A  mirror  of  the  moon  —  like  some  great 

glass. 
Which   did   distort  whatever  form  might 

pass, 
Dashed  into  fragments  by  a  playful  child, 
Which  then  reflects  its  eyes  and  forehead 

mild ; 
Giving   for  one,  which  it  could  ne'er  ex- 
press, 
A  thousand  images  of  loveliness. 

If  I  were  one  whom  the  loud  world  held 

wise, 
I  should  disdain  to  quote  authorities 
In  commendation  of  this  kind  of  love. 
Why    there   is   first   the   God   in    heaven 

above,  30 

Who  wrote  a  book  called  Nature  —  't  is  to 

be 
Reviewed,  I  hear,  in  the  next  Quarterly; 
And  Socrates,  the  Jesus  Christ  of  Greece, 
And  Jesus  Christ  himself  did  never  cease 
To   urge   all   living   things   to    love   each 

other. 
And  to  forgive  their  mutual  faults,  and 

smother 
The  Devil  of  disunion  in  their  souls. 

I  love  you  !  —  Listen,  O  embodied  Ray 
Of  the  great  Brightness;  I  must  pass  away 
While  you  remain,  and  these  light  words 

must  be  40 

Tokens  by  which  you  may  remember  me. 
Start   not  —  tlie   thing   you   are   is   unbe- 

trayed. 
If  you  are  human,  and.  if  but  the  shade 
Of  some  sublimer  Snirit. 


FRAGMENTS 


437 


And  as  to  friend  or  mistress,  't  is  a  form ; 

Perhaps  I  wish  you  were  one  Some  de- 
clare 

Yon  a  familiar  spirit,  as  you  are; 

Others  with  a  more  inhuman 

Hint  that,  though  not  my  wife,  you  are  a 
woman  — 

What  is  the  color  of  your  eyes  and  hair  ?  50 

Why,  if  you  were  a  lady,  it  were  fair 

The  world  should  know  —  but,  as  I  am 
afraid, 

The  Quarterly  would  bait  you  if  betrayed ; 

And  if,  as  it  will  be  sport  to  see  them 
stumble 

Over  all  sorts  of  scandals,  hear  them 
mumble 

Their  litany  of  curses  —  some  guess  right, 

And  others  swear  you  're  a  Hermaphro- 
dite; 

Like  that  sweet  marble  monster  of  both 
sexes. 

With  looks  so  sweet  and  gentle  that  it 
vexes 

The  very  soul  that  the  soul  is  gone  60 

Which  lifted  from  her  limbs  the  veil  of 
stone. 


It  is  a  sweet  thing,  friendship,  a  dear 

balm, 
A  happy  and  auspicious  bird  of  calm. 
Which   rides   o'er   life's   ever   tumultuous 

Ocean ; 
A  God  that  broods  o'er  chaos  in  commo- 
tion; 
A  flower  which  fresh  as  Lapland  roses  are, 
Lifts  its  bold  head  into  the  world's  frore 

air. 
And  blooms   most  radiantly  when   others 

die. 
Health,  hope,  and  youth,  and  brief  pros- 
perity; 69 
And  with  the  light  and  odor  of  its  bloom. 
Shining  within  the  dungeon  and  the  tomb; 
Whose  coming  is  as  light  and  music  are 
'Mid  dissonance  and  gloom  —  a  star 
Which  moves  not  'mid  the  moving  heavens 

alone  — 
A  smile  among  dark   frowns  —  a  gentle 

tone 
Among  rude  voices,  a  beloved  light, 
A  solitude,  a  refuge,  a  delight. 
If   I   had   but   a   friend !      Why,  I   have 

three 
Even  by  my  own  confession;  there  may  be 


Some  more,  for  what  I  know,  for  't  is  my 

mind  gc 

To  call  my  friends  all  who  are  wise  and 

kind,  — 
And  these.  Heaven  knows,  at  best  are  very 

few;  , 

But  none  can  ever  be  more  dear  than  you. 
Why  should  they  be  ?     My  muse  has  lost 

her  wings. 
Or  like  a  dying  swan  who  soars  and  sings, 
I  should  describe  you  in  heroic  style. 
But  as  it  is,  are  you  not  void  of  guile  ? 
A  lovely  soul,  formed  to  be  blessed  and 

bless ; 
A  well  of  sealed  and  secret  happiness; 
A  lute  which,  those  whom  Love  has  taught 

to  play  90 

Make  music  on  to  cheer  the  roughest  day, 
And  enchant  sadness  till  it  sleeps  ? 

To  the  oblivion  whither  I  and  thou, 
All  loving  and  all  lovely,  hasten  now 
With  steps,  ah,  too  unequal !  may  we  meet 
In  one  Elysium  or  one  winding  sheet ! 
If  any  should  be  curious  to  discover 
Whether  to  you  I  am  a  friend  or  lover, 
Let  them  read  Shakespeare's  sonnets,  tak- 
ing thence 
A  whetstone  for  their  dull  intelligence     100 
That  tears  and  will  not  cut,  or  let  them 

guess 
How  Diotima,  the  wise  prophetess. 
Instructed  the  instructor,  and  why  he 
Rebuked  the  infant  spirit  of  melody 
On  Agathon's  sweet  lips,  which  as  he  spoke 
Was  as   the   lovely  star  when  morn  has 

broke 
The  roof  of  darkness,  in  the  golden  dawn, 
Half-hidden,  and  yet  beautiful. 

I  '11  pawn 
My   hopes  of   Heaven  —  you   know  what 

they  are  worth  — 
That    the    presumptuous    pedagogues    of 

Earth,  1 10 

If  they  could  tell  the  riddle  offered  here 
Would  scorn  to  be,  or,  being,  to  appear 
What  now  they  seem  and   are — but   let 

them  chide, 
They  have  few  pleasures  in  the  world  beside ; 
Perhaps  we  should  be  dull  were   we  not 

chidden; 
Paradise  fruits  are  sweetest  when  forbidden. 
Folly  can  season  Wisdom,  Hatred  Love. 


438 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Farewell,  if  it  can  be  to  say  farewell 
To  those  who  — 

I  will  not,  as  most  dedicators  do,  120 

Assure  myself  and  all  the  world  and  you, 
Tha^  you  are  faultless  —  would  to  God  they 

*■'    were 
Who  taunt  me  with  your  love  !     I  then 

should  wear 
These  heavy  chains   of   life  with  a  light 

spirit, 
And  would  to  God  I  were,  or  even  as  near 

it 
As  you,  dear  heart.     Alas  !  what  are  we  ? 

Clouds 
Driven    by   the   wind  in    waning   molti- 

tudes, 
Which  rain  into  the  bosom  of  the  earth, 
And  rise  again,  and  in  our  death  and  birth, 
And  through  our  restless  life,  take  as  from 

heaven  130 

Hues  which  are  not  our  own,  but  which  are 

given. 
And  then  withdrawn,  and  with  inconstant 

glance 
Flash  from  the  spirit  to  the  countenance. 
There  is  a  Power,  a  Love,  a  Joy,  a  God, 
Which  makes  in   mortal  hearts   its   brief 

abode, 
A  Pythian  exhalation,  which  inspires 
Love,  only  love  —  a  wind  which  o'er  the 

wires 
Of  the  soul's  giant  harp  — 
There  is  a  mood  which  language  faints  be- 
neath ; 
You  feel  it  striding,  as  Almighty  Death  140 
His  bloodless  steed. 

And  what  is  that  most  brief  and  bright  de- 
light 
Which    rushes    through    the    touch    and 

through  the  sight. 
And  stands  before  the  spirit's  inmost  throne, 
A  naked  Seraph  ?    None  hath  ever  known. 
Its  birth  is  darkness,  and  its  growth  desire ; 
Untamable  and  fleet  and  fierce  as  fire. 
Not  to  be  touched  but  to  be  felt  alone, 
It  fills  the  world  with  glory  —  and  is  gone. 

It  floats   with  rainbow  pinions  o'er    the 
stream  150 

Of  life,  which  flows,  like  a  dream 

Into  the  light  of  morning,  to  the  grave 
As  to  an  ocean. 


What  is  that  joy  which  serene  infancy 
Perceives  not,  as  the  hours  content  them 

Each  in  a  chain  of  blossoms,  yet  enjoys 
The  shapes  of  this  new  world,  in  giant  toys 
Wrought  by  the  busy  ever  new  ? 

Remembrance   borrows   Fancy's  glass,  to 

show 
These  forms  more  sincere  160 

Thau  now  they  are,  than   then,  perhaps, 

they  were. 
When  everything  familiar  seemed  to  be 
Wonderful,  and  the  immortality 
Of  this  great  world,  which  all  things  must 

inherit, 
Was  felt  as  one  with  the  awakening  spirit, 
Unconscious  of  itself,  and  of  the  strange 
Distinctions  which  in  its  proceeding  change 
It  feels  and  knows,  and  mourns  as  if  each 

were 
A  desolation. 

Were  it  not  a  sweet  refuge,  Emily,  170 

For  all  those  exiles  from  tlie  dull  insane 
Who  vex   this  pleasant  world  with  pride 

and  pain, 
For  all  that  band  of  sister-spirits  known 
To  one  another  by  a  voiceless  tone  ? 


LINES  WRITTEN   FOR  ADONAIS 

Published  by  Garnett,  1862,  who  furnishes  the 
following  note :  '  Sevei-al  cancelled  passages  of 
the  Adonais  have  been  met  with  in  Shelley's 
notebooks.  He  appears  to  have  originally 
framed  his  conception  on  a  larger  scale  than  he 
eventually  found  practicable.  The  passage  in 
which  the  conteraporary  minstrels  are  intro- 
duced, as  mourning  for  Adonais,  would  have 
been  considerably  extended,  and  the  character- 
istics of  each  delineated  at  some  length.  It 
must,  however,  have  occurred  to  him  that  the 
parenthesis  would  be  too  long,  and  would  tend 
to  distract  the  reader's  attention  from  the  main 
subject.  Nothing,  therefore,  of  the  original 
draft  was  allowed  to  subsist  but  the  four  in- 
comparable stanzas  descriptive  of  himself.  A 
fifth  was  cancelled,  wliich  ran  as  follows  [first 
fragment].  Several  stanzas  relating  to  Byron 
and  Moore  are  too  imperfect  for  publication. 
The  following  refers  to  the  latter  [second  frag- 
ment]. Leigh  Hunt  was  thus  described  [third 
fragment].  The  following  lines  were  also 
written  for  the  Adonais  [remaining  frag- 
ments].' Forman  conjectures  that  Coleridge 
is  described  in  the  last  fragment. 


FRAGMENTS 


439 


And  ever  as  he  went  be  swept  a  lyre 
Of  unaccustomed  shape,  and  strings 

Now  like  the  of  impetuous  fire, 

Which  shakes  the  forest  with  its  mur- 

mu  rings. 
Now  like  the  rush  of  the  aerial  wings 
Of  tlie  enamoured  wind  among  the  treen, 
Whispering  unimaginable  things, 
And  dying  on  the  streams  of  dew  serene. 
Which  feed  the  uumowu  meads  with  ever- 
duriug  green. 

And  the  green  Paradise  which  western 

waves 
Embosom  in  their  ever  wailing  sweep, 
Talking  of  freedom  to  their  tongueless 

caves, 
Or   to   the   spirits   which   within  them 

keep 
A  record  of  the  wrongs  which,  though 

they  sleep. 
Die  not,  but  dream  of  retribution,  heard 
His  hymns,  and  echoing  them  from  steep 

.  to  steep, 
Kept  — 

And  then  came  one  of  sweet  and  earnest 

looks. 
Whose  soft  smiles  to  his  dark  and  night- 
like eyes 
Were  as  the  clear  and  ever  living  brooks 
Are  to  the  obscure  fountains  whence  they 

rise. 
Showing  how  pure  they  are:  a  Paradise 
Of  happy  truth  upon  his  forehead  low 
Lay,  making  wisdom  lovely,  in  the  guise 
Of  earth-awakening  morn  upon  the  brow 
Of  star-deserted  heaven,  while  ocean 
gleams  below. 

His  song,  though  very  sweet,  was  low  and 

faint, 
A  simple  strain  — 

A  might}'  Phantasm,  half  concealed 
In  darkness  of  his  own  exceeding  light, 
Which  clothed   his  awful   presence  unre- 

vealed, 
Charioted  on  the  night 

Of  thunder-smoke,  whose  skirts  were  chrys- 
olite. 

And  like  a  sudden  meteor,  which  outstrips 
The  splendor- winged  chariot  of  the  sun, 

eclipse 


The  armies  of  the  golden  stars,  each  one 
Pavilioned  in  its  tent  of  light  —  all  strewn 
Over  the  chasms  of  blue  night  — 


LINES    WRITTEN    FOR  HELLAS 

Published  by  Gamett,  1862,  who  conjectures 
the  title. 


Fairest  of  the  Destinies, 
Disarray  thy  dazzling  eyes: 
Keener  far  thy  lightnings  are 

Thau   the  winged  [bolts]  thou  bear- 
est, 

And  the  smile  thou  wearest 
Wraps  thee  as  a  star 

Is  wrapped  in  light. 


Could  Arethuse  to  her  forsaken  urn 
From  Alpheus  and  the  bitter  Doris  run, 
Or  could  the  morning  shafts  of  purest 
light 
Again  into  the  quivers  of  the  Sun 

Be  gathered  —  could  one  thought  froiu 
its  wild  flight 
Return  into  the  temple  of  the  brain 

Without  a  change,  without  a  stain,  ^— 
Could  aught  that  is,  ever  again 
Be  what  it  once  has  ceased  to  be, 
Greece  might  again  be  free  ! 


A  star  has  fallen  upon  the  earth 
'Mid  the  benighted  nations, 

A  quenchless  atom  of  immortal  light, 

A  living  spark  of  Night, 
A  cresset  shaken  from  the  constellations. 

Swifter  than  the  thunder  fell 

To  the  heart  of  Earth,  the  well 

W^here  its  pulses  flow  and  beat, 

And  unextinct  in  that  cold  source 

Burns,  and  on  course 

Guides  the  sphere  which  is  its  prison, 

Like  an  angelic  spirit  pent 

In  a  form  of  mortal  birth, 

Till,  as  a  spirit  half  arisen 

Shatters  its  charnel,  it  has  rent, 

In  the  rapture  of  its  mirth, 
The  thin  and   painted   garment  of   the 
Earth, 

Ruining  its  chaos  —  a  fierce  breath 
Consuming  all  its  forms  of  living  death. 


440 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


THE  PINE  FOREST  OF  THE 
CASCINE  NEAR  PISA 

FIRST   DRAFT   OF   '  TO  JANE :    THE   INVI- 
TATION,   THE   RECOLLECTION  ' 

Date  1821.  Published  by  Mrs.  SheUey,  1824. 

Dearest,  best  and  brightest, 

Come  away. 
To  the  woods  and  to  the  fields  ! 
Dearer  than  this  fairest  day 
Which,  like  thee  to  those  in  sorrow, 
Comes  to  bid  a  sweet  good-morrow 
To  the  rough  Year  just  awake 
In  its  cradle  in  the  brake. 

The  eldest  of  the  hours  of  Spring, 

Into  the  wiuter  wandering,  lo 

Ltooks  upon  the  leafless  wood; 

And  the  banks  all  bare  and  rude 

Found,  it  seems,  this  halcyon  Morn 

In  February's  bosom  born. 

Bending  from  Heaven,  in  azure  mirth. 

Kissed  the  cold  forehead  of  the  Earth, 

And  smiled  upon  the  silent  sea. 

And  bade  the  frozen  streams  be  free; 

And  waked  to  music  all  the  fountains. 

And  breathed  upon  the  rigid  mountains,  20 

And  made  the  wintry  world  appear 

Like  one  on  whom  thou  smilest,  dear. 

Radiant  Sister  of  the  Day, 

Awake  !  arise  !  and  come  away  ! 

To  the  wild  woods  and  the  plains. 

To  the  pools  where  winter  rains 

Image  all  the  roof  of  leaves. 

Where  the  pine  its  garland  weaves 

Sapless,  gray,  and  ivy  dun 

Kound  stems  that  never  kiss  the  sun  —    30 

To  the  sandhills  of  the  sea. 

Where  the  earliest  violets  be. 

Now  the  last  day  of  many  days. 
All  beautiful  and  bright  as  thou. 
The  loveliest  .and  the  last,  is  dead. 
Rise,  Memory,  and  write  its  praise  ! 
And  do  thy  wonted  work  and  trace 
The  epitaph  of  glory  fled; 
For  now  the  Earth  has  changed  its  face, 
A  frown  is  on  the  Heaven's  brow.  40 

We  wandered  to  the  Pine  Forest 
That  skirts  the  Ocean's  foam, 

The  lightest  wind  was  in  its  nest, 
The  tempest  in  its  home. 


The  whispering  waves  were  half  asleep, 
The  clouds  were  gone  to  play, 

And  on  the  woods,  and  on  the  deep, 
The  smile  of  Heaven  lay. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  day  were  one 

Sent  from  beyond  the  skies,  so 

Which  shed  to  earth  above  the  sun 
A  light  of  Paradise. 

We  paused  amid  the  pines  that  stood 

The  giants  of  the  waste, 
Tortured  by  storms  to  sliapes  as  rude 

With  stems  like  serpents  interlaced 

How  calm  it  was  —  the  silence  there 

By  such  a  chain  was  bound 
That  even  the  bus}'  woodpecker 

Made  stiller  by  her  sound  60 

The  inviolable  quietness; 

The  breath  of  peace  we  drew 
With  its  soft  motion  made  not  less 

The  calm  that  round  us  grew. 

It  seemed  that  from  the  remotest  seat 
Of  the  white  mountain's  waste. 

To  the  bright  flower  beneath  our  feet, 
A  magic  circle  traced;  — 

A  spirit  interfused  around, 

A  thinking  silent  life,  70 

To  momentary  peace  it  bound 

Our  mortal  nature's  strife;  — 

And  still  it  seemed  the  centre  of 

The  magic  circle  there. 
Was  one  whose  being  filled  with  love 

The  breathless  atmosphere. 

Were  not  the  crocuses  that  grew 

Under  that  ilex-tree 
As  beautiful  in  scent  and  hue 

As  ever  fed  the  bee  ?  80 

We  stood  beside  the  pools  that  lie 

Under  the  forest  bough. 
And  each  seemed  like  a  sky 

Gulfed  in  a  world  below; 

A  purple  firmament  of  light, 

Which  in  the  dark  earth  lay. 

More  boundless  than  the  depth  of  night, 
And  clearer  than  the  day  — 


FRAGMENTS 


441 


In  which  the  massy  forests  grew 

As  in  the  upper  air,  90 

More  perfect  both  in  shape  and  hue 
Than  any  waving  there. 

Like  one  beloved  the  scene  had  lent 

To  the  dark  water's  breast 
Its  every  leaf  and  lineament 

With  that  clear  truth  expressed; 

There  lay  far  glades  and  neighboring  lawn, 
And  through  the  dark  green  crowd 

The  white  sun  twinkling  like  the  dawn 

Under  a  speckled  cloud.  100 

Sweet  views,  which  in  our  world  above 

Can  never  well  be  seen. 
Were  imaged  by  tlie  water's  love 

Of  that  fair  forest  green. 

And  all  was  interfused  beneath 

Within  an  Elysium  air 
An  atmosphere  without  a  breath, 

A  silence  sleeping  there. 

Until  a  wandering  wind  crept  by, 

Like  an  unwelcome  thought,  no 

Which  from  my  mind's  too  faithful  eye 
Blots  thy  bright  image  out. 

For  thou  art  good  and  dear  and  kind, 

The  forest  ever  green, 
But  less  of  peace  in  S 's  mind, 

Than  calm  in  waters  seen. 


ORPHEUS 

Date,  1820.  Published  by  Garnett,  1862,  and 
revised  and  enlarg^ed  by  Rossetti,  1870.  Gar- 
nett adds  the  following'  note  :  '  No  trace  of 
this  poem  appears  in  Shelley's  notebooks  ;  it 
exists  only  in  a  transcript  by  Mrs.  Shelley,  who 
has  written,  in  playful  allusion  to  her  toils  as 
an  amanuensis, "  Aspettofin  che  il  diluvio  cala,  ed 
allora  cerco  di  posare  argine  alle  sue  parole.''^  ' '  I 
await  the  descent  of  the  flood,  and  then  I  en- 
deavor to  embank  the  words."  From  this  cir- 
cumstance, as  well  as  from  the  internal  evi- 
dence of  the  piece,  I  should  conjecture  that  it 
was  an  attempt  at  improvisation.  Shelley  had 
several  times  heard  Sgricci,  the  renowned  im- 
provvisatore,  in  the  winter  of  1820,  and  this  may 
have  inspired  him  with  the  idea  of  attempting 
a  similar  feat.  Assuredly  this  poem,  though 
containing  many  felicitous  passages,  hardly  at- 
tains his  usual  standard,  either  of  thought  or 


expression.     It  may  be  a  translation  from  the 
Italian.' 


Not  far  from  hence.    From  yonder  pointed 

hill. 
Crowned  with  a  ring  of  oaks,  you  may  be- 
hold 
A  dark  and   barren   field,  through  which 

there  flows, 
Sluggish   and  black,   a  deep   but  narrow 

stream, 
Which  the  wind  ripples  not,  and  the  fair 

moon 
Gazes  in  vain,  and  finds  no  mirror  there. 
Follow  the  herbless  banks  of  that  strange 

brook 
Until  you  pause  beside  a  darksome  pond. 
The  fountain  of  this  rivulet,  whose  gush 
Cannot  be  seen,  hid  by  a  rayless  night       i* 
That  lives  beneath  the  overhanging  rock 
That  shades  the  pool  —  an  endless  spring 

of  gloom. 
Upon  whose  edge  hovers  the  tender  light, 
Trembling  to  mingle  with  its  paramour,  — 
But,  as  Syrinx  fled  Pan,  so  night  flies  day, 
Or,  with  most  sullen  and  regardless  hate, 
Refuses  stern  her  heaven-born  embrace. 
On  one  side  of  this  jagged  and  shapeless 

hill 
There  is  a  cave,  from  which  there  eddies  up 
A  pale  mist,  like  aerial  gossamer,  20 

Whose  breath  destroys  all  life;  awhile  it 

veils 
The  rock ;  then,  scattered  by  the  wind,  il 

flies 
Along  the  stream,  or  lingers  on  the  clefts, 
Killing  the  sleepy  worms,   if  aught   bide 

there. 
Upon  the  beetling  edge  of  that  dark  rock 
There  stands  a  group  of  cypresses ;  not  such 
As,  with  a  graceful  spire  and  stirring  life. 
Pierce  the  pure  heaven  of  your  native  vale, 
Whose  branches  the  air  plays  among,  but 

not  29 

Disturbs,  fearing  to  spoil  their  solemn  grace; 
But  blasted  and  all  wearily  they  stand. 
One  to  another  clinging;  their  weak  boughs 
Sigh  as  the  wind  buffets  them,  and  they 

shake 
Beneath  its  blasts  —  a  weather-beaten  crewl 

CHORUS 

What  wondrous   sound  is  that,  mournful 
and  faint. 


44* 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


But  more  melodious  than  the  murmuring 

wind 
Which  through  the  columns  of  a  temple 

glides  ? 

A 
It  is  the  wandering  voice  of  Orpheus'  lyre, 
Borne  by  the  winds,  who  sigh  that  their 

rude  king 
Hurries  them  fast  from  these  air-feeding 

notes ;  40 

But  in  their  speed  they  bear  along  with 

them 
The  waning  sound,  scattering  it  like  dew 
Upon  the  startled  sense. 

CHORUS 

Does  he  still  sing  ? 
Methought  he  rashly  cast  away  his  harp 
When  he  had  lost  Eurydice. 

A 

Ah  no  ! 
Awhile   he   paused.  —  As   a  poor   hunted 

stag 
A  moment  shudders  on  the  fearful  brink 
Of  a  swift  stream  —  the  cruel  hounds  press 

on 
With  deafening  yell,  the  arrows  glance  and 

wound,  — 
He   plunges   in:   so   Orpheus,   seized   and 

torn  50 

By  the  sharp  fangs  of  an  insatiate  grief, 
Msenad-like  waved  his  lyre  in  the  bright 

air, 
And  wildly  shrieked,  *  Where  she  is,  it  is 

dark  ! ' 
And  then  he  struck  from  forth  the  strings 

a  sound 
Of  deep  and  fearful  melody.     Alas  ! 
In  times  long  past,  when  fair  Eurydice 
With  her  bright  eyes  sat  listening  by  his 

side. 
He    gently   sang  of    high    and  heavenly 

themes. 
As  in  a  brook,  fretted  with  little  waves, 
By  the   light  airs  of  spring,  each  riplet 

makes  60 

A  many-sided  mirror  for  the  sun, 
While  it  flows   musically   through  green 

banks. 
Ceaseless  and  pauseless,  ever  clear  and 

fresh, 
So  flowed  his  song,  reflecting  the  deep  joy 
And  tender  love  that  fed  those  sweetest 

notes, 


The  heavenly  offspring  of  ambrosial  food. 
But  that  is  past.     Returning  from  drear 

Hell, 
He  chose  a  lonely  seat  of  unhewn  stone. 
Blackened  with  lichens,  on  a  herbless  plain. 
Then  from  the  deep  and  overflowing  spring 
Of  his  eternal,  ever-moving  grief  71 

There  rose  to  Heaven  a  sound  of  angry 

song. 
'T  is  as  a  mighty  cataract  that  parts 
Two   sister  rocks  with   waters  swift   and 

strong, 
And  casts  itself  with  horrid  roar  and  din 
Adown  a  steep;  from  a  perennial  source 
It  ever  flows  and  falls,  and  breaks  the  air 
With  loud  and  fierce,  but  most  harmonious 

roar, 
And  as  it  falls  casts  up  a  vaporous  spray  79 
Which  the  sun  clothes  in  hues  of  Iris  light. 
Thus  the  tempestuous  torrent  of  his  grief 
Is  clothed  in  sweetest  sounds  and  varying 

words 
Of  poes}'.     Unlike  all  human  works 
It    never    slackens,    and    through    every 

change 
Wisdom  and  beauty  and  the  power  divine 
Of  mighty  poesy  together  dwell. 
Mingling  in  sweet  accord.     As  I  have  seen 
A  fierce  south  blast  tear  through  the  dark- 
ened sky, 
Driving  along  a  rack  of  winged  clouds,     89 
Which  may  not  pause,  but  ever  hurry  on, 
As  their  wild  shepherd  wills  them,  while 

the  stars. 
Twinkling  and  dim,  peep  from  between  the 

plumes. 
Anon  the  sky  is  cleared,  and  the  high  dome 
Of  serene  Heaven,  starred  with  fiery  flow- 
ers. 
Shuts   in    the   shaken   earth;  or  the   still 

moon 
Swiftly,  yet  gracefully,  begins  her  walk. 
Rising  all  bright  behind  tlie  eastern  hills. 
I  talk  of  moon,  and  wind,  and  stars,  and 

not 
Of  song;  but,  would  I  echo  his  high  song. 
Nature  must  lend  me  words  ne'er  used  be- 
fore, 100 
Or  I  must  borrow  from  her  perfect  works, 
To  picture  forth  his  perfect  attributes. 
He  does  no  longer  sit  upon  his  throne 
Of  rock  upon  a  desert  herbless  plain, 
For  the  evergreen  and  knotted  ilexes, 
And   cypresses    that    seldom    wave    their 
boughs, 


FRAGMENTS 


443 


And  sea-green  olives  with  their  grateful 
fruit, 

And  elms  dragging  along  the  twisted  vines, 

Which  drop  their  berries  as  they  follow 
fast, 

And  blackthorn  bushes  with  their  infant 
race  no 

Of  blushing  rose  blooms;  beeches,  to  lovers 
dear, 

And  weeping  willow  trees;  all  swift  or  slow. 

As  their  huge  boughs  or  lighter  dress  per- 
mit. 

Have  circled  in  his  throne;  and  Earth  her- 
self 

Has  sent  from  her  maternal  breast  a  growth 

Of  starlike  flowers  and  herbs  of  odors 
sweet, 

To  pave  the  temple  that  his  poesy 

Has  framed,  while  near  his  feet  grim  lions 
couch. 

And  kids,  fearless  from  love,  creep  near 
his  lair. 

Even  the  blind  worms  seem  to  feel  the 
sound.  I20 

The  birds  are  silent,  hanging  down  their 
heads, 

Perched  on  the  lowest  branches  of  the 
trees ; 

Not  even  the  nightingale  intrudes  a  note 

Ic  rivalry,  but  all  entranced  she  listens. 


FIORDISPINA 

Date,  1820.  Published  in  part  by  Mrs. 
Shelley,  1824,  and  the  remainder  by  Garnett, 
1862,  who  adds  a  note  :  '  Fiordispina  and  the 
piece  which  I  have  ventured  to  entitle  To  His 
Genius  (using  the  latter  word  in  the  sense  of 
Salficov)  may  be  regarded  as  preliminary, 
though  unconscious  studies,  for  this  crowning 
work  [Epipsychidion],  This  is  indicated  by 
the  general  similarity  among  the  three,  as 
well  as  by  the  fact  that  very  many  lines  now 
found  in  Epipsychidion  have  been  transferred 
to  it  from  the  others.  Most  of  these  have  been 
omitted  from  the  poem  as  now  published  ;  but 
some  instances  will  be  observed  in  the  second, 
which  was  probably  the  earlier  in  point  of  date. 
Fiordispina  seems  to  have  been  written  during 
the  first  days  of  Shelley's  acquaintance  with 
Emilia  Viviani,  who  is  also  the  Ginevra  of  the 
poem  thus  entitled.' 

The   season  was  the  childhood  of   sweet 

June, 
Whose   sunny  hours   from   morning  until 

noon 


Went  creeping  through  the  day  with  silent 
feet. 

Each  with  its  load  of  pleasure,  slow  yet 
sweet ; 

Like  the  long  years  of  blest  Eternity 

Never  to  be  developed.     Joy  to  thee, 

Fiordispina,  and  thy  Cosimo, 

For  thou  the  wonders  of  tlie  depth  canst 
know 

Of  this  unfathomable  flood  of  honrs. 

Sparkling  beneath  the  heaven  which  em- 
bowers    lO 

They  were  two  cousins,  almost  like   two 

twins, 
Except  that  from  the  catalogue  of  sins 
Nature  had  rased  their  love  —  which  could 

not  be 
But  by  dissevering  their  nativity. 
And  so  they  grew  together  like  two  flowers 
Upon  one  stem,  which  the  same  beams  and 

showers 
Lull  or  awaken  in  their  purple  prime, 
Which  the  same  hand  will  gather,  the  same 

clime 
Shake  with  decay.    This  fair  day  smiles  to 

see 
All  those  who  love  —  and  who  e'er  loved 

like  thee,  20 

Fiordispina  ?     Scarcely  Cosimo, 
Within  whose  bosom  and  whose  brain  now 

glow 
The  ardors  of  a  vision  which  obscure 
The  very  idol  of  its  portraiture. 
He  faints,  dissolved  into  a  sea  of  love; 
But  thou  art  as  a  planet  sphered  above  ; 
But    thou    art    Love    itself  —  ruling    the 

motion 
Of  his  subjected  spirit;  such  emotion 
Must  end  in  sin  or  sorrow,  if  sweet  May 
Had  not  brought  forth  this  morn,  your  wed- 
ding-day. 30 

'Lie  there;  sleep  awhile  in  your  own  dew. 
Ye  faint-eyed  children  of  the  Hours,' 

Fiordispina  said,  and  threw  the  flowers 
Which  she  had  from  the  breathing  — 

A  table  near  of  polished  porphyry. 

They  seemed  to  wear  a  beauty  from  the 

eye 
That  looked  on  them,  a  fragrance  from  the 

touch 
Whose  warmth  checked  their  life;  a 

light  such 


444 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


As  sleepers  wear,  lulled  by  the  voice  tbey 
love, 

which  did  reprove         40 
The  childish  pity  that  she  felt  for  them, 
And  a  remorse  that  from  their  stem 

She  had  divided  such  fair  shapes  made 

A  feeling  in  the  wliich  was  a  shade 

Of  gentle  beauty  on  the  flowers;  there  lay 
All  gems  that  make  the  earth's  dark  bosom 

gay- 
rods  of  myrtle-buds  and  lemon-blooms, 
And  that  leaf  tinted  lightly  which  assumes 
The  livery  of  unremembered  snow  — 
Violets  whose  eyes  have  drunk —  50 

Fiordispina  and  her  nurse  are  now 
Upon  the  steps  of  the  high  portico; 
Under  the  withered  arm  of  Media 
She  flings  her  glowing  arm 

step  by  step  and  stair  by  stair, 
That  withered  woman,  gray  and  white  and 

brown  — 
More  like  a  trunk  by  lichens  overgrown 
Than  anything  which  once  could  have  been 

human. 
And  ever  as  she  goes  the  palsied  woman 

'How  slow   and    painfully  you   seem  to 
walk,  60 

Poor  Media  !  you  tire  yourself  with  talk.' 

'And  well  it  may, 
Fiordispina,  dearest  —  well-a-day  ! 
You  are  hastening  to  a  marriage-bed; 
I  to  the  grave  ! '  —  '  And  if  my  love  were 

dead, 
Unless  my  heart  deceives  me,  I  would  lie 
Beside  him  in  my  shroud  as  willingly 
As    now    in    the    gay    night-dress     Lilla 

wrought.' 
*  Fie,  child  !   Let  that  unseasonable  thought 
Not  be  remembered  till  it  snows  in  June;  70 
Such  fancies  are  a  music  out  of  tune 
With  the  sweet  dance  your  heart  must  keep 

to-night. 
What !  would  you  take  all  beauty  and  de- 
light 
Back  to  the    Paradise    from    which  you 

sprung. 
And  leave  to  grosser  mortals  ?  — 
And  say,  sweet  lamb,  would  you  not  learn 

the  sweet 
And  subtle  mystery  by  which  spirits  meet  ? 
Who  knows  whether  the  loving  game  is 
played, 


When,  once  of  mortal  [venture]  disarrayed, 
The  naked  soul  goes  wandering  here  and 
there  So 

Through  the  wide  deserts  of  Elysian  air  ? 
The  violet  dies  not  till  it '  — 


THE   BIRTH   OF   PLEASURE 

Date,  1819.    Published  by  Gamett,  1862. 

At  the  creation  of  the  Earth 
Pleasure,  that  divinest  birth. 
From  the  soil  of  Heaven  did  rise, 
Wrapped  in  sweet  wild  melodies  — 
Like  an  exhalation  wreathing 
To  the  sound  of  air  low-breathing 
Through  iEolian  pines,  which  make 
A  sliade  and  shelter  to  the  lake 
Wlience  it  rises  soft  and  slow; 
Her  life-breathing  [limbs]  did  flow 
In  the  harmony  divine 
Of  an  ever-lengthening  line 
Which  enwrapped  her  perfeci  form 
With  a  beauty  clear  and  warm. 


LOVE,  HOPE,  DESIRE,  AND  FEAR 
Date,  1821,    Published  by  Garnett,  1862. 

And  many  there  were  hurt  by  that  strong 
boy; 
His  name,  they  said,  was  Pleasure. 
And  near  him  stood,  glorious  beyond  mea- 
sure. 
Four  Ladies  who  possess  all  empery 

In  earth  and  air  and  sea; 
Nothing  that   lives   from  their  award    is 
free. 
Their  names  will  I  declare  to  thee,  — 
Love,  Hope,  Desire,  and  Fear; 
And  they  the  regents  are 
Of  the    four    elements    that    frame    the 
heart,  —  xo 

And  each  diversely  exercised  her  art 
By  force  or  circumstance  or  sleight 
To  prove  her  dreadful  might 
Upon  that  poor  domain. 
Desire  presented  her  [false]  glass,  and  then 

The  spirit  dwelling  there 
Was  spellbound  to  embrace  what  seemed 
so  fair 

Within  that  magic  mirror; 
And,  dazed  by  that  bright  error, 


FRAGMENTS 


445 


It  would  have  scorned  the  [shafts]  of  the 
avenger,  20 

And  death,  and  penitence,  and  danger, 
Had  not  then  silent  Fear 
Touched  with  her  palsying  spear,  — 
So  that,  as  if  a  frozen  torrent, 
The  blood  was  curdled  in  its  current; 
It  dared  not  speak,  even  in  look  or  motion. 
But  chained  within  itself  its  proud  devo- 
tion. 
Between  Desire  and  Fear  thou  wert 
A  wretched  thing,  poor  Heart ! 
Sad  was  his  life  who  bore  thee  in  his  breast. 
Wild  bird  for  that  weak  nest.  3 1 

Till  Love  even  from  fierce  Desire  it  bought. 
And  from  the  very  wound  of  tender  thought 
Drew  solace,  and  the  pity  of  sweet  eyes 
Gave  strength  to  bear  those  gentle  agonies. 
Surmount  the  loss,  the  terror,  and  the 
sorrow. 
Then    Hope   approached,   she   who   can 

borrow 
For  poor  to-day  from  rich  to-morrow; 
And  Fear  withdrew,  as  night  when  day 
Descends  upon  the  orient  ray;  40 

And  after  long  and  vain  endurance 
The  poor  heart  woke  to  her  assurance. 

At  one  birth  these  four  were  born 
With  the  world's  forgotten  morn, 
And  from  Pleasure  still  they  hold 
All  it  circles,  as  of  old. 
W^hen,  as  summer  lures  the  swallow. 
Pleasure  lures  the  heart  to  follow  — 
O  weak  heart  of  little  wit  — 
The  fair  hand  that  wounded  it,  50 

Seeking,  like  a  panting  hare, 
Refuge  in  the  lynx's  lair,  — 
Love,  Desire,  Hope,  and  Fear, 
Ever  will  be  near. 

A   SATIRE   ON    SATIRE 

Date,  1820.  Published  by  Dowden,  Corre- 
spondence of  Robert  Southey  and  Caroline 
Bowles,  1880.  Shelley  writes  to  Hunt :  '  I 
began  once  a  satire  on  satire,  which  I  meant 
to  be  very  severe ;  it  was  full  of  small  knives, 
in  the  use  of  which  practice  would  have  soon 
made  me  very  expert.' 

If  gibbets,  axes,  confiscations,  chains. 
And  racks  of  subtle  torture,  if  the  pains 
Of  shame,  of  fiery  Hell's  tempestuous  wave. 
Seen  through  the  caverns  of  the  shadowy 
grave, 


Hurling  the  damned  into  the  murky  air 
While  the  meek  blest  sit  smiling;  if  Despair 
And    Hate,   the   rapid    bloodhounds    with 

which  Terror 
Hunts   through   the   world    the   homeless 

steps  of  Error, 
Are  the  true  secrets  of  the  commonweal 
To  make  men  wise  and  just;  ...  10 

And  not  the  sophisms  of  revenge  and  fear, 
Bloodier  than  is  revenge  .  .  . 
Then  send  the  priests  to  every  hearth  and 

home 
To  preach  the  burning  wrath  which  is  to 

come, 
In  words   like  flakes  of   sulphur,  such  as 

thaw 
The  frozen  tears  .  .  . 
If  Satire's  scourge  could  wake  the  slum- 
bering hounds 
Of  Conscience,  or  erase  the  deeper  wounds, 
The  leprous  scars  of  callous  infamy; 
If  it  could  make  the  present  not  to  be,      20 
Or  charm  the  dark  past  never  to  have  been. 
Or  turn  regret  to  hope;  who  that  has  seen 
What  Southey  is  and  was,  would  not  ex- 
claim, 
Lash  on  !  be  the  keen  verse  dipped 

in  flame; 
Follow  his  flight  with  wingfed  words,  and 

urge 
The  strokes  of  the  inexorable  scourge 
Until  the  heart  be  naked,  till  his  soul 
See  the  contagion's  spots  foulj 

And  from   the  mirror  of   Truth's  sunlike 

shield. 
From  which  his  Parthian  arrow  ...         30 
Flash  on  his  sight  the  spectres  of  the  past, 
Until  his  mind's  eye  paint  thereon  — 
Let  scorn  like  yawn  below, 

And  rain  on  him  like  flakes  of  fiery  snow. 
This  cannot  be,  it  ought  not,  evil  still  — 
Suffering  makes  suffering,  ill  must  follow 

ill. 
Rough  words  beget  sad  thoughts,         and, 

beside, 
Men  take  a  sullen  and  a  stupid  pride 
In  being  all  they  hate  in  others'  shame. 
By  a  perverse  antipathy  of  fame.  40 

'T  is  not  worth  while  to  prove,  as  I  could« 

how 
From  the  sweet  fountains  of  our  Nature 

flow 
These  bitter  waters;  I  will  only  say. 
If  any  friend  would   take   Southey  some 

day, 


446 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


And  tell  him,  in  a  country  walk  alone, 
Softening   harsh   words   with   friendship's 

gentle  tone, 
How  incorrect  his  public  conduct  is. 
And   what  men  think  of  it,  't  were   not 

amiss. 
Far  better  than  to  make  innocent  ink  — 

GINEVRA 

Date,  1821.  Published  by  Mrs.  Shelley, 
1824,  who  gives  the  source  of  the  story  as 
L' Osservatore  Fiorentino. 

Wild,  pale,  and  wonder-stricken,  even 
as  one 
Who  staggers  forth  into  the  air  and  sun 
From  the  dark  chamber  of  a  mortal  fever, 
Bewildered,  and  incapable,  and  ever 
Fancying  strange  comments   in  her  dizzy 

brain 
Of  usual  shapes,  till  the  familiar  train 
Of  objects  and  of  persons  passed  like  things 
Strange  as  a  dreamer's  mad  imaginings, 
Ginevra  from  the  nuptial  altar  went; 
The  vows  to  which  her  lips  had  sworn  as- 
sent 10 
Rung  in  her  brain  still  with  a  jarring  din. 
Deafening  the  lost  intelligence  within. 

And  so  she  moved  under  the  bridal  veil, 
Which   made   the   paleness  of  her  cheek 

more  pale, 
And  deepened   the   faint  crimson  of   her 

mouth, 
And  darkened  her  dark  locks,  as  moonlight 

doth,  — 
And  of  the  gold  and  jewels  glittering  there 
She  scarce  felt  conscious,  but  the  weary 

glare 
Lay  like  a  chaos  of  unwelcome  light. 
Vexing  the  sense  with  gorgeous  undelight. 
A  moonbeam  in  the  shadow  of  a  cloud      21 
Was   less   heavenly   fair  —  her   face   was 

bowed. 
And  as  she  passed,  the  diamonds  in  her  hair 
Were  mirrored  in  the  polished  marble  stair 
Which  led  from  the  cathedral  to  the  street; 
And  even  as  she  went  her  light  fair  feet 
Erased  these  images. 

The     bride-maidens     who     round    her 
thronging  came, 
Some   with   a  sense  of    self-rebuke    and 
shame. 


Envying  the  unenviable;  and  others  30 

Making   the  joy  which  should  have  been 

another's 
Their  own  by  gentle  sympathy;  and  some 
Sighing  to  tliiuk  of  a  unhappy  home; 
Some  few  admiring  what  can  ever  lure 
Maidens  to  leave  the  heaven  serene  and 

pure 
Of  parents'  smiles  for  life's  great  cheat;  a 

thing 
Bitter  to  taste,  sweet  in  imagining. 

But  they  are  all  dispersed  —  and  lo  !  she 

stands 
Looking  in  idle  grief  on  her  white  hands, 
Alone  within  the  garden  now  her  own;      40 
And  through  the  sunny  air,  with  jangling 

tone. 
The  music  of  the  merry  marriage-bells, 
Killing     the     azure     silence,    sinks    and 

swells;  — 
Absorbed   like   one   within  a  dream  who 

dreams 
That  he  is  dreaming,  until  slumber  seems 
A  mockery  of  itself — when  suddenly 
Antonio  stood  before  her,  pale  as  she. 
With  agony,  with  sorrow,  and  with  pride, 
He  lifted  his  wan  eyes  upon  the  bride. 
And  said  — '  Is  this  thy  faith  ?  '  and  then 

as  one  50 

Whose   sleeping  face   is   stricken   by  the 

sun 
With  light  like  a  harsh  voice,  which  bids 

him  rise 
And  look  upon  his  day  of  life  with  eyes 
Which  weep  in  vain  that  they  can  dream 

no  more, 
Ginevra  saw  her  lover,  and  forbore 
To  shriek  or  faint,  and  checked  the  stifling 

blood 
Rushing  upon  her  heart,  and  unsubdued 
Said  —  '  Friend,  if  earthly  violence  or  ill, 
Suspicion,  doubt,  or  the  tyrannic  will 
Of  parents,    chance,  or  custom,  time,  or 

change,  60 

Or  circumstance,  or  terror,  or  revenge. 
Or  wildered  looks,  or  words,  or  evil  speech, 
With  all  their  stings  and  venom,  can  im- 
peach 
Our  love,  —  we  love   not.     If  the  grave, 

which  hides 
The  victim  from  the  tyrant,  and  divides 
The  cheek  that  whitens  from  the  eyes  that 

dart 
Imperious  inquisition  to  the  heart 


FRAGMENTS 


447 


That  is  another's,  could  dissever  ours, 
We  love  not.'  —  '  What  I  do  not  the  silent 

hours 
Beckon  thee  to  Gherardi's  bridal  bed  ?      70 
Is  not  that  ring  '  —  a  pledge,  he  would  have 

said. 
Of  broken  vows,  but  she  with  patient  look 
The  golden  circle  from  her  finger  took. 
And  said  —  *  Accept  this  token  of  my  faith, 
The   pledge   of   vows  to   be   absolved  by 

death ; 
And  I   am   dead  or  shall  be   soon  —  my 

knell 
Will  mix  its  music  with  that  merry  bell; 
Does  it  not  sound  as  if  they  sweetly  said, 
"  We  toll  a  corpse  out  of  the  marriage- 
bed"? 
The    flowers    upon    my    bridal    chamber 
strewn  80 

Will  serve  unfaded  for  my  bier  —  so  soon 
That  even  the  dying  violet  will  not  die 
Before  Ginevra.'     The  strong  fantasy 
Had  made  her  accents  weaker  and  more 

weak, 
And  quenched  the  crimson  life  upon  her 

cheek. 
And  glazed  her  eyes,  and  spread  an  atmo- 
sphere 
Round  her,  which  chilled  the  burning  noon 

with  fear, 
Making  her  but  an  image  of  the  thought, 
Which,  like  a  prophet  or  a  shadow,  brought 
News  of  the  terrors  of  the  coming  time.  90 
Like  an  accuser  branded  with  the  crime 
He  would  have  cast  on  a  beloved  friend, 
Whose  dying  eyes  reproach  not  to  the  end 
The  pale  betrayer  —  he  then  with  vain  re- 
pentance 
Would   share,  he   cannot  now  avert,  the 

sentence  — 
Antonio    stood  and  would   have    spoken, 

when 
The   compound   voice   of    women   and   of 

men 
Was  heard  approaching;  he  retired,  while 

she 
Was  led  amid  the  admiring  company 
Back  to  the  palace,  —  and  her   maidens 
soon  100 

Changed  her  attire  for  the  afternoon, 
And  left  her  at  her  own  request  to  keep 
An    hour  of    quiet   and    rest.     Like   one 

asleep 
With  open  eyes  and  folded  hands  she  lay, 
Pale  in  the  light  of  the  declining  day. 


Meanwhile  the  day  sinks  fast,  the  sun  is 
set, 
And  in  the  lighted  hall  the  guests  are  met; 
The  beautiful  looked  lovelier  in  the  light 
Of  love,  and  admiration,  and  delight, 
Reflected    from    a    thousand   hearts    and 
eyes  no 

Kindling  a  momentary  Paradise. 
This  crowd  is  safer  than  the  silent  wood, 
Where  love's  own  doubts  disturb  the  soli- 
tude; 
On  frozen  hearts  the  fiery  rain  of  wine 
Falls,  and  the  dew  of  music  more  divine 
Tempers  the  deep  emotions  of  the  time 
To  spirits  cradled  in  a  sunny  clime. 
How  many  meet,   who    never    yet    have 

met, 
To  part  too  soon,  but  never  to  forget  ? 
How  many  saw  the   beauty,  power,  and 
wit  120 

Of  looks  and  words  which  ne'er  enchanted 

But  life's  familiar  veil  was  now  withdrawn. 
As  the  world  leaps  before  an  earthquake's 

dawn, 
And  unprophetic  of  the  coming  hours 
The  matin  winds  from  the  expanded  flow- 
ers 
Scatter  their  hoarded  incense,  and  awaken 
The  earth,  until  the  dewy  sleep  is  shaken 
From  every  living  heart  which  it  possesses, 
Through  seas  and  winds,  cities  and  wilder- 
nesses, 
As  if  the  future  and  the  past  were  all      130 
Treasured  i'  the  instant;  so  Gherardi's  hall 
Laughed  in   the  mirth  of  its  lord's  festi- 
val, — 
Till  some  one  asked, '  Where  is  the  Bride  ? ' 

And  then 
A  bridesmaid  went,  and  ere  she  came  again 
A  silence  fell  upon  the  guests  —  a  pause 
Of  expectation,  as  when  beauty  awes 
All  hearts  with  its  approach,  though  unbe- 

held; 
'Then  wonder,  and  then  fear  that  wonder 

quelled ;  — 
For  whispers  passed  from   mouth  to  ear 

which  drew 
The   color  from  the  hearer's  cheeks,  and 
flew  140 

Louder  and  swifter  round  the  company; 
And  then  Gherardi  entered  with  an  eye 
Of  ostentatious  trouble,  and  a  crowd 
Surrounded  him,  and  some  were  weeping 
loud. 


448 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


They  found  Giiievra  dead  !  if  it  be  death 
To  lie  without  motion,  or  pulse,  or  breath, 
With  waxen  cheeks,  and  limbs  cold,  stiif, 

and  white, 
And  open  eyes,  whose   fixed  and  glassy 

light 
Mocked  at  the  speculation  they  had  owned; 
If  it  be  death,  when  there  is  felt  around  150 
A  smell  of  clay,  a  pale  and  icy  glare, 
And  silence,  and  a  sense  that  lifts  the  hair 
From  the  scalp  to  the  ankles,  as  it  were 
Corruption  from  the  spirit  passing  forth, 
And  giving  all  it  shrouded  to  the  earth, 
And  leaving  as  swift  lightning  in  its  flight 
Ashes,   and  smoke,  and  darkness:  in   our 

night 
Of  thought  we  know  thus  much  of  death, 

—  no  more 
Than  the  unborn  dream  of  our  life  before 
Their  barks  are  wrecked  on  its  inhospitable 

shore.  160 

The  marriage  feast  and  its  solemnity 
Was  turned  to  funeral  pomp;  the  company, 
W'ith   heavy   hearts   and  looks,  broke  up; 

nor  they 
Who  loved  the  dead  went  weeping  on  their 

way 
Alone,  but  sorrow  mixed  with  sad  surprise 
Loosened  the  strings  of  pity  in  all  eyes. 
On  which  that  form,  whose  fate  they  weep 

in  vain, 
W^ill  never,   thought  they,   kindle   smiles 

again. 
The  lamps  which,  half-extinguished  in  their 

haste 
Gleamed  few  and  faint  o'er  the  abandoned 

feast,  170 

Showed  as  it  were  within  the  vaulted  room 
A  cloud  of  sorrow  lianging,  as  if  gloom 
Had  passed  out  of  men's  minds  into  the 

air. 
Some  few  yet  stood  around  Gherardi  there. 
Friends  and  relations  of  the  dead,  —  and 

he, 
A  loveless  man,  accepted  torpidly 
The  consolation  that  he  wanted  not; 
Awe    in    the    place  of    grief  within  him 

wrought. 
Their  whispers  made  the  solemn  silence 

seem 
More  still  — some  wept,  180 

Some  melted  into  tears  without  a  sob, 
And  some  with  hearts  that  might  be  heard 
•  to  throb 


Leaned  on  the  table,  and  at  intervals 
Shuddered  to  hear  through  the  deserted 

halls 
And  corridors  the  thrilling  shrieks  which 

came 
Upon  the  breeze  of  night,  that  shook  the 

flame 
Of  every  torch  and  taper,  as  it  swept 
From  out  the  chamber  where  the  women 

kept; — 
Their  tears    fell   on   the   dear  companion 

cold 
Of    pleasures    now    departed;     then    was 

knolled  190 

The  bell  of  death,  and  soon  the  priests  ar- 
rived. 
And    finding    death     their    penitent    had 

shrived. 
Returned  like  ravens  from  a  corpse  whereon 
A  vulture  has  just  feasted  ito  the  bone. 
And  then  the  mourning-women  came.  — 


THE   DIRGE 

Old  winter  was  gone 
In  his   weakness   back  to  the  mountains 
hoar. 

And  the  spring  came  down 
From  the  planet  that  hovers  upon  the  shore 
Where  the  sea  of  sunlight  encroaches  200 
On  the  limits  of  wintry  night;  — 
If  the  land,  and  the  air,  and  the  sea, 

Rejoice  not  when  spring  approaches, 
We  did  not  rejoice  in  thee, 
Ginevra ! 

She  is  still,  she  is  cold 

On  the  bridal  couch. 
One  step  to  the  white  death-bed, 

And  one  to  the  bier. 
And  one   to  the    charnel  —  and   one,   oh 
where  ?  210 

The  dark  arrow  fled 

In  the  noon. 

Ere  the  sun  through  heaven  once  more  has 
rolled, 

The  rats  in  her  heart 
Will  have  made  their  nest, 

And  the  worms  be  alive  in  her  golden  hair; 

While  the  spirit  that  guides  the  sun 

Sits  throned  in  his  flaming  chair, 
She  shall  sleep. 


FRAGMENTS 


419 


THE   BOAT   ON    THE   SERCHIO 

Date,  1821.  Published  in  part  by  Mrs. 
Shelley,  1824,  aud  the  reiuaiiider  by  Rossetti, 
1870.  Med  win  furnishes  the  note  :  '  I  have 
heard  Shelley  often  speak  with  rapture  of  the 
excursions  they  [Sliclley  and  Williams]  made 
together.  The  canal  fed  by  the  Serchio,  of  the 
clearest  water,  is  so  rapid  that  they  were 
obliged  to  tow  the  boat  up  against  the  current ; 
but  the  swift  descent,  through  green  banks 
enamelled  -with  flowers  and  overhung  with 
trees  that  mirrored  themselves  on  its  glassy 
surface,  gave  hini  a  wonderful  delight.  He 
Las  left  a  record  of  these  trips  in  a  poem  en- 
titled The  Boat  on  the  Serchio,  and  calls  Wil- 
liams and  himself  Melchior  and  Lionel.^ 

Our  boat  is  asleep  on  Serchio's  stream, 
Its   sails  are  folded    like  thoughts   in  a 

dream, 
The  helm  sways  idly,  hither  and  thither; 
Dominic,  the  boatman,  has  brought  the 

mast. 
And   the   oars,   and  the  sails;  but   'tis 
sleeping  fast 
Like  a  beast,  unconscious  of  its  tether. 

The  stars  burned  out  in  the  pale  blue  air, 
Aud   the   thin  white  moon  lay  withering 

there ; 
To  tower,  and  cavern,  and  rift,  and  tree. 
The  owl  and  the  bat  fled  drowsily.  lo 

Day  had  kindled  the  dewy  woods. 

And  the  rocks  above  aud  the  stream  be- 
low, 
And  the  vapors  in  their  multitudes, 

And  the  Apenniue's  shroud  of  summer 
snow, 
And  clothed  with  light  of  aery  gold 
The  mists  in  their  eastern  caves  uproUed. 

Day  had  awakened  all  things  that  be,  — 
The  lark  and  the  thrush  and  the  swallow 
free. 
And   the  milkmaid's  song  and  mower's 
scythe,  19 

And  the  matin-bell  and  the  mountain  bee. 
Fire-flies  were  quenched  on  the  dewy  corn; 
Glow-worms    went    out    on   the   river's 

brim, 
Like   lamps  which  a  student  forgets  to 
trim; 
The  beetle  forgot  to  wind  his  horn; 

The  crickets   were  still  in  the  meadow 
and  hill; 


Like  a  flock  of  rooks  at  a  farmer's  gun, 
Night's  dreams  aud  terrors,  every  one. 
Fled  from  the  brains  which  are  their  prey 
From  the  lamp's  death  to  the  morning  ray. 

All  rose  to  do  the  task  He  set  to  each,      30 
Who  shaped  us  to  his  ends  and  not  our 
own; 
The  million  rose  to  learn,  and  one  to  teach 
What  none   yet   ever  knew   or  can  be 
known. 
And  many  rose 
Whose  woe  was  such  that  fear  became 
desire; 
Melchior  and  Lionel  were  not  among  those; 
They  from  the  throng  of  men  had  stepped 

aside. 
And   made   their  home   under  the   green 

hillside. 
It  was  that  hill,  whose  intervening  brow 
Screens  Lucca  from  the  Pisan's  envious 
eye,  40 

Which  the  circumfluous  plain  waving  be- 
low. 
Like  a  wide  lake  of  green  fertility, 
With  streams  and  fields  and  marshes  bare, 
Divides  from   the  far  Apennines,  which 
lie 
Islanded  in  the  immeasurable  air. 

'  What  think  you,  as  she  lies  in  her  green 

cove. 
Our  little  sleeping  boat  is  dreaming  of  ? 
If   morning  dreams  are  true,  why  I  should 

guess 
That  she  was  dreaming  of  our  idleness, 
And  of  the  miles  of  watery  way  50 

We  should   have  led  her  by   this  time  of 

day.' 

'  Never  mind,'  said  Lionel, 
*  Give  care  to  the  winds,  they  can  bear  it 

well 
About  yon  poplar  tops;  and  see  ! 
The  white  clouds  are  driving  merrily. 
And  the  stars  we  miss  this  morn  will  light 
More  willingly  our  return  to-night. 
How   it  whistles,   "  Dominic's   long   black 

hair  ! 
List,  my  dear  fellow,  the  breeze  blows  fair; 
Hear  how  it  sings  into  the  air."  60 

—  of  us  and  of  our  lazy  motions,' 
Impatiently  said  Melchior, 
'  If  I  can  guess  a  boat's  emotions; 

And  how  we  ought,  two  hours  before, 
To  have  been  the  devil  knows  where.' 


450 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


And  then,  in  such  transalpine  Tuscan 
As  would  have  killed  a  Della-Cruscan, 

So,  Lionel  according  to  his  art 

Weaving  his  idle  words,  Melchior  said: 
•  She  dreams  that  we  are  not  yet  out  of 
bed ;  70 

We  '11  put  a  soul  into  her,  and  a  heart 
Which  like  a  dove  chased  by  a  dove  shall 
beat.' 


*  Ay,  heave  the  ballast  overboard, 
And  stow  the  eatables  in  the  aft  locker.' 

*  Would  not  this  keg  be  best  a  little  low- 

ered ? ' 

*  No,  now  all 's  right.'     '  Those  bottles  of 

warm  tea  — 
(Give  me  some  straw)  —  must  be  stowed 

tenderly; 
Such  as  we  used,  in  summer  after  six. 
To   cram    in  great-coat   pockets,  and    to 

mix 
Hard  eggs  and  radishes  and  rolls  at  Eton,  80 
And,  couched  on  stolen  hay  in  those  green 

harbors 
Farmers  called  gaps,   and  we  schoolboys 

called  arbors. 
Would  feast  tUl  eight.' 


With  a  bottle  in  one  hand. 
As  if  his  very  soul  were  at  a  stand, 
Lionel  stood,  when  Melchior  brought  him 

steady,  — 
*  Sit  at  the  helm  —  fasten  this  sheet  —  all 

ready  ! ' 

The  chain  is  loosed,  the  sails  are  spread. 

The  living  breath  is  fresh  behind. 
As  with  dews  and  sunrise  fed  90 

Comes  the  laughing  morning  wind. 
The  sails  are  full,  the  boat  makes  head 
Against  the  Sercbio's  torrent  fierce, 
Then  flags  with  intermitting  course, 
And  hangs  upon  the  wave,  and  stems 
Tlie  tempest  of  the 
Wliich  fervid  from  its  mountain  source 
Shallow,  smooth,  and  strong,  doth  come,  — 
Swift  as  fire,  tempestuously 
It  sweeps  into  the  affrighted  sea;  100 

In  morning's  smile  its  eddies  coil, 
Its  billows  sparkle,  toss,  and  boil, 
Torturing  all  its  quiet  light 
Into  columns  fierce  and  bright. 


The  Serchio,  twisting  forth 
Between  the  marble  barriers  which  it  clove 
At  Ripafratta,  leads  through  the  dread 
chasm 
The  wave  that  died  the  death  which  lovera 
love. 
Living  in  what  it  sought;  as  if  this  spasm 
Had  not  yet  passed,  the  toppling  mountains 
cling,  110 

But  the  clear  stream  in  full  enthusiasm 
Pours  itself  on  the  plain,  then  wandering, 
Down  one  clear  path  of  efSuence  crystal- 
line 
Sends  its  superfluous  waves,  that  they  may 
fling 
At  Arno's  feet  tribute  of  corn  and  wine; 
Then,  through  the  pestilential  deserts  wild 
Of  tangled  marsh  and  woods  of  stunted 
pine. 
It  rushes  to  the  Ocean. 


THE   ZUCCA 

Date,  January,  1822.     Published  by  Mrs. 
SheUey,  1824. 

I 
Summer  was  dead  and  Autumn  was  expir- 
ing. 
And  infant  Winter  laughed  upon  the  land 
All  cloudlessly  and  cold;  when  I,  desiring 
More  in  this  world  than  any  understand. 
Wept  o'er  the  beauty,  which,  like  sea  re- 
tiring. 
Had  left  the  earth  bare  as  the  wave-worn 
sand 
Of  my  lorn  heart,  and  o'er  the  grass  and 

flowers 
Fide  for  the  falsehood  of  the  flattering  hours. 


Summer  was  dead,  but  I  yet  lived  to  weep 
The  instability  of  all  but  weeping; 

And  on  the  earth  lulled  in  her  winter  sleep 
I  woke,  and  envied  her  as  she  was  sleep- 
ing. 

Too  happj'  Earth  !  over  thy  face  9I1.1II  creep 
The  wakening  vernal  airs,  until  thou, 
leaping 

From  juiremembered  dreams  shalt  see 

No  death  divide  thy  immortality. 

Ill 
I  loved  —  oh,  no,  I  mean  not  one  of  ye, 
Or  any  earthly  one,  though  ye  are  dear 


FRAGMENTS 


45  » 


As  human  heart  to  human  heart  may  be; 
1  loved  I  know  uot  what  —  but  this  low 
sphere, 
And  all  that  it  contains,  contains  not  thee, 
Thou,  vvliom,  seen  nowhere,  I  feel  every- 
where. 
From  heaven  and  earth,  and  all  that  in 

them  are 
Veiled  art  thou  like  a        star. 


By  Heaven   and   Earth,  from   all   whose 
shapes  thou,  flowest, 
Neither   to   be   contained,  delayed,  nor 
hidden ; 
Making  divine  the  loftiest  and  the  lowest, 
When  for  a  moment  thou  art  not  for- 
bidden 
To  live  within  the  life  which  thou  bestow- 
est; 
And  leaving  noblest^  things  vacant  and 
chidden. 
Cold  as  a  corpse  after  the  spirit's  flight. 
Blank  as  the  sun  after  the  birth  of  night. 


In  winds,  and  trees,  and  streams,  and  all 
things  common. 
In  music,   and    the   sweet  unconscious 
tone 
Of  animals,  and  voices  which  are  human. 
Meant  to  express  some  feelings  of  their 
own; 
In  the  soft  motions  and  rare  smile  of  wo- 
man, 
In  flowers  and  leaves,  and  in  the  grass 
fresh  shown 
Or  dying  in  the  autumn,  —  I  the  most 
Adore  thee  present,  or  lament  thee  lost. 


And  thus  I  went  lamenting,  when  I  saw 

A  plant  upon  the  river's  margin  lie. 
Like   one  who  loved  beyond  his  nature's 
law, 
And  in  despair  had  cast  him  down  to 
die; 
Its  leaves  which  had  outlived  the  frost,  the 
thaw 
Had  blighted,  like  a  heart  which  hatred's 
eye 
Can   blast   not,  but  which  pity  kills;  the 

dew 
Lay  on  its  spotted  leaves  like  tears  too 
true. 


VII 


The  Heavens  had  wept  upon  it,   but  the 
Eartli 
Had  crushed  it  on  her  uumaternal  breast. 


VIII 
I  bore  it  to  my  chamber  and  I  planted 

It  in  a  vase  full  of  the  lightest  mould; 
The  winter   beams  which  out  of  Heaven 
slanted 
Fell  through  the  window  panes,  disrobed 
of  cold, 
Upon  its  leaves  and  flowers;  the  star  which 
panted 
In  evening  for  the  Day,  whose  car  has 
rolled 
Over  the  horizon's  wave,  with  looks  of  light 
Smiled   on  it  from  the  threshold  of  the 
night. 


The  mitigated  influences  of  air 

And  light  revived  the  plant,  and  from  it 
grew 
Strong  leaves  and  tendrils,  and  its  flowers 
fair, 
Full  as  a  cup  with  the  vine's  burning  dew,'* 
O'erflowed   with  golden   colors;   an  atmo- 
sphere 
Of  vital  warmth  enfolded  it  anew, 
And  every  impulse  sent  to  every  part 
The  unbeheld  pulsations  of  its  heart. 


Well  might  the  plant  grow  beautiful  and 
strong, 
Even  if  the  air  and  sun  had  smiled  not 
on  it; 
For  one  wept  o'er  it  all  the  winter  long 
Tears  pure  as  Heaven's  rain,  which  fell 
upon  it 
Hour   after   hour;  for   sounds    of   softest 
song, 
Mixed  with  the  stringed  melodies  that 
won  it 
To  leave  the  gentle  lips  on  which  it  slept. 
Had  loosed  the  heart  of  him  who  sat  and 
wept. 

XI 
Had  loosed  his  heart,  and  shook  the  leaves 
and  flowers 
On  which  he  wept,  the  while  the  savage 
storm 


452 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Waked  by  the  darkest  of  December's  hours 
Was  raving  round  the  chamber  hushed 
and  warm; 
The  birds  were  shivering  in  their  leafless 
bowers, 
The  fisli  were  frozen  in  the  pools,  the 
form 
Of  every  summer  plant  was  dead 
Whilst  this 

LINES 
Date,  1822.    Published  by  Gamett,  1862. 

I 
We  meet  not  as  we  parted, 

We  feel  more  than  all  may  see; 
My  bosom  is  heavy-hearted, 

And  tliine  full  of  doubt  for  me. 

One  moment  has  bound  the  free. 


Tliat  moment  is  gone  forever. 

Like  lightning  that  flashed  and  died, 

Like  a  snowflake  upon  the  river, 
Like  a  sunbeam  upon  the  tide. 
Which  the  dark  shadows  hide. 

Ill 
That  moment  from  time  was  singled 

As  the  first  of  a  life  of  pain ; 
The  Clip  of  its  joy  was  mingled  — 

Delusion  too  sweet  though  vain  ! 

Too  sweet  to  be  mine  again. 

IV 

Sweet  lips,  conld  my  heart  have  bidden 
That  its  life  was  crushed  by  you, 

Ye  would  not  have  then  forbidden 
The  death  which  a  heart  so  true 
Sought  in  your  briny  dew. 


Methinks  too  little  cost 

For  a  moment  so  found,  so  lost ! 

CHARLES   THE   FIRST 

Shelley  had  the  subject  of  Charles  the  First 
in  mind  for  a  trag'edy  as  early  as  1818,  and  de- 
sired Mrs.  Shelley  to  attempt  it.  He  had  be- 
gun to  think  of  it  for  himself  in  the  summer  of 
1820  and  wrote  to  Medwin  :  '  Wliat  think  you 
of  my  boldness  ?  I  mean  to  write  a  play,  in 
the  spirit  of  human  nature,  without  prejudice 


or  passion,  entitled  Charles  the  First.  So  van- 
ity intoxicates  people  ;  but  let  those  few  who 
praise  my  verses,  and  in  whose  approbation  I 
take  so  much  delight,  answer  for  the  sin.' 

Later,  he  wrote  to  Oilier :  '  I  doubt  about 
Charles  the  First;  but,  if  I  do  write  it,  it  shall 
be  the  birth  of  severe  and  high  feelings.  Yon 
are  very  welcome  to  it,  on  the  terms  you  men-t 
tion,  and,  when  once  I  see  and  feel  that  I  can 
write  it,  it  is  already  written.  My  thoughts 
aspire  to  a  production  of  a  far  higher  char- 
acter ;  but  the  execution  of  it  will  require 
some  years.  I  write  what  I  .write  chiefly  to 
enquire,  by  the  reception  which  my  writings 
meet  with,  how  far  I  am  fit  for  so  great  a  task, 
or  not.' 

By  the  summer  of  1821  he  had  done  some 
shaping-out  thought  on  it,  and  in  September 
wrote  again  to  Oilier :  '  Charles  the  First  is 
conceived,  but  not  born.  Unless  I  am  sure  of 
making  something  good,  the  play  will  not 
be  written.  Pride,  that  ruined  Satan,  will  kill 
Charles  the  First,  ior  his  midwife  would  be 
only  less  than  him  whom  thunder  has  made 
greater.  I  am  full  of  great  plans ;  and  if  I 
should  tell  you  them,  I  should  add  to  the  list 
of  these  riddles.' 

He  began  seriously  upon  it  about  January  1 , 
1822,  and  wrote  to  Oilier  it  would  be  ready  by 
spring,  saying  that  it  '  promises  to  be  good,  as 
tragedies  go,'  and  that  it  '  is  not  colored  by 
the  party-spirit  of  the  author ; '  to  Hunt  he 
confided  his  hope  that  it  would  '  hold  a  higher 
rank  than  The  Cenci  as  a  work  of  art.'  He 
apparently  soon  discontinued  the  work,  and  in 
answer  to  Hunt  wrote,  in  March :  '  So  you 
think  I  can  make  nothing  of  Charles  the  First. 
Tanto  pegi/io.  Indeed,  I  have  written  nothing 
for  this  last  two  montlis  :  a  slight  circumstance 
gave  a  new  train  to  my  ideas,  and  shattered 
the  fragile  edifice  when  half  built.  What 
motives  have  I  to  write  ?  I  had  motives,  and 
I  thank  the  God  of  my  own  heart  they  were 
totally  different  from  those  of  the  other  apes  of 
humanity  who  make  mouths  in  the  glass  of  the 
time.  But  what  are  those  motives  now  ?  The 
only  inspiration  of  an  ordinary  kind  I  could  de- 
scend to  acknowledge  would  be  the  earning 
£100  for  you  ;  and  that  it  seems  I  cannot.'  In 
the  same  strain  he  wrote  in  April  to  Gisbome : 
'  I  have  done  some  of  Charles  the  First ;  but  al- 
though the  poetry  succeeded  very  well,  I  can- 
not seize  on  the  conception  of  the  subject  as  a 
whole,  and  seldom  now  touch  the  canvas  ; '  and 
again,  in  June  :  '  I  write  little  now.  It  is  im- 
possible to  compose  except  under  the  strong 
excitement  of  an  assurance  of  finding  sympathy 
in  what  you  write.  Imagine  Demosthenes  re- 
citing a  Philippic  to  the  waves  of  the  Atlantic. 
Lord  Byron  is  in  this  respect  fortunate.  He 
touched  the  chord  to  which  a  million  hearts 


FRAGMENTS 


453 


responded,  and  the  coarse  music  which  he  pro- 
duced to  please  them,  disciplined  him  to  the 
perfection  to  which  he  now  approaches.  I  do 
not  go  on  with  Charles  the  First.  I  feel  too 
little  certainty  of  the  future,  and  too  little 
satisfaction  with  regard  to  the  past  to  under- 
take any  subject  seriously  and  deeply.  I 
stand,  as  it  were,  upon  a  precipice,  which  I 
have  ascended  with  great,  and  cannot  descend 
■without  greater  peril,  and  I  am  content  if  the 
heaven  above  me  is  calm  for  the  passing  mo- 
ment.' 

Medwin  adds  some  details :  '  I  must  now 
speak  of  his  Charles  the  First.  He  had  de- 
signed to  write  a  tragedy  on  this  ungrateful 
subject  as  far  back  as  1818,  and  had  begun  it 
at  the  end  of  the  following  year,  when  he 
asked  me  to  obtain  for  hira  that  well-known 
pamphlet,  which  was  in  my  father's  library  — 
Killing  no  Murder.  He  was,  however,  in  lim- 
ine, diverted  at  that  time  to  more  attractive 
subjects,  and  now  resumed  his  abandoned 
labors,  of  which  he  has  left  a  very  unsatisfac- 
tory, though  valuable,  hozzo.  The  task  seemed 
to  him  an  irksome  one.  His  progress  was 
slow ;  one  day  he  expunged  what  he  had 
written  the  day  before.  He  occasionally 
showed  and  read  to  me  his  MS.,  which  was 
lined  and  interlined  and  interworded,  so  as  to 
render  it  almost  illegible.  The  scenes  were 
disconnected,  and  intended  to  be  interwoven 
in  the  tissue  of  the  drama.  He  did  not  thus 
compose  The  Cenci.  He  seemed  tangled  in  an 
inextricable  web  of  difficulties,  as  to  the  treat- 
ment of  his  subject ;  and  it  was  clear  that  he 
had  formed  no  definite  plan  in  his  own  mind, 
how  to  connect  the  links  of  the  complicated 
yarn  of  events  that  led  to  that  frightful  catas- 
trophe, or  to  justify  it.  .  .  .  Shelley  meant  to 
have  made  the  last  of  King's  fools,  Archy,  a 
more  than  subordinate  among  his  dramatis 
persona,  as  Calderon  had  done  in  his  Cisma 
de  V Inglaterra,  a  fool  sui  generis,  who  talks  in 
fable,  "  weaving  a  world  of  mirth  out  of  the 
wreck  of  all  around."  .  .  .  Other  causes,  be- 
sides doubt  as  to  the  manner  of  treating  the 
subject,  operated  to  impede  its  progress.  The 
ever-growing  fastidiousness  of  his  taste  had,  I 
have  often  thought,  begun  to  cramp  his  genius. 
The  opinion  of  the  world,  too,  at  times  shook 
his  confidence  in  himself.  I  have  often  been 
shown  the  scenes  of  this  tragedy  in  which  he 
was  engaged  ;  like  the  ilSS.  of  Tasso's  Geru- 
salemme  Liberata,  in  the  library  at  Ferrara,  his 
were  larded  with  word  on  word,  till  they  were 
scarcely  decipherable.' 

Mrs.  Shelley  writes  :  '  Whether  the  subject 
proved  more  difficult  than  he  anticipated,  or 
whether  in  fact  he  could  not  bend  his  mind 
away  from  the  broodings  and  wanderings  of 
thought  divested  from  human  interest,  which 


ha  best  loved,  I  cannot  tell ;  but  he  proceeded 
slowly,  and  threw  it  aside  for  one  of  the  most 
mystical  of  his  poems.  The  Triumph  of  Life,  on 
which  he  was  employed  at  the  bist.' 

The  fragment  was  published  in  part  by  Mrs. 
Shelley,  1824,  and  the  remainder  by  Bossetti, 
1870. 

CHARLES   THE   FIRST 

DRAMATIS  PERSONiE 
KdO  Chakles  I.  JUXON. 

QcEBN  Henrietta.  St.  Johh. 

Laud,  Archbishop  of  Canter-    Aechy,  the  Court  FooL 

bury.  Hampden. 

Wentwoeth,  Earl  of  Btraf-    Pym. 

ford.  Cbomwell. 

Lord  Cottinoton.  Cromwell's  Dauohteb. 

Lord  Weston.  Sib   Harry  Yank   the 

Lord  Coventry.  younger. 

WttLiAMs,  Bishop  of  Lincoln.    Leighton. 
Secretary  Lyttelton.  Bastwick. 

Pkynne. 

Gentlemen  of  the  Inns  of  Court,  Citizens,  Pursui- 
vants, Marshalsmen,  Law  Students,  Judges,  Clerk. 

Scene  I.  —  The  Masque  of  the  Inns  of  Court. 

A   PUBSTTIVANT 

Place  for  the  Marshal  of  the  Masque  I 

FIRST  CITIZEN 

What  thinkest  thou  of  this  quaint  masque 

which  turns, 
Like    morning   from   the   shadow   of    the 

night, 
The  night  to  day,  and  London  to  a  place 
Of  peace  and  joy  ? 

SECOND   CITIZEN 

And  Hell  to  Heaven. 
Eight  years  are  gone, 
And  they  seem  hours,  since  in  this  populous 

street 
I  trod  on  grass  made  green  by  summer's 

rain; 
For  the  red  plague  kept  state  within  that 

palace 
Where   now  that  vanity  reigns.     In   nine 

years  more  lo 

The    roots    will    be   refreshed   with   civil 

blood ; 
And  thank  the  mercy  of  insulted  Heaven 
That  sin  and  wrongs  wound,  as  an  orphan's 

cry, 
The  patience  of  the  great  Avenger's  ear. 

A   YOUTH 

Yet,  father,  't  is  a  happy  sight  to  see, 
Beautiful,  innocent,  and  unforbidden 


454 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


By  God  or  man.     'T  is  like  the  bright  pro- 
cession 
Of  skyey  visions  in  a  solemn  dream 
From  which  men  wake  as  from  a  paradise, 
And  draw  new  strength  to  tread  the  thorns 
of  life.  20 

If  God  be  good,  wherefore  should  this  be 

evil  ? 
And  if  this  be  not  evil,  dost  thou  not  draw 
Unseasonable  poison  from  the  flowers 
Which   bloom   so  rarely  in    this    barren 

world  ? 
Oh,  kill  these  bitter  thoughts  which  make 

the  present 
Dark  as  the  future  !  — 

When  Avarice  and  Tyranny,  vigilant  Fear 
And  open-eyed  Conspiracy,  lie  sleeping 
As  on   Hell's   threshold;    and  all  gentle 

thoughts 
Waken  to  worship  Him  who  giveth  joys  30 
With  his  own  gift. 

SECOND   CITIZEN 

How  young   art   thou   in   this  old  age  of 

time  ! 
How  green  in  this  gray  world  !    Canst  thou 

discern 
The  signs  of  seasons,  yet  perceive  no  hint 
Of  change   in  that   stage-scene  in  which 

thou  art 
Not  a  spectator  but  an  actor  ?  or 
Art  thou  a  puppet  moved  by  [enginery  ?] 
The   day  that  dawns   in   fire  will   die   in 

storms. 
Even    though    the    noon    be    calm.     My 

travel  's  done,  — 
Before  the  whirlwind  wakes  I  shall  have 

found  40 

My  inn   of  lasting  rest;   but  thou  must 

still 
Be  journeying  on  in  this  inclement  air. 
Wrap  thy  old  cloak  about  thy^  back; 
Nor  leave  the  broad  and  plain  and  beaten 

road, 
Although  no  flowers  smile  on  the  trodden 

dust, 
For  the   violet  paths  of   pleasure.     This 

Charles  the  First 
Rose  like  the  equinoctial  sun,  .  .  . 
By  vapors,  through  whose  threatening  omi- 
nous veil 
Darting  liis  altered  influence  hn  has  gained 
This  height  of  noon  —  from  which  he  must 

decline  jo 


Amid  the  darkness  of  conflicting  storms, 
To  dank  extinction  and  to  latest  night  .  .  . 

There  goes 

The  apostate  Strafford ;  he  whose  titles  .  .  . 

whispered  aphorisms 

From  Machiavel  and  Bacon ;  and,  if  Judas 

Had  been  as  brazen  and  as  bold  as  he  .  .  . 


FIBST    CITIZEN 

Is  the  Archbishop. 


That 


SECOND   CITIZEN 

Rather  say  the  Pope: 
London  will  be  soon  his  Rome.  He  walks 
As  if  he  trod  upon  the  heads  of  men.  61 
He  looks  elate,  drunken  with   blood  and 

gold. 
Beside  him  moves  the  Babylonian  woman 
Invisibly,  and  with  her  as  with  his  shadow, 
Mitred  adulterer  !  he  is  joined  in  sin, 
Which   turns   Heaven's  milk  of  mercy  to 

revenge. 

THIRD  CITIZEN  (Jtfting  up  his  eyes) 
Good  Lord  !  rain  it  down  upon  him  !  .  .  . 
Amid  her  ladies  walks  the  papist  queen, 
As  if   her  nice  feet  scorned   our  English 

earth. 
The  Canaanitish  Jezebel  !     I  would  be     70 
A  dog  if  I  might  tear  her  with  my  teeth  ! 
There 's  old  Sir  Henry  Vane,  the  Earl  of 

Pembroke, 
Lord  Essex,  and  Lord  Keeper  Coventry, 
And  others  who  made  base  their  English 

breed 
By  vile  participation  of  their  honors 
With   papists,  atheists,   tyrants,  and  apos- 
tates. 
When  lawyers  masque  't  is  time  for  honest 

men 
To  strip  the  vizor  from  their  purposes. 
A  seasonable  time  for  masquers  this  ! 
When  Englishmen  and  Protestants  should 

sit  80 

dust  on  their  dishonored  heads. 
To  avert  the  wrath  of  Him  whose  scourge 

is  felt 
For  the  great  sins  which  have  drawn  down 

from  Heaven 

and  foreign  overthrow. 
The   remnant   of   the   martyred   saints  in 

Rochefort 
Have   been  abandoned  by  their  faithless 

allies 


FRAGMENTS 


455 


To  that  idolatrous  and  adulterous  torturer 
Lewis     of     France,  —  the    Palatinate    is 
lost.  .  .  . 

Enter  LEiaHTON  {who  has  been  branded  in  the 
face)  and  Bastwick 

Canst  thou  be  —  art  thou  •  .  .  ? 

LEIGHTON 

I  teas  Leighton:  what 
I  am  thou  seest.  And  yet  turn  thine  ej-es, 
And  with  thy  memory  look  on  thy  friend's 

mind,  91 

Which  is  unchanged,  and  where  is  written 

deep 
The  sentence  of  my  judge. 

THIRD   CITIZEN 

Are  these  the  marks  with  which 
Laud  thinks  to  improve  the  image  of  his 

Maker 
Stamped  on   the   face   of  man?      Curses 

upon  him, 
The  impious  tyrant ! 

SECOND  CITIZEN 

It  is  said  besides 

That  lewd  and  papist  drunkards  may  pro- 
fane 

The  Sabbath  with  their 

And  has  permitted  that  most  heathenish 
custom 

Of  dancing  round  a  pole  dressed  up  with 
wreaths  100 

On  May-day. 

A  man  who  thus  twice  crucifies  his  God 

May  well  his  brother.     In  my  mind, 

friend, 

The  root  of  all  this  ill  is  prelacy. 

I  would  cut  up  the  root. 

THIRD   CITIZEN 

And  by  what  means  ? 

SECOND   CITIZEN 

Smiting  each  Bishop  under  the  fifth  rib. 

THIRD    CITIZEN 

You  seem  to  know  the  vulnerable  place 
Of  these  same  crocodiles. 

SECOND   CITIZEN 

I  learned  it  in 
Egyptian   bondages,   sir.     Your   worm  of 
Nile 


Betrays  not   with  its  flattering  tears  like 

they ;  1 10 

For,  when  they  cannot  kill,  they  whine  and 

weep. 
Nor  is  it  half  so  greedy  of  men's  bodies 
As  they  of  soul  and  all;  nor  does  it  wallow 
In  slime  as  they  in  simony  and  lies 
And  close  lusts  of  the  flesh. 

A  MARSHALS3IAN 

Give  place,  give  place  ! 
You   torch-bearers,   advance   to  the  great 

gate, 
And  then  attend  the  Marshal  of  the  Masque 
Into  the  royal  presence. 

A  liAW  STUDENT 

What  thinkest  thou 
Of    this    quaint   show   of   ours,  my   agfed 

friend  ? 
Even  now  we  see  the  redness  of  the  torches 
Inflame  the  night  to  the  eastward,  and  the 

clarions  121 

[Gasp  ?]  to   us   on   the   wind's  wave.     It 

comes  ! 
And  their  sounds,  floating  hither  round  the 

pageant. 
Rouse  up  the  astonished  air. 

FIRST  CITIZEN 

I   will   not   think   but   that   our  country's 

wounds 
May  yet  be  healed.     The  king  is  just  and 

gracious, 
Though  wicked  counsels  now  pervert  his 

will. 
These  once  cast  off  — 

SECOND   CITIZEN 

As  adders  cast  their  skins 
And   keep   their   venom,   so    kings    often 

change ; 
Counsels   and    counsellors    hang    on    one 

another,  130 

Hiding  the  loathsome  .  .  . 
Like  the  base  patchwork  of  a  leper's  rags. 

THE   YOUTH 

Oh,  still  those  dissonant  thoughts  !  —  List 

how  the  music 
Grows  on  the  enchanted  air  !    And  see,  the 

torches 
Restlessly  flashing,  and  the  crowd  divided 
Like  waves  before  an  admiral's  prow  ! 


4S6 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


A    aiARSHALSMAN 


To  the  Marshal  of  the  Masque  I 


Give  place 


A  PUKSUIVANT 

Room  for  the  King  ! 

THE   YOUTH 

How  glorious  !     See  those  thronging  char- 
iots 
Rolling,  like  painted  clouds  before  the  wind, 
Behind  their  solemn  steeds:  how  some  are 
shaped  140 

Like  curved  sea-shells  dyed  by  the  azure 

depths 
Of  Indian  seas;  some  like  the  new-born 

moon ; 
And  some  like  cars  in  which  the  Romans 

climbed 
(Canopied  by  Victory's  eagle-wings   out- 
spread) 
The  Capitolian  !     See  how  gloriously 
The  mettled  horses  in  the  torchlight  stir 
Their  gallant  riders,  while  they  check  their 

pride, 
Like  shapes  of  some  diviner  element 
Than  English  air,  and  beings  nobler  than 
The  envious  and  admiring  multitude.       150 

SECOND   CITIZEN 

Ay,  there  they  are  — 
Nobles,  and  sons  of  nobles,  patentees. 
Monopolists,  and   stewards    of    this  poor 

farm, 
On  whose   lean  sheep    sit  the   prophetic 

crows. 
Here  is  the  pomp  that  strips  the  houseless 

orphan. 
Here  is  the  pride  that  breaks  the  desolate 

heart. 
These  are  the  lilies  glorious  as  Solomon, 
Who  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin  —  unless 
It  be   the   webs  they  catch   poor  rogues 

withal. 
Here   is  the   surfeit  which  to  them  who 

earn  160 

The   niggard  wages  of  the  earth  scarce 

leaves 
The  tithe  that  will  support  them  till  they 

crawl 
Back  to  her  cold,  hard  bosom.     Here  is 

health 
Followed  by  grim  disease,  glory  by  shame, 
Waste  by  lame  famine,  wealth  by  squalid 

want, 


And  England's  sin  by  England's  punish- 
ment. 

And,  as  the  effect  pursues  the  cause  fore- 
gone, 

Lo,  giving  substance  to  my  words,  behold 

At  once  the  sign  and  the  thing  signified  — 

A  troop  of  cripples,  beggars,  and  lean  out- 
casts, 170 

Horsed  upon  stumbling  jades,  carted  with 
dung, 

Dragged  for  a  day  from  cellars  and  low 
cabins 

And  rotten  hiding-holes,  to  point  the  moral 

Of  this  presentment,  and  bring  up  the  rear 

Of  painted  pomp  with  misery  ! 

THE   YOUTH 

'T  is  but 
The  anti-masque,  and  serves  as  discords  do 
In  sweetest  music.     Who  would  love  May 

flowers 
If  they  succeeded  not  to  Winter's  flaw; 
Or  day  unchanged  by  night;  or  joy  itself 
Without  the  touch  of  sorrow  ? 

SECOND   CITIZEN 

I  and  thou  .  .  , 

A   MARSHALSMAN 

Place,  give  place  !  i8i 

Scene  II.  —  A  Chamber  in  Whitehall. 

Enter  the  King,  Queen,  Laud,  Lord 
Strafford,  Lord  Cottingtox,  and  other 
Lords ;  Archt  ;  also  St.  John,  with  some 
Gentlemen  of  the  Inns  of  Court. 

kino 
Thanks,  gentlemen.     I  heartily  accept 
This    token   of    your    service;    your    gay 

masque 
Was  performed  gallantly.     And  it  show? 

well 
When  subjects  twine  such  flowers  of  [ob- 
servance ?] 
With  the  sharp  thorns  that  deck  the  Eng- 
lish crown. 
A  gentle  heart  enjoys  what  it  confers. 
Even  as  it  suffers  that  whicli  it  inflicts. 
Though  Justice  guides  the  stroke. 
Accept  my  hearty  thanks. 

queen 

And,  gentlemen, 

Call  your  poor  Queen  your  debtor.     Your 

quaint  pageant  10 


FRAGMENTS 


457 


Rose  on  me  like  tlie  figures  of  past  years, 
Treading  their  still  path  back  to  infancy, 
More   beautiful  and   mild  as   they   draw 

nearer 
The  quiet  cradle.    I  could  have  almost  wept 
To  think  I  was  in  Paris,  where  these  shows 
Are  well  devised  —  such  as  I  was  ere  yet 
My  young  heart  shared  a  portion  of  the 

burden, 
The  careful  weight,  of  this  g^reat  monarchy. 
There,  gentlemen,  between  the  sovereign's 

pleasure 
And  that  which  it  regards,  no  clamor  lifts 
Its  proud  interposition.  21 

In  Paris  ribald  censurers  dare  not  move 
Their  poisonous  tongues  against  these  sin- 
less sports; 
And  his  smile 
Warms  those  who  bask  in  it,  as  ours  would 

do 
If  .  .  .  Take  my  heart's  thanks;  add  them, 

gentlemen, 
To  those  good  words  which,  were  he  King 

of  France, 
My  royal  lord  would  turn  to  golden  deeds. 


Madam,  the  love  of  Englishmen  can  make 
The  lightest  favor  of  their  lawful  king      30 
Outweigh  a  despot's.    We  humbly  take  our 

leaves, 
Enriched  by  smiles  which  France  can  never 

buy. 

[Exeunt  St.  John  and  the  Gentlemen  of  the 
Inns  of  Court. 

KING 

My  Lord  Archbishop. 

Mark  you  what  spirit   sits  in   St.  John's 

eyes? 
Methinks  it  is  too  saucy  for  this  presence. 


Yes,  pray  your  Grace  look  :  for,  like  an 
unsophisticated  [eye]  sees  everything  upside 
down,  you  who  are  wise  will  discern  the 
shadow  of  an  idiot  in  lawn  sleeves  and  a 
rochet  setting  springes  to  catch  woodcocks 
in  haymaking  time.  Poor  Archy,  whose 
owl-eyes  are  tempered  to  the  error  of  his 
age,  and  because  he  is  a  fool,  and  by  spe- 
cial ordinance  of  God  forbidden  ever  to  see 
himself  as  he  is,  sees  now  in  that  deep  eye 
a  blindfold  devil  sitting  on  the  ball,  and 
weighing  words  out  between  king  and  sub- 


jects. One  scale  is  full  of  promises,  and 
tlie  other  full  of  protestations;  and  then 
another  devil  creeps  behind  the  first  out 
of  the  dark  windings  [of  a]  pregnant  law- 
yer's brain,  and  takes  the  bandage  from 
the  other's  eyes,  and  throws  a  sword  into 
the  left-hand  scale,  for  all  the  world  like 
my  Lord  Essex's  there. 

STBAFFORD 

A  rod  in  pickle  for  the  Fool's  back  ! 


Ay,  and  some  are  now  smiling  whose 
tears  will  make  the  brine ;  for  Fool  sees  .  .  . 

STKAFFORD 

Insolent !  You  shall  have  your  coat 
turned  and  be  whipped  out  of  the  palace 
for  this. 

ARCHT 

When  all  the  fools  are  whipped,  and  all 
the  protestant  writers,  while  the  knaves 
are  whipping  the  fools  ever  since  a  thief 
was  set  to  catch  a  thief.  If  all  turncoats 
were  whipped  out  of  palaces,  poor  Archy 
would  be  disgraced  in  good  company.  Let 
the  knaves  whip  the  fools,  and  all  the  fools 
laugh  at  it.  [Let  the]  wise  and  godly  slit 
each  other's  noses  and  ears  (having  no  need 
of  any  sense  of  discernment  in  their  craft); 
and  the  knaves,  to  marshal  them,  join  in  a 
procession  to  Bedlam,  to  entreat  the  mad- 
men to  omit  their  sublime  Platonic  contem- 
plations, and  manage  the  state  of  England. 
Let  all  the  honest  men  who  lie  penned  up 
at  the  prisons  or  the  pillories,  in  custody 
of  the  pursuivants  of  the  High-Commission 
Court,  marshal  them. 

Enter  Secretary  Ltttelton,  with  papers 

KING  {looking  over  the  papers) 

These  stiff  Scots  80 
His  Grace  of  Canterbury  must  take  order 
To  force  under  the  Church's  yoke.  —  You, 

Went  worth. 
Shall  bo  myself  in  Ireland,  and  shall  add 
Your  wisdom,  gentleness,  and  energy. 
To  what  in  me  were  wanting.  —  My  Lord 

Weston, 
Look  that  those  merchants  draw  not  with- 
out loss 
Their  bullion  from  the  Tower;  and,  on  the 
payment 


458 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Of  ship-money,  take  fullest  compensation 
For  violation  of  our  royal  forests, 
Whose  limits,  from  neglect,  have  been  o'er- 
grown  90 

With  cottages  and  cornfields.     The  utter- 
most 
Farthing  exact  from  those  who  claim  ex- 
emption 
From  knighthood;  that  which  once  was  a 

reward 
Shall  thus  be  made  a  punishment,  that  sub- 
jects 
May  know  how  majesty  can  wear  at  will 
The  rugged  mood.  —  My  Lord  of  Coven- 
try. 
Lay  my  command  upon  the  Courts  below 
That  bail  be  not  accepted  for  the  prisoners 
Under  the  warrant  of  the  Star  Chamber. 
The  people  shall  not  find  the  stubbornness 
Of  Parliament  a  cheap  or  easy  method    loi 
Of  dealing  with  their  rightful  sovereign; 
And  doubt  not  this,  my  Lord  of  Coventry, 
We  will   find  time  and  place   for  fit  re- 
buke. — 
My  Lord  of  Canterbury. 


The  fool  is  here. 


I  crave  permission  of  your  Majesty 
To  order  that  this  insolent  fellow  be 
Chastised ;  he  mocks  the  sacred  character, 
Scoffs  at  the  state,  and  — 


What,  my  Archy  ? 
He  mocks  and  mimics  all  he  sees  and  hears. 
Yet  with  a  quaint  and  graceful  license. 

Prithee  m 

For  this  once  do  not  as  Prynne  would,  were 

he 
Primate  of  England.     With  your  Grace's 

leave. 
He  lives  in   his   own  world;  and,  like   a 

parrot 
Hung  in  his  gilded  prison  from  the  win- 
dow 
Of  a  queen's  bower  over  the  public  way, 
Blasphemes  with  a  bird's  mind;  liis  words, 

like  arrows 
Which  know  no  aim  beyond  the  archer's 

wit, 
Strike  sometimes  what  eludes  philosophy. 

(To  Aschy) 


Go,  sirrah,  and  repent  of  your  offence      no 

Ten  minutes  in  the  rain;  be  it  your  pen- 
ance 

To  bring  news  how  the  world  goes  there.  — 
Poor  Archy  I 

[Exit  Archt. 

He  weaves  about  himself  a  world  of  mirth 

Out  of  the  wreck  of  ours. 


I  take  with  patience,  as  my  Master  did, 
All  scoffs  permitted  from  above. 


My  lord, 
Pray    overlook    these     papers.      Archy's 

words 
Had  wings,  but  these  have  talons. 

QUEEN 

And  the  lion 
That  wears  them    must    be   tamed.     My 

dearest  lord,  129 

I  see  the  new-born  courage  in  thine  eye 
Armed  to  strike  dead  the  spirit  of  the  time. 
Which  spurs    to    rage   the    many-headed 

beast. 
Do  thou  persist;  for,  faint  but  in  resolve. 
And   it    were   better  thou  hadst   still   re- 
mained 
The   slave  of  thine  own  slaves,  who  tear 

like  curs 
The  fugitive,  and  flee  from  the  pursuer; 
And  Opportunity,  that  empty  wolf. 
Flies  at  his  throat  who  falls.     Subdue  thy 

actions 
Even  to  the  disposition  of  thy  purpose,    139 
And  be  that  tempered  as  the  Kbro's  steel; 
And  banish  weak-eyed  Mercy  to  the  weak, 
Whence  she  will  greet  thee  with  a  gift  of 

peace. 
And  not  betray  thee  with  a  traitor's  kiss, 
As  when  she  keeps  the  company  of  rebels. 
Who  think  that  she  is  Fear.     This  do,  lest 

we 
Should  fall  as  from  a  glorious  pinnacle 
In  a  bright  dream,  and  wake,  as  from   a 

dream. 
Out  of  our  worshipped  state. 


Belovfed  friend, 
God    is  my  witness   that  this   weight  of 

power. 
Which  he  sets  me  my  earthly  task  to  wield 


FRAGMENTS 


459 


Under  his  law,  is  my  delight  and  pride     151 
Only  because  thou  lovest  that  and  me. 
For  a  king  bears  the  office  of  a  God 
To  all  the  under  world ;  and  to  his  God 
Alone  he  must  deliver  up  his  trust, 
Unshorn  of  its  permitted  attributes. 
[It  seems]  now  as  the  baser  elements 
Had  mutinied  against  the  golden  sun 
That  kindles  them  to  harmony,  and  quells 
Their  self-destroying   rapine.       The    wild 

million  160 

Strike  at  the  eye  that  guides  them;  like  as 

humors 
Of  the  distempered  body  that  conspire 
Against   the  spirit   of  life  throned  in  the 

heart,  — 
And  thus  become  the  prey  of  one  another, 
And  last  of  death.  .  .  . 

STRAFFORD 

That  which  would  be  ambition  in  a  subject 
Is  duty  in  a  sovereign;  for  on  him, 
As  on  a  keystone,  hangs  the  arch  of  life. 
Whose  safety  is  its  strength.     Degree  and 

form, 
And  all  that  makes  the  age  of  reasoning 

man  170 

More  memorable  than  a  beast's,  depend  on 

this  — 
That  Right  should  fence  itself  inviolably 
With  power;  in  which  respect  the  state  of 

England 
From  usurpation  by  the  insolent  commons 
Cries  for  reform. 
Get  treason,  and  spare  treasure.     Fee  with 

coin 
The  loudest  murmurers ;  feed  with  jealous- 
ies 
Opposing  factions,  —  be  thyself  of  none; 
And  borrow  gold  of  many,  for  those  who 

lend 
Will  serve  thee  till  thou  payest  them ;  and 

thus  180 

Keep  the  fierce  spirit  of  the  hour  at  bay, 
Till  time,  and  its  coming  generations 
Of  nights  and  days  unborn,  bring  some  one 

chance, 

Or  war  or  pestilence  or  Nature's  self, 
By  some  distemperature  or  terrible  sign, 
Be  as  an  arbiter  betwixt  themselves. 

Nor  let  your  Majesty 
Doubt  here  the  peril  of  the  unseen  event. 
How  did  your  brother  kings,  coheritors 
In  your  high  interest  iu  the  subject  earth, 


Rise  past   such  troubles  to  that  height  of 

power  191 

Whei-e  now  they  sit,  and  awfully  serene 
Smile    on     the    trembling   world  ?      Such 

popular  storms 
Philip  the  Second  of  Spain,  this  Lewis  of 

France, 
And  late  the  German  head  of  many  bodies, 
And  every  petty  lord  of  Italy, 
Quelled  or  by  arts  or  arms.     Is  Englaudr 

poorer 
Or  feebler  ?  or  art  thou  who  wield'st  her 

power 
Tamer  than  they  ?  or  shall  this  island  be  — 
[Girdled]  by  its  inviolable  waters —        200 
To  the  world  present  and  the  world  to  come 
Sole  pattern  of  extinguished  monarchy  ? 
Not  if  thou  dost  as  I  would  have  thee  do. 

KINQ 

Your  words  shall  be  my  deeds; 

You  speak  the  image  of  my  thought.     My 

friend 
(If  kings  can  have  a  friend,  I  call  thee 

so). 
Beyond  the  large  commission   which  [be- 
longs ?] 
Under  the   great  seal  of   the  realm,  take 

this: 
And,  for  some  obvious  reasons,  let  there  be 
No  seal  on  it,  except  my  kingly  word      210 
And  honor  as  I  a,m  a  gentleman. 
Be  —  as   thou    art    within   my    heart  and 

mind  — 
Another  self,  here  and  in  Ireland: 
Do  what  thou  judgest  well,  take  amplest 

license, 
And  stick  not  even  at  questionable  means. 
Hear  me,  Wentworth.     My  word  is  as  a 

wall 
Between  thee  and  this  world  thine  enemy  — 
That  hates  thee,  for  thou  lovest  me. 

STRATFORD 

I  own 

No  friend  but  thee,  no  enemies  but  thine ; 
Thy  lightest  thought  is  my  eternal  law.  220 
How  weak,  how  short,  is  life  to  pay  — 


Peace,  peace  ! 
Thou  ow'st  me  nothing  yet.  — 

{To  Laud) 
My  lord,  what  say 
Those  papers  ? 


460 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Your  Majesty  lias  ever  interposed, 
In  lenity  towards  your  native  soil, 
Between    the    heavy     vengeance    of    the 

Church 
And   Scotland.     Mark  the  consequence  of 

wanning 
This  brood   of    northern    vipers  in  your 

bosom. 
The  rabble,  instructed  no  doubt 
By    Loudon,    Lindsay,   Hume,  and   false 

Argyll,  230 

(For  the  waves  never  menace  heaven  until 
Scourged  by  the  wind's  invisible  tyranny) 
Have  in  the  very  temple  of  the  Lord 
Done  outrage  to  his  chosen  ministers. 
They  scorn  the  liturgy  of  the  Holy  Church, 
Refuse  to  obey  her  canons,  and  deny 
The  apostolic  power  with  which  the  Spirit 
Has  filled  its  elect  vessels,  even  from  him 
Who   held   the   keys  with  power  to  loose 

and  bind 
To  him  who  now  pleads  in  this  royal  pre- 
sence. —  240 
Let  ampler  powers  and  new  instructions  be 
Sent  to  the  High  Commissioners  in  Scot- 
land. 
To  death,  imprisonment,  and  confiscation, 
Add  torture,  add  the  ruin  of  the  kindred 
Of  the  offender,  add  the  brand  of  infamy, 
Add  mutilation:  and  if  this  suffice  not, 
Unleash  the  sword  and  fire,  that  in  their 

thirst 
They  may  lick  up  that  scum  of  schismatics. 
I  laugh  at  those  weak  rebels  who,  desiring 
What  we  possess,  still  prate  of  Christian 

peace;  250 

As  if  those  dreadful  arbitrating  messengers 
Which  play  the  part  of  God  'twixt  right 

and  wrong, 
Should  be  let  loose  against   the  innocent 

sleep 
Of  templed  cities  and  the  smiling  fields, 
For  some  poor  argument  of  policy 
Which  touches  our  own  profit  or  our  pride, 
(Where  it  indeed  were  Christian  charity 
To   turn   the  cheek  even   to   the   smiter's 

ha-d); 
And,  when  our  great  Redeemer,  when  our 

God, 
When  he  who  gave,  accepted,  and  retained, 
Himself  in  propitiation  of  our  sins,  a6i 

Is  scorned  in  his  immediate  ministry. 
With  hazard  of  the  inestimable  loss 
Of  all  the  truth  and  discipline  which  is 


Salvation  to  the  extremest  generation 

Of  men  innumerable,  they  talk  of  peace  ! 

Such  peace  as  Canaan  found,  let  Scotland 
now  I 

For,  by  that  Christ  who  came  to  bring  a 
sword. 

Not  peace,  upon  the  earth,  and  gave  com- 
mand 

To  his  disciples  at  the  passover  J70 

That  each  should  sell  his  robe  and  buy  a 
sword,  — 

Once  strip  that  minister  of  naked  wrath, 

And  it  shall  never  sleep  in  peace  again 

Till  Scotland  bend  or  break. 

KING 

My  Lord  Archbishop, 
Do  what  thou  wilt  and  what  thou  canst  in 

this. 
Thy  earthly  even  as  thy  heavenly  King 
Gives    thee   large   power    in   his   unquiet 

realm. 
But  we  want   money,  and  my  mind  mis- 
gives me 
That  for  so  great  an  enterprise,  as  yet, 
We  are  unfurnished. 


STRAFFORD 


Rest  on  our  wills. 


Yet  it  may  not  long 


COTTINGTON 

The  expenses  281 

Of  gathering  ship-money,  and  of  distraining 
For  every  petty  rate  (for  we  encounter 
A  desperate  opposition  inch  by  inch 
In  every  warehouse  and  on  every  farm), 
Have  swallowed  up  the  gross  sum  of  the 

imposts ; 
So  that,  though  felt  as  a  most  grievous 

scourge 
Upon  the  land,  they  stand  as  in  small  stead 
As  touches  the  receipt. 

BTKAFFORD 

'T  is  a  conclusioi; 
Most  arithmetical:  and  thence  you  infer 
Perhaps  the  assembling  of  a  parliament. 
Now,   if  a   man  should  call   his  dearest 
enemies  292 

To  sit  in  licensed  judgment  on  his  life. 
His  Majesty  might  wisely  take  that  course. 
{Aside  to  Cottinoton) 
It  is  enough  to  expect  from  these  lean  im- 
posts 


FRAGMENTS 


461 


That  they  perform  the  office  of  a  scourge, 
Without  more  profit. 

(Aloud) 

Fines  and  confiscations, 

And  a  forced  loan  from  the  refractory 

city. 
Will  fill  our  coffers;  and  the  golden  love 
Of  loyal  gentlemen  and  noble  friends      300 
For  the  worshipped  father  of  our  common 

country, 
With  contributions  from  the  Catholics, 
Will  make  Rebellion  pale  in  our  excess. 
Be  these   the   expedients   until  time  and 

wisdom 
Shall  frame  a  settled  state  of  government. 

LAUD 

And  weak  expedients  they  !     Have  we  not 

drained 
All,  till  the  which  seemed 

A  mine  exhaustless  ? 

STBAFFOKD 

And  the  love  which  is. 

If  loyal  hearts  could  turn  their  blood  to 

gold.  309 

LAUD 

Both  now  grow  barren ;  and  I  speak  it  not 
As  loving  parliaments,  which,  as  they  have 

been 
In  the   right  band  of  bold,  bad,  mighty 

kings 
The  scourges  of  the  bleeding  Church,  I 

hate. 
Methinks  they  scarcely  can  deserve   our 

fear. 

STKAFFORD 

Oh,  my  dear  liege,  take  back  the  wealth 

thou  gavest; 
With  that,  take  all  I  held,  but  as  in  trust 
For  thee,  of  mine  inheritance ;  leave  me  but 
This  unprovided  body  for  thy  service. 
And  a  mind  dedicated  to  no  care 
Except  thy  safety;  but  assemble  not       320 
A  parliament.     Hundreds  will  bring,  like 

me, 
Their  fortunes,  as  they  would  their  blood, 

before  — 

KING 

No  I  thou  who  judgest  them  art  but  one. 

Alas! 
We  should  be  tpo  mach  out  of  love  with 

heaven, 


Did  this  vile  world  show  many  such  as 
thee. 

Thou  perfect  just  and  honorable  man  ! 

Never  shall  it  be  said  that  Charles  of  Eng- 
land 

Stripped  those  ue  loved  for  fear  of  those 
he  scorns; 

Nor  will  he  so  much  misbecome  his  throne 

As  to  impoverish  those  who  most  adorn 

And  best  defend  it.  That  you  urge,  deal 
Strafford,  331 

Inclines  me  rather  — 

QUBEK 

To  a  parliament  ? 
Is  this  thy  firmness  ?  and  thou  wilt  preside 
Over  a  knot  of  censurers. 

To  the  unswearing  of  thy  best  resolves, 
And  choose    the    worst,    when   the   worst 

comes  too  soon  ? 
Plight  not  the  worst  before  the  worst  must 

come. 
Oh,  wilt  thou  smile  whilst  our  ribald  foes, 
Dressed  in  their  own  usurped  authority, 
Sharpen  their  tongues  on  Henrietta's  fame  ? 
It  is  enough  !     Thou  lovest  me  no  more  ! 

( Weeps) 

KING 

Oh,  Henrietta ! 

(They  talk  apart) 

COTTINGTON  [to  LAUd] 

Money  we  have  none; 
And  all  the   expedients   of   my  Lord   of 
Strafford  343 

Will  scarcely  meet  the  arrears. 


Without  delay 
An  army  must  be  sent  into  the  north; 
Followed  by  a  Commission  of  the  Church, 
With  amplest  power  to  quench  in  fire  and 

blood, 
And  tears  and  terror,  and  the  pity  of  hell. 
The  intenser  wrath  of  Heresy.     God  will 

give 
Victory;  and  victory  over  Scotland  give  350 
The  lion  England  tamed  into  our  hands. 
That  will  lend  power,  and  power  bring  gold 

COTTINGTON 

Meanwhile 
We  must  begin  first  where  your  Grace 

leaves  off. 
Gold  must  give  power,  or  — 


462 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


I  am  not  averse 
From  the  assembling  of  a  parliament. 
Strong  actions   and  smooth  words   might 

teach  them  soon 
The  lesson  to  obey.     And  are  they  not 
Abubble  fashioned  by  the  monarch's  mouth, 
The  birth  of  one  light  breath?     If  they 

serve  no  purpose,  360 

A  word  dissolves  them. 

STRAFFORD 

The  engine  of  parliaments 
Might  be  deferred  until  I  can  bring  over 
The  Irish   regiments;  they  will   serve   to 

assure 
The  issue  of  the  war  against  the  Scots. 
And,  this  game  won  —  which  if  lost,  all  is 

lost  — 
Gather  these  chosen  leaders  of  the  rebels. 
And  call  them,  if  you  will,  a  parliament. 


Oh,  be  our  feet  still  tardy  to  shed  blood, 
Guilty  though  it  may  be  1     I  would  still 
spare  369 

The  stubborn  country  of  my  birth,  and  ward 
From  countenances  which  I  loved  in  youth 
The  wrathful  Church's  lacerating  hand. 

(To  Laud) 
Have  you  o'erlooked  the  other  articles  ? 

Reenter  Archt 


Hazlerig,  Hampden,    Pym,  young  Harry 

Vane, 
Cromwell,  and  other  rebels  of  less  note, 
Intend  to  sail  with  the  next  favoring  wind 
For  the  Plantations. 

ARCHT 

Where  they  think  to  found 
A  commonwealth  like  Gonzalo's  in  the  play, 
Gynsecocoenic  and  pantisocratio. 

KINO 

What 's  that,  sirrah  ? 


New  devil's  politics. 
Hell  is  the  pattern  of  all  commonwealths; 
Lucifer  was  the  first  republican.  382 

Will  you  hear  Merlin's  prophecy,  bow  three 
[posts  ?] 


'  In  one  brainless  skull,  when  the  white- 
thorn is  full. 

Shall  sail  round  the  world,  and  come  back 
again: 

Shall  sail  round  the  world  in  a  brainless 
skull, 

And  come  back  again  when  the  moon  is  at 
full:'  — 

When,  in  spite  of  the  Church, 

They  will  hear  homilies  of  whatever  length 

Or  form  they  please.  390 

[COTTINGTON  ?] 

So  please  your  Majesty  to  sig^n  this  order 
For  their  detention. 


If  your  Majesty  were  tormented  night 
and  day  by  fever,  gout,  rheumatism,  and 
stone,  and  asthma,  etc.,  and  you  found  these 
diseases  had  secretly  entered  into  a  con- 
spiracy to  abandon  you,  should  you  think  it 
necessary  to  lay  an  embargo  on  the  port  by 
which  they  meant  to  dispeople  your  un- 
quiet kingdom  of  man  ? 


If  fear  were   made   for  kings,  the   Fool 
mocks  wisely  ;  401 

But  in  this  case  —  {writing')   Here,  my  lord, 
take  the  warrant. 

And  see  it  duly  executed  forthwith.  — 

That  imp  of  malice  and  mockery  shall  be 
punished. 
[Exeunt  all  but  Kma,  Quekn,  and  Archy. 


Ay,  I  am  the  physician  of  whom  Plato 
prophesied,  who  -was  to  be  accused  by  the 
confectioner  before  a  jury  of  children,  who 
found  him  guilty  without  waiting  for  the 
summing-up,  and  hanged  him  without  bene- 
fit of  clergy.  Thus  Baby  Charles,  and  the 
Twelfth-night  Queen  of  Hearts,  and  the 
overgrown  schoolboy  Cottington,  and  that 
little  urchin  Laud  —  who  would  reduce  a 
verdict  of  '  guilty,  death,'  by  famine,  if  it 
were  impregnable  by  composition  —  all  im- 
panelled against  poor  Archy  for  presenting 
them  bitter  physic  the  last  day  of  the  holi- 
days. 

QUXEN 

Is  the  rain  over,  sirrah  ?  . 


FRAGMENTS 


463 


KINO 

When  it  rains 
And  the  sun  shines,  't  will  rain  again  to- 
morrow ;  420 
And  therefore  never  smile  till  you  've  done 
crying. 

AHCHT 

But  't  is  all  over  now  ;  like  the  April 
anger  of  woman,  the  gentle  sky  has  wept 
itself  serene. 

QUEEN 

What  news  abroad  ?  how  looks  the  world 
this  morning  ? 


Gloriously  as  a  grave  covered  with  virgin 
flowers.  There 's  a  rainbow  in  the  sky. 
Let  your  Majesty  look  at  it,  for  429 

'  A  rainbow  in  the  morning 
la  the  shepherd's  warning  ;  ' 

and  the  flocks  of  which  you  are  the  pastor 
are  scattered  among  the  mountain-tops, 
where  every  drop  of  water  is  a  flake  of 
snow,  and  the  breath  of  May  pierces  like  a 
January  blast. 


The  sheep  have  mistaken  the  wolf  for 
their  shepherd,  my  poor  boy;  and  the  shep- 
herd, the  wolves  for  the  watchdogs.         439 

QUEEN 

But  the  rainbow  was  a  good  sign,  Archy ; 
it  says  that  the  waters  of  the  deluge  are 
gone,  and  can  return  no  more. 


Ay,  the  salt-water  one;  but  that  of  tears 
and  blood  must  yet  come  down,  and  that  of 
fire  follow,  if  there  be  any  truth  in  lies.  — 
The  rakibow  hung  over  the  city  with  all  its 
shops,  .  .  .  and  churches,  from  north  to 
south,  like  a  bridge  of  congregated  light- 
ning pieced  by  the  masonry  of  heaven  — 
like  a  balance  in  which  the  angel  that  dis- 
tributes the  coming  hour  was  weighing  that 
lieavy  one  whose  poise  is  now  felt  in  the 
lightest  hearts,  before  it  bows  the  proudest 
heads  under  the  meanest  feet. 

QUEEN 

Who  taught  you  this  trash,  sirrah  ? 


A  torn  leaf  out  of  an  old  book  trampled 
in  the  dirt.  —  But  for  the  rainbow.  It 
moved  as  the  sun  moved,  and  .  .  .  until 
the  top  of  the  Tower  ...  of  a  cloud 
through  its  left-hand  tip,  and  Lambeth 
Palace  look  as  dark  as  a  rock  before  the 
other.  Methought  I  saw  a  crown  figured 
upon  one  tip,  and  a  mitre  on  the  other.  So, 
as  I  had  heard  treasures  were  found  where 
the  rainbow  quenches  its  points  upon  the 

earth,  I  set  off,  and  at  the  Tower But 

I  shall  not  tell  your  Majesty  what  I  found 
close  to  the  closet-window  on  which  the 
rainbow  had  glimmered. 

KING 

Speak:  I  will  make  my  Fool  my  conscience. 

ARCHY 

Then  conscience  is  a  fool.  —  I  saw  there 
a  cat  caught  in  a  rat-trap.  I  heard  the 
rats  squeak  behind  the  wainscots;  it  seemed 
to  me  that  the  very  mice  were  consulting 
on  the  manner  of  her  death. 

QUEEN 

Archy  is  shrewd  and  bitter. 


Like  the  season, 
so  blow  the  winds.  —  But  at  the  other  end 
of  the  rainbow,  where  the  gray  rain  was 
tempered  along  the  grass  and  leaves  by  a 
tender  interfusion  of  violet  and  gold  in  the 
meadows  beyond  Lambeth,  what  think  you 
that  I  found  instead  of  a  mitre  ? 

KING 

Vane's  wits  perhaps. 

ARCHT 

Something  as  vain.  I  saw 
a  gross  vapor  hovering  in  a  stinking  ditch 
over  the  carcass  of  a  dead  ass,  some  rotten 
rags,  and  broken  dishes  —  the  wrecks  of 
what  once  administered  to  the  stuffing-out 
and  the  ornament  of  a  worm  of  worms. 
His  Grace  of  Canterbury  expects  to  enter 
the  New  Jerusalem  some  Palm  Sunday  in 
triumph  on  the  ghost  of  this  ass. 

QUEEN 

Enough,  enough  !     Go  desire  Lady  Jane 
She  place  my  lute,  together  with  the  music 


464 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Mari  received  last  week  from  Italy, 
lu  my  boudoir,  and  — 

[Exit  Akcht. 

KINO 

I  'U  go  in. 

QUEEN 

My  beloved  lord, 
Have  you  not  noted  that  the  Fool  of  late 
Has  lost  his  careless  mirth,  and  that  his 

words 
Sound  like  the  echoes  of  our  saddest  fears  ? 
What  can  it  mean  ?     I  should  be  loath  to 

think  500 

Some  factious  slave  bad  tutored  him. 


Oh,  no  ! 
He  is  but  Occasion's  pupil.     Partly  't  is 
That  our  minds  piece  the  vacant  intervals 
Of  his  wild  words  with  their  own  fashion- 
ing; 
As  in  the  imagery  of  summer  clouds, 
Or  coals  of  the  winter  fire,  idlers  find 
The    perfect    shadows    of    their    teeming 

thoughts; 
And,  partly,  that  the  terrors  of  the  time 
Are    sown   by   wandering    Rumor   in    all 

spirits. 
And  in  the  lightest  and  the  least  may  best 
Be  seen  the  current  of  the  coming  wind.  511 

QUEEN 

Tour  brain  is  overwrought  with  these  deep 

thoughts. 
Come,  I  will  sing  to  yon ;  let  us  go  try 
Tliese  airs  from  Italy;  and,  as  we  pass 
The  gallery,  we  '11  decide  where  that  Cor- 

reggio 
Shall  hang  —  the  Virgin  Mother 
With  her  child,  born  the  King  of  heaven 

and  earth, 
Whose  reign  is  men's  salvation.     And  you 

shall  see 
A  cradled  miniature  of  yourself  asleep,  519 
Stamped  on  the  heart  by  never-erring  love; 
Liker  than  any  Vandyke  ever  made, 
A  pattern  to  the  unborn  age  of  thee. 
Over  whose  sweet  beauty  I  have  wept  for 

joy 

A  thousand  times,  and  now  should  weep 

for  sorrow, 
Did  I  not  think  that  after  we  were  dead 
Our   fortunes  would  spring  high  iu  him, 

and  that 


The  cares  we  waste  upon  our  heavy  crown 
Would    make   it   light   and  glorious  as  a 

wreath 
Of  heaven's  beams  for  his  dear  innocent 

brow. 


Dear  Henrietta ! 


530 


Scene  III.  —  The  Star  Chamber.  Laud, 
JuxoN,  Stkaffokd,  and  others,  as  Judges. 
Prynne,  as  a  I'risoner,  and  then  Bastwick. 

LAUD 

Bring  forth  the  prisoner  Bastwick;  let  the 

clerk 
Recite  his  sentence. 

CLERK 

'  That  he  pay  five  thousand 
Pounds  to  the  king,  lose  both  his  ears,  be 

branded 
With  red-hot  iron  on  the  cheek  and  fore- 
head. 
And  be  imprisoned  within  Lancaster  Castle 
During  the  pleasure  of  the  Court.' 

LAUD 

Prisoner, 
If  you  have  aught  to  say  wherefore  this 

sentence 
Should  not  be  put  into  eifect,  now  speak. 


If  you  have  aught  to  plead  in  mitigation, 
Speak. 

BASTWICK 

Thus,  my  lords.     If,  like  the  prelates,  I 
Were  an  invader  of  tlie  royal  power,         n 
A  public  scorner  of  the  word  of  God, 
Profane,  idolatrous,  popish,  superstitious. 
Impious  in  heart  and  in  tyrannic  act, 
Void  of  wit,  lionesty  and  temperance; 
If   Satan  were   my  lord,  as  theirs,  —  our 

God 
Pattern  of  all  I  should  avoid  to  do; 
Were  I  an  enemy  of  my  God  and  King 
And  of  good  men,  as  ye  are;  —  I  should 

merit 
Your  fearful  state  and  gilt  prosperity,      jo 
Which,  when  ye  wake  from  the  last  sleep, 

shall  turn 
To  cowls  and  rol)es  of  everlasting  fire. 
But,  as  I  am,  I  bid  ye  grudge  me  not 
The  only  earthly  favor  ye  can  yield, 


FRAGMENTS 


465 


Or    I    think   worth    acceptance    at    your 
hands, — 

Scorn,  mutilation  and  imprisonment. 

Even  as  my  Master  did, 

Until  Heaven's  kingdom  shall  descend  on 
earth, 

Or  earth  be  like  a  shadow  in  the  light 

Of  Heaven  absorbed.     Some  few  tumultu- 
ous years  30 

Will  pass,  and  leave  no  wreck  of  what  op- 
poses 

His  will  whose  will  is  power. 


Officer,  take  the  prisoner  from  the  bar. 
And  be  his  tongue  slit  for  his  insolence. 

BASTWICK 

WhUe  this  hand  holds  a  pen  — 

LAUD 

Be  his  hands  — 

JUXON 

Stop! 
Forbear,   my  lord  I     The    tongue,   which 

now  can  speak 
No  terror,  would  interjjret,  being  dumb. 
Heaven's  thunder  to  our  harm;  .  .  . 
And  hands,  which  now  write  only  their  own 

shame 
With  bleeding  stumps  might  sign  our  blood 

away.  40 

LAUD 

Much    more    such   '  mercy '   among    men 

would  be, 
Did  all  the  ministers  of  Heaven's  revenge 
Flinch  thus   from   earthly  retribution.     I 
Could  suffer  what  I  would  iuflict. 

[Exit  Bast  WICK  guarded. 
Bring  up 
The  Lord  Bishop  of  Lincoln.  — 

( To  Strafford) 

Know  you  not 

That,  in  distraining  for  ten  thousand  pounds 

Upon  his  books  and  furniture  at  Lincoln, 

Were  found  these  scandalous  and  seditious 

letters  48 

Sent  from  one  Osbaldistone,  who  is  fled  ? 
I  speak  it  not  as  touching  this  poor  person; 
But  of  the  office  which  should  make  it  holy, 
Were  it  as  vile  as  it  was  ever  spotless. 
Mark   too,  my  lord,  that   this   expression 

strikes 
His  Majesty,  if  I  misinterpret  not. 


Enter  Bishop  Williams  guarded 

STRAFFOKD 

'T  were  politic  and  just  that  Williams  taste 
The  bitter  fruit  of  his  connection  with 
The  schismatics.    But  you,  my  Lord  Arch- 
bishop, 
Who  owed  your  first  promotion  to  his  favor, 
Who  grew  beneath  his  smile  — 


Would  therefore  beg 
The  office  of  his  judge   from   this   High 

Court,  —  6« 

That  it  shall  seem,  even  as  it  is,  that  I, 
In  my  assumption  of  this  sacred  robe. 
Have  put  aside  all  worldly  preference. 
All  sense  of  all  distinction  of  all  persons, 
All   thoughts    but   of   the   service   of   th& 

Church.  — 
Bishop  of  Lincoln  ! 

WILLIAMS 

Peace,  proud  hierarch  I 
I  know  my  sentence,  and  I  own  it  just. 
Thou  wilt  repay  me  less  than  I  deserve 
In  stretching  to  the  utmost 


Sca^iTE  IV.  —  Hampden,  Pym,  Crojiwell,  his 
Daughter,  and  young  Sia  Harry  Vake. 

HAMPDEN 

England,  farewell  1  Thou,  who  hast  been 
my  cradle, 

Shalt  never  be  my  dungeon  or  my  g^ve  ! 

I  held  what  I  inherited  in  thee 

As  pawn  for  that  inheritance  of  freedom 

Which  thou  hast  sold  for  thy  despoiler's 
smile. 

How  can  I  call  thee  England,  or  my  coun- 
try?— 

Does  the  wind  hold  ? 

VANE 

The  vanes  sit  steady 

Upon  the  Abbey  towers.  The  silver  light- 
nings 

Of  the  evening  star,  spite  of  the  city's 
smoke, 

Tell  that  the  north  wind  reigns  in  the  upper 
air.  10 

Mark  too  that  fleet  of  fleecv-wingfed  clouds 

Sailing  athwart  St.  Margaret's. 


466 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


HAMPDEN 

Hail,  fleet  herald 
Of  tempest !  that  mde    pilot    who    shall 

guide 
Hearts   free   as  his,  to  realms  as  pure  as 

thee, 
Beyond  the  shot  of  tyranny, 
Beyond  the  webs  of  that  swolu  spider  .  .  . 
Beyond  the  curses,  calumnies,  and  [lies  ?] 
Of  atheist  priests  !  And  thou 

Fair  star,  whose  beam  lies  on  the  wide  At- 
lantic, 19 
Athwart  its  zones  of  tempest  and  of  calm, 
Bright  as  the  path  to  a  beloved  home. 
Oh,   light  us  to  the  isles  of  the  evening 

land  ! 
Like  floating  Edens  cradled  in  the  glimmer 
Of  sunset,  through  the  distant  mist  of  years 
Touched  by  departing  hope,  they  gleam  ! 

lone  regions. 
Where  power's  poor  dupes  and  victims  yet 

have  never 
Propitiated  the  savage  fear  of  kings 
With  purest  blood  of  noblest  hearts;  whose 

dew 
Is  yet  unstained  with  tears  of  those  who 

wake 
To  weep  each  day  the  wrongs  on  which  it 

dawns;  30 

Whose  sacred  silent  air  owns  yet  no  echo 
Of  formal  blasphemies;  nor  impious  rites 
Wrest  man's  free  worship,  from  the  God 

who  loves. 
To  the  poor  worm  who  envies  us  his  love  ! 
Receive,  thou  young  of  Paradise, 

These  exiles  from  the  old  and  sinful  world  ! 

This  glorious  clime,  this  firmament,  whose 

lights 
Dart    mitigated    influence    through    their 

veil 
Of  pale  blue  atmosphere ;  whose  tears  keep 

green 
The  pavement  of    this   moist  all-feeding 

earth;  40 

This  vaporous  horizon,  whose  dim  round 
Is  bastioned  by  the  circumfluous  sea. 
Repelling      invasion     from      the     sacred 

towers,  — 
Presses  upon  me  like  a  dungeon's  grate, 
A  low  dark  roof,  a  damp  and  narrow  wall. 
The  boundless  universe 
Becomes  a  cell  too  narrow  for  the  soul 
That  owns  no  master;  while  the  loathliest 

ward 


Of  this  wide  prison,  England,  is  a  nest 
Of  cradling  peace  built  on  the  mountain 
tops,  —  50 

To  which  the  eagle  spirits  of  the  free, 
Which  range   through  heaven  and  earth, 

and  scorn  the  storm 
Of  time,  and  gaze  upon  the  light  of  truth. 
Return  to   brood  on  thoughts  that  cannot 

die 
And  cannot  be  repelled. 
Like  eaglets  floating  in  the  heaven  of  time. 
They   soar   above   their   quarry,  and  shall 

stoop 
Through    palaces    and    temples    thunder- 
proof. 

Scene  V 

AECHY 

I  '11  go  live  under  the  ivy  that  overgrows 
the  terrace,  and  count  the  tears  shed  on  its 
old  [roots  ?]  as  the  [wind  ?]  plays  the  song 
of 

'  A  widow  bird  sate  mourning 
Upon  a  wintry  bough.' 

(Sings) 
Heigho  !  the  lark  and  the  owl  I 

One   flies  the  morning,  and  one  lulls 
the  night; 
Only  the  nightingale,  poor  fond  soul. 
Sings  like  the  fool  through  darkness 
and  light. 

'A  widow  bird  sate  mourning  for  her 
love  10 

Upon  a  wintry  bough ; 
The  frozen  wind  crept  on  above, 

The  freezing  stream  below. 

'  There  was  no  leaf  upon  the  forest  bare, 

No  flower  upon  the  ground. 
And  little  motion  in  the  air 

Except  the  mill-wheel's  sound.* 


FRAGMENTS      OF      AN     UNFIN- 
ISHED  DRAMA 

Date  1821-22.  Published  in  part  by  Mrs. 
Shelley,  1824,  and  the  remainder  by  Garnett, 
1862,  and  Rossetti,  1870.  Mrs.  Shelley  writes  : 
'  The  following  f ragrrients  are  part  of  a  drama, 
undertaken  for  the  amusement  of  the  individ- 
uals who  composed   our  intimate  society,  but 


FRAGMENTS 


467 


left  unfinished.  I  have  preserved  a  sketch  of 
the  story,  so  far  as  it  had  been  shadowed  out  in 
the  poet's  mind.'  It  is  possibly  connected  with 
the  project  of  a  play  on  Trelawny's  career. 
Garnett  gives  a  note  on  the  portion  which  he 
called  The  Magic  Plant.  '  A  close  scrutiny, 
however,  of  one  of  Shelley's  MS.  books  has 
revealed  the  existence  of  much  more  of  this 
piece  than  has  hitherto  been  suspected  to 
exist.  By  far  the  larger  portion  of  this,  form- 
ing an  episode  complete  in  itself,  is  here  made 
public,  under  the  title  of  The  Magic  Plant. 
.  .  .  The  little  drama  of  which  this  charming 
sport  of  fancy  forms  a  portion  was  written  at 
Pisa  during  the  late  winter  or  early  spring  of 
1822.  The  episode  of  The  Magic  Plant  was 
obviously  suggested  by  the  pleasure  Shelley 
received  from  the  plants  grown  indoors  in  his 
Pisan  dwelling,  which  he  says  in  a  letter  writ- 
ten in  January,  1822,  "  turn  the  sunny  winter 
into  spring."  See  also  the  poem  of  The  Zucca, 
composed  about  the  same  time.' 

[An  Enchantress,  living  in  one  of  the  islands 
of  the  Indian  Archipelago,  saves  the  life  of  a 
Pirate,  a  man  of  savage  but  noble  nature. 
She  becomes  enamoured  of  him  ;  and  he,  in- 
constant to  his  mortal  love,  for  a  while  returns 
her  passion  :  but  at  length,  recalling  the  mem- 
ory of  her  whom  he  left,  and  who  laments  his 
loss,  he  escapes  from  the  enchanted  island,  and 
returns  to  his  lady.  His  mode  of  life  makes 
him  again  go  to  sea,  and  the  Enchantress 
seizes  the  opportunity  to  bring  him,  by  a  spirit- 
brewed  tempest,  back  to  her  island.] 

Scene  —  Before  the  Cavern  of  the  Indian  En- 
chantress.    The  Enchantress  comes  forth. 

ENCHANTRESS 

He  cfime  like  a  dream  in  the  dawn  of  life, 

He  fled  like  a  shadow  before  its  noon; 
He    is   gone,  and   my   peace  is  turned  to 
strife, 
And  I  wander  and  wane  like  the  weary 
moon. 

O  sweet  Echo,  wake. 
And  for  ray  sake 
Make   answer  the   whUe  my  heart    shall 
break  I 

But  my  heart  has  a  music   which  Echo's 
lips, 
Though  tender  and  true,  yet  can  answer 
not. 
And  the  shadow  that  moves  in  the  soul's 
eclipse  10 

Can  return  not  the  kiss  by  his  now  for- 
got; 


Sweet  lips  !  he  who  hath 
On  my  desolate  path 
Cast  the  darkness  of  absence,  worse  than 

death  ! 
{The  Enchantress  makes  her  spell :  she  is  an- 
swered  by  a  Spirit) 

SPIRIT 

Within  the  silent  centre  of  the  earth 
My  mansion  is;  where   I   have   lived  in- 
sphered 
From  the  beginning,  and  around  my  sleep 
Have  woven  all  the  wondrous  imagery 
Of  this  dim  spot,  which  'jiortals  call  the 

world ; 
Infinite  depths  of  unknown  elements         20 
Massed  into  one  impenecrable  mask; 
Sheets  of  immeasurable  fire,  and  veins 
Of  gold  and  stone,  and  adamantine  iron. 
And  as  a  veil   in  which   I  walk  through 

Heaven 
I  have  wrought  mountains,  seas,  and  waveSi 

and  clouds. 
And  lastly  light,  whose  interfusion  dawns 
In  the  dark  space  of  interstellar  air. 


[A  good  Spirit,  who  watches  over  the  Pirate's 
fate,  leads,  in  a  mysterious  manner,  the  lady  of 
his  love  to  the  Enchanted  Isle.  She  is  accom- 
panied by  a  youth,  who  loves  the  lady,  but 
whose  passion  she  returns  only  with  a  sisterly 
affection.  The  ensuing  scene  takes  place  be- 
tween them  on  their  arrival  at  the  Isle.] 

Ihbiax  Youth  and  Lady 

INDIAN 

And,  if  my  grief  should  still  be  dearer  to  me 
Than  all  the  pleasures  in  the  world  beside, 
Why  would  you  lighten  it  ?  — 

lady 

I  offer  only 
That  which  I  seek,  some  human  sympathy 
In  this  mysterious  island. 

INDIAN 

Oh,  my  friend. 
My  sister,  my  belovfed  !  —  What  do  I  say  ? 
My  brain   is   dizzy,    and   I    scarce   know 

whether 
I  speak  to  thee  or  her. 

lady 

Peace,  perturbed  heart ! 
I  am  to  thee  only  as  thou  to  mine, 


468 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


The  passing  wind  which  heals  the  brow  at 

noon, 
Aud  may  strike  cold  into  the  breast  at  night, 
Yet  cannot  linger  where  it  soothes  the  most, 
Or  long  soothe  could  it  linger. 


You  also  loved  ? 


But  you  said 


Loved  I  Oh,  I  love.     Methiuks 
This  word  of  love  is  fit  for  all  the  world,  42 
And  that  for  gentle  hearts  another  name 
Would  speak  of  gentler  thoughts  than  the 

world  owns. 
I  have  loved. 

rNDIAH 

And  thou  lovest  not  ?  if  so 
Young  as  thou  art  thou  canst  afford  to  weep. 

LADY 

Oh,  would  that  I  could  claim  exemption 
From  all  the  bitterness  of  that  sweet  name. 
I  loved,  I  love,  and  when  I  love  no  more 
Let  joys  and   grief  perish,  and  leave  de- 
spair 50 
To  ring  the  knell  of  youth.     He  stood  be- 
side me. 
The  embodied  vision  of  the  brightest  dream, 
Which  like  a  dawn  heralds  the  day  of  life; 
The  shadow  of  his  presence  made  my  world 
A  paradise.   All  familiar  things  he  touched. 
All  common  words  he  spoke,  became  to  me 
Like  forms  and  sounds  of  a  diviner  world. 
He  was  as  is  the  sun  in  his  fierce  youth, 
As  terrible  and  lovely  as  a  tempest;  59 
He  came,  and  went,  and  left  me  what  I  am. 
Alas  !     Why  must  I  think  how  oft  we  two 
Have  sate  together  near  the  river  springs, 
Under  the  green  pavilion  which  the  willow 
Spre<ads  on  the  floor  of  the  unbroken  foun- 
tain. 
Strewn,  by  the  nurslings  that  linger  there, 
Over  that   islet  paved  with  flowers   and 

moss,  — 
While  the  musk-rose  leaves,  like  flakes  of 

crimson  snow. 
Showered  on  us,  and  the  dove  mourned  in 

the  pine, 
Sad  prophetess  of  sorrows  not  her  own  ?  69 
The  crane  returned  to  her  unfrozen  haunt. 
And  the  false  cuckoo  bade  the  spray  good 

morn; 
And  on  a  wintry  bough  the  widowed  bird, 


Hid  in  the  deepest  night  of  ivy-leaves. 
Renewed  the  vigils  of  a  sleepless  sorro^v. 
I,  left  like  her,  and  leaving  one  like  her, 
Alike  abandoned  and  abandoning 
(Oh !    unlike   her  in  this !)    the   gentlest 

youth, 
Whose  love  had  made  my  sorrows  dear  to 

him, 
Even  as  my  sorrow  made  his  love  to  me  I 


One  corse  of  Nature  stamps  in  the  same 
mould  80 

The  features  of  the  wretched;  and  they  are 
As  like  as  violet  to  violet. 
When  memory,  the  ghost,  their  odors  keeps 
Mid  the  cold  relics  of  abandoned  joy.  — 
Proceed. 

LADY 

He  was  a  simple  innocent  boy. 
I  loved  him  well,  but  not  as  he  desired; 
Yet  even  thus  he  was  content  to  be:  — 
A  short  content,  for  I  was  .  .  . 

INDIAN  (aside) 

God  of  heaven ! 
From  such  an  islet,  sucli  a  river-spring  .  .  .  ! 
I  dare  not  ask  her  if  there  stood  upon  it  90 
A  pleasure-dome,  surmounted  by  a  cres- 
cent, 
With  steps  to  the  blue  water.    (^Aloud)    It 

may  be 
That  Nature  masks  in  life  several  copies 
Of  the  same  lot,  so  that  the  sufferers 
May  feel  another's  sorrow  as  their  own 
And  find  in  friendship  what  they  lost  in 

love. 
That  cannot  be:  yet  it  is  strange  that  we. 
From  the  same  scene,  by  the  same  path  to 

this 
Realm   of  abandonment  .  .  .  But  speak  t 

your  breath  — 
Your  breath  is  like  soft  music,  your  words 
are  100 

The  echoes  of  a  voice  wliich  on  my  heart 
Sleeps  like  a  melody  of  early  days. 
But  as  you  said  — 

UiDY 

He  was  so  awful,  yet 

So  beautiful  in  mystery  and  tenor. 
Calming  me  as  the  loveliness  of  heaven 
Soothes  the  unquiet  sea:  — and  yet  not  so. 
For  he  seemed  stormy,  aud  would  often 
seem 


FRAGMENTS 


469 


A  quenchless  sun  masked   in   portentous 

clouds; 
For  such  his  thoughts,  and  even  his  actions 

were ;  109 

But  he  was  not  of  them,  nor  they  of  him, 
But  as  they  hid  his  splendor  from  the 

earth. 
Some  said  he  was  a  man  of  blood  and  peril, 
And  steeped  in  bitter  infamy  to  the  lips. 
More  need  was  there  I  should  be  innocent, 
More  need  that  I  should  be  most  true  and 

kind, 
.And  much  more  need  that  there  should  be 

found  one 
To  share  remorse,  and  scorn  and  solitude. 
And  all  the  ills  that  wait  on  those  who  do 
The  tasks  of  ruin  in  the  world  of  life. 
He  fled,  and  I  have  followed  him. 

INDIAN 

Such  a  one 
Is  he  who  was  the  winter  of  my  peace.     121 
But,  fairest  stranger,  when  didst  thou  de- 
part 
From  the  far  hills  where  rise  the  springs  of 

India  ? 
How  didst  thou  pass  the  intervening  sea  ? 


If  I  be  sure  I  am  not  dreaming  now, 
I  should  not  doubt  to  say  it  was  a  dream. 
Methought  a  star  came  down  from  heaven, 
And  rested  mid  the  plants  of  India, 
Which  I  had  given  a  shelter  from  the  frost 
Within   my  chamber.     There  the   meteor 

lay,  130 

Panting  forth  light  among  the  leaves  and 

flowers. 
As  if  it  lived,  and  was  outworn  with  speed; 
Or  that  it   loved,  and   passion   made  the 

pulse 
Of  its  bright  life   throb  like   an  anxious 

heart, 
Till  it  diffused  itself,  and  all  the  chamber 
And  w.alls  seemed  melted  into  emerald  fire 
That  burned  not  ;   in  the   midst  of  which 

appeared 
A  spirit  like  a  child,  and  laughed  aloud 
A  thrilling  peal  of  such  sweet  merriment 
As    made   the   blood  tingle   in  my   warm 

feet;  140 

Then  bent  over  a  vase,  and  murmuring 
Low,  unintelligible  melodies. 
Placed  something  in  the  mould  like  melon- 
seeds, 


And  slowy  faded,  and  in  place  of  it 
A  soft  hand  issued  from  the  veil  of  fire, 
Holding  a  cup  like  a  magnolia  flower. 
And  poured  upon  the  earth  within  the  vase 
The  element  with  which  it  overflowed. 
Brighter   than  morning  light  and    purer 

than 
The  water  of  the  springs  of  Himalah.      150 


You  waked  not  ? 


Not  until  my  dream  became 
Like  a  child's  legend  on  the  tideless  sand. 
Which  the  first  foam  erases  half,  and  half 
Leaves  legible.    At  length  I  rose,  and  went, 
Visiting  my  flowers  from  pot  to  pot,  and 

thought 
To  set  new  cuttings  in  the  empty  urns, 
And  when  I  came  to  that  beside  the  lat- 
tice, 
I  saw  two  little  dark-green  leaves 
Lifting  the  light  mould  at  their  birth,  and 
then  159 

I  half-remembered  my  forgotten  dream. 
And  day  by  day,  green  as  a  gourd  in  June, 
The  plant  grew  fresh  and  thick,  yet  no  one 

knew 
What  plant  it  was;  its  stem  and  tendrils 

seemed 
Like   emerald    snakes,   mottled   and    dia- 
monded 
With  azure   mail   and   streaks   of  woven 

silver; 
And  all  the  sheaths  that  folded  the  dark 

buds 
Rose  like  the  crest  of  cobra-di-capel. 
Until  the  golden  eye  of  the  bright  flower 
Through  the  dark  lashes  of  those  veinfed 

lids. 
Disencumbered  of  their  silent  sleep,         170 
Gazed  like  a  star  into  the  morning  light. 
Its  leaves  were  delicate,  you  almost  saw 
The  pulses 
With  which  the  purple  velvet  flower  was 

fed 
To  overflow,  and,  like  a  poet's  heart 
Changing  bright  fancy  to  sweet  sentiment, 
Changed   half  the  light  to  fragrance.     It 

soon  fell. 
And  to  a  green  and  dewy  embryo-fruit 
Left  all  its  treasured  beauty.     Day  by  day 
I  nursed  the  plant,  and  on  the  double  flute 
Played  to  it  on  the  sunny  winter  days      i8x 


470 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Soft  melodies,  as  sweet  as  April  rain 

On  silent  leaves,  and  sang  those  words  in 

which 
Passion   makes  Echo  taunt  the  sleeping 

strings ; 
And  I  would  send  tales  of  forgotten  love 
Late  into  the  lone  night,  and  sing  wild  songs 
Of  maids  deserted  in  the  olden  time, 
And  weep  like  a  soft  cloud  in  April's  bosom 
Upon  the  sleepilig  eyelids  of  the  plant, 
So  that  perhaps  it  dreamed  that  Spring  was 

come,  190 

And  crept  abroad  into  the  moonlight  air, 
And  loosened  all  its  limbs,  as,  noon  by  noon, 
The  sun  averted  less  his  oblique  beam. 

INDIAN 

And  the  plant  died  not  in  the  frost  ? 


It  grew; 
And  went  out  of  the  lattice  which  I  left 
Half  open  for  it,  trailing  its  quaint  spires 
Along  the  garden  aud  across  the  lawn. 
And  down  the  slope  of  moss  and  through 

the  tufts 
Of  wild-flower  roots,  and  stumps  of  trees 
o'ergrown  199 

With  simple  lichens,  and  old  hoary  stones, 
On  to  the  margin  of  the  glassy  pool. 
Even  to  a  nook  of  unblown  violets 
And  lilies-of-the-valley  yet  unborn, 
Under  a  pine  with  ivy  overgrown. 
And  there  its  fruit  lay  like  a  sleeping  lizard 
Under  the  shadows;  but  when  Spring  in- 
deed 
Came   to  unswathe   her   infants,  and  the 

lilies 
Peeped  from  their  bright  green  masks  to 

wonder  at 
This  shape  of  autumn  couched  in  their  re- 
cess. 
Then  it  dilated,  and  it  grew  until  210 

One  half  lay  floating  on  the  fountain  wave. 
Whose  pulse,  elapsed  in  unlike  sympathies, 
Kept  time 

Among  the  snowy  water-lily  buds. 
Its  shape  was  such  as  summer  melody 
Of  the  south  wind  in  spicy  vales  might 

give 
To  some  light  cloud  bound  from  the  golden 

dawn 
To  fairy  isles  of  evening,  and  it  seemed 
In  hue  and  form  that  it  had  been  a  mirror 
Of  all  the  hues  and  forms  around  it  and 


Upon  it  pictured  by  the  sunny  beams      221 
Which,  from  the  bright  vibrations  of  the 

pool. 
Were  thrown  upon  the  rafters  and  the  roof 
Of  boughs  and  leaves,  and  on  the  pillared 

stems 
Of  the  dark  sylvan  temple,  and  reflections 
Of  every  infant  flower  and  star  of  moss 
And  veined  leaf  in  the  azure  odorous  air. 
And  thus  it  lay  in  the  Elysian  calm 
Of  its  own  beauty,  floating  on  the  line 
Which,  like  a  film  in  purest  space,  divided 
The  heaven  beneath  the  water  from   the 
heaven  231 

Above  the  clouds;  and  every  day  I  went 
Watching  its  growth  and  wondering; 
And  as  the  day  grew  hot,  methought  I  saw 
A  glassy  vapor  dancing  on  the  pool, 
And  on  it  little  quaint  and  filmy  shapes. 
With  dizzy  motion,  wheel  and  rise  and  fall. 
Like  clouds  of  gnats  with  perfect  linea- 
ments. 

O   friend,   sleep  was   a   veil   uplift  from 

heaven  — 
As   if  heaven  dawned  upon  the  world  of 

dream  —  240 

When  darkness  rose  on   the  extinguished 

day 
Out  of  the  eastern  wilderness. 


I  too 
Have  found  a  moment's  paradise  in  sleep 
Half  compensate  a  hell  of  waking  sorrow. 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  LIFE 

The  circumstances  of  this  poem  are  described 
by  Mrs.  Shelley  in  words  that  should  always 
accompany  the  verse  because  of  the  clearness 
with  which  they  render  the  scene  of  Shelley's 
last  composition :  '  In  the  wild  but  beautiful 
Bay  of  Spezzia  the  winds  and  waves  m  hich  he 
loved  became  his  playmates.  His  days  were 
chiefly  spent  on  the  water ;  the  management 
of  his  boat,  its  alterations  and  improvements, 
were  his  principal  occupations.  At  night, 
when  the  unclouded  moon  shone  on  the  calm 
sea,  he  often  went  alone  in  his  little  shallop  to 
the  rocky  caves  that  bordered  it,  and  sitting 
beneath  tlieir  shelter  wrote  The  Triumph  of 
Life,  the  last  of  his  productions.  The  beauty 
but  strangeness  of  this  lonely  place,  the  refined 
pleasure  which  he  felt  in  the  companionship  of 
a  few  selected  friends,  our  entire  sequestration 


FRAGMENTS 


47» 


from  the  rest  of  the  world,  all  contribnted  to 
render  this  period  of  his  life  one  of  continued 
enjoyment.  I  ara  convinced  that  the  two 
months  we  passed  tliere  were  the  happiest  he 
had  ever  known.  .  .   . 

'  At  first  the  fatal  boat  had  not  arrived,  and 
was  expected  with  great  impatience.  On 
Monday,  May  12th,  it  came.  Williams  records 
the  long  wished  for  fact  in  his  journal : 
"  Cloudy  and  threatening  weather.  M.  Mag- 
lian  called,  and  after  dinner  and  while  walking 
with  him  on  the  terrace,  we  discovered  a  strange 
sail  coming  round  the  point  of  Porto  Venere, 
which  proved  at  length  to  be  Shelley's  boat. 
She  had  left  Genoa  on  Thursday  last,  but  had 
been  driven  back  by  the  prevailing  bad  winds. 
A  Mr.  Heslop  and  two  English  seamen  brought 
her  round,  and  they  speak  most  highly  of  her 
performances.  She  does  indeed  excite  my  sur- 
prise and  admiration.  Shelley  and  I  walked 
to  Lerici,  and  made  a  stretch  off  the  land  to 
try  her ;  and  I  find  she  fetches  whatever  she 
looks  at.  In  short,  we  have  now  a  perfect 
plaything  for  the  summer."  —  It  was  thus 
that  short-sighted  mortals  welcomed  death,  he 
having  disguised  his  grim  form  in  a  pleasing 
mask  !  The  time  of  the  friends  was  now  spent 
on  the  sea ;  the  weather  became  fine,  and  our 
whole  party  often  passed  the  evenings  on  the 
water,  when  the  wind  promised  pleasant  sail- 
ing. Shelley  and  Williams  made  longer  ex- 
cursions ;  they  sailed  several  times  to  Massa  ; 
they  had  engaged  one  of  the  seamen  who 
brought  her  round,  a  boy,  by  name  Charles 
Vivian  ;  and  they  had  not  the  slightest  appre- 
hension of  danger.  When  the  weather  was 
unfavorable,  they  employed  themselves  with 
alterations  in  the  rigging,  and  by  building  a 
boat  of  canvas  and  reeds,  as  light  as  possible, 
to  have  on  board  the  other,  for  the  convenience 
of  landing  in  waters  too  shallow  for  the  larger 
vessel.  \Vhen  Shelley  was  on  board,  he  had 
his  papers  with  him  ;  and  much  of  the  Tri- 
umph of  Life  was  written  as  he  sailed  or 
weltered  on  that  sea  which  was  soon  to  engulf 
him.' 

The  fragment  was  published  by  Mrs.  Shel- 
ley, 1824  ;  she  describes  it  as  'in  so  unfinished 
a  state  that  I  arranged  it  in  its  present  form 
with  the  greatest  difficulty.' 

Swift  as  a  spirit  hastening  to  his  task 
Of  glory  and  of  good,  the  Sun  sprang  forth 
Rejoicing  in  his  splendor,  and  the  mask 

Of  darkness  fell  from  the  awakened  Earth ; 
The    smokeless    altars    of    the   mountain 

snows 
Flamed  above  crimson  clouds,  aud  at  the 

birth 


Of  light  the  Ocean's  orison  arose, 

To  which  the  birds  tempered  their  matin 

lay. 
All  flowers  in  field  or  forest,  which  unclose 

Their  trembling  eyelids  to  the  kiss  of  day, 
Swinging  their  censers  in  the  element,  xi 
With  orient  incense  lit  by  the  new  ray 

Burned  slow  and  inconsumably,  and  sent 
Their  odorous  sighs  up  to  the  smiling  air; 
Aud,  in  succession  due,  did  continent, 

Isle,  ocean,  and  all  things  that  in  them 

wear 
The  form  aud  character  of  mortal  mould, 
Rise,  as  the  Sun  their  father  rose,  to  bear 

Their  portion  of  the  toil  which  he  of  old 
Took   as   his   own  and   then   imposed   on 

them.  20 

But  I,  whom  thoughts  which  must  remain 

untold 

Had  kept  as  wakeful  as  the  stars  that  gem 
The   cone    of   night,  now   they  were   laid 

asleep 
Stretched    my   faint    limbs    beneath    the 

hoary  stem 

Which  an  old  chestnut  flung  athwart  the 

steep 
Of  a  green  Apennine.     Before  me  fled 
The  night;  behind  me  rose  the  day;  the 

deep 

Was  at   my  feet,  and   Heaven  above  my 

head; — 
When  a  strange  trance  over  my  fancy  grew 
Which  was  not  slumber,  for  the  shade  it 

spread  30 

Was  so  transparent   that  the  scene  came 

through, 
As  clear  as  when  a  veil  of  light  is  drawn 
O'er  evening  hills   they  glimmer;   aud   I 

knew 

That  I  had  felt  the  freshness  of  that  dawn 
Bathe  in  the  same  cold  dew  my  brow  and 

hair. 
And  sate  as  thus  upon  that  slope  of  lawn 

Under  the  self-same  bough,  and  heard  aa 
there 


472 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


The  birds,  the  fountains  and  the  ocean  hold 

Sweet  talk  in  music  through  the  enamoured 

air,  39 

And  then  a  vision  on  my  brain  was  rolled. 


As  in  that  trance  of  wondrous  thought  I  lay, 
This  was  the  tenor  of  my  waking  dream. 
Methought  I  sate  beside  a  public  way 

Thick  strewn  with   summer  dust;  and  a 

great  stream 
Of  people  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
Numerous    as    gnats    upon    the    evening 

gleam,  — 

All  hastening  onward,  yet  none  seemed  to 

know 
Whither  he  went,  or  whence  he  came,  or 

why 
He  made  one  of  the  multitude,  and  so 

Was  borne  amid  the  crowd,  as  through  the 
sky  50 

One  of  the  million  leaves  of  summer's  bier. 
Old  age  and  youth,  manhood  and  infancy. 

Mixed  in  one  mighty  torrent  did  appear; 
Some  flying  from  the  thing   they  feared, 

and  some 
Seeking  the  object  of  another's  fear; 

And  others,  as  with  steps  towards  the  tomb. 
Pored  on  the  trodden  worms  that  crawled 

beneath ; 
And  others  mournfully  withiu  the  gloom 

Of  their  own  shadow  walked,  and  called  it 

death ; 
And  some  fled  from  it  as  it  were  a  ghost. 
Half    fainting    in    the   affliction   of   vain 

breath;  61 

But  more,  with  motions  which  each  other 

crossed, 
Pursued  or  shunned  the  shadows  the  clouds 

threw 
Or  birds  within  the  noonday  ether  lost, 

Upon    that     path    where     flowers    never 

grew,— 
And,  weary  with  vain  toil  and  faint  for 

thirst, 
Heard  not  the  fountains  whose  melodious 

dew 


Out  of  their  mossy  cells  forever  burst, 
Nor  felt  the  breeze  which  from  the  forest 

told 
Of  grassy   paths  and   wood-lawns    inter- 
spersed 70 

With  overarching  elms,  and  caverns  cold. 
And    violet   banks    where    sweet    dreams 

brood;  but  they 
Pursued  their  serious  folly  as  of  old. 

And,  as  I  gazed,  methonght  that  in  the  way 
The  throng  grew  wilder,  as  the  woods  of 

June 
When   the  south  wind   shakes   the   extin- 
guished day; 

And  a  cold  glare,  intenser  than  the  noon 
But  icy  cold,  obscured  with  blinding  light 
The  sun,  as  he  the  stars.     Like  the  young 
moon  — 

When  on  the  sunlit  limits  of  the  night      80 
Her  white  shell  trembles  amid  crimson  air, 
And  whilst  the  sleeping  tempest  gathers 
might  — 

Doth,  .as  the  herald  of  its  coming,  bear 
The  ghost  of  its  dead  mother,  whose  dim 

form 
Bends    in   dark   ether  from    her  infant's 

chair;  — 

So  came  a  chariot  on  the  silent  storm 

Of  its  own  rushing  splendor;  and  a  Shape 

So  sate  within,  as  one  whom  years  deform, 

Beneath  a  dusky  hood  and  double  cape, 
CroucLing  within  the  shadow  of  a  tomb;  90 
And   o'er  what  seemed  the  head  a  cloud- 
like crape 

Was  bent,  a  dun  and  faint  ethereal  gloom 
Tempering  the  light.     Upon  the  chariot- 
beam 
A  Janus-visaged  Shadow  did  assume 

The  guidance  of  that  wonder- winged  team ; 
The  shapes  which  drew  it  in  thick  lightnings 
Were  lost  —  I  heard  alone  on  the  air's  soft 
stream 

The  music  of  their  ever-moving  wings. 
All  the  four  faces  of  that  charioteer  99 

Had  their  eyes  banded;  little  profit  brings 


FRAGMENTS 


473 


Speed  in  the  van  and  blindness  in  the  rear, 
Nor  then  avail  the  beams  that  quench  the 

sun,  — 
Or  that  with  banded  eyes  could  pierce  the 

sphere 

Of  all  that  is,  has  been  or  will  be  done; 
So  ill  was  the  car  guided  —  but  it  passed 
With  solemn  speed  majestically  on. 

The  crowd  gave  way,  and  I  arose  aghast, 
Or   seemed   to   rise,   so    mighty   was   the 

trance. 
And  saw,   like   clouds  upon   the  thunder 

blast, 

The  million  with  fierce  song  and  maniac 

dance  no 

Raging  around.     Such  seemed  the  jubilee 
As  when   to  greet  some  conqueror's  ad- 


Imperial  Rome  poured  forth  her  living  sea 
From  senate-house,  and  forum,  and  theatre, 
When  upon  the  free 

Had  bound  a  yoke,  which  soon  they  stooped 

to  bear. 
Nor  wanted  here  the  just  similitude 
Of  a  triumphal  pageant,  for,  where'er 

The  chariot  rolled,  a  captive  multitude 
Was  driven;  —  all  those   who  had  grown 
old  in  power  120 

Or  misery;  all  who  had  their  age  subdued 

By  action  or  by  suffering,  and  whose  hour 
Was  drained  to  its  last  sand  in  weal  or  woe. 
So  that  the  trunk  survived  both  fruit  and 
flower; 

All  those  whose  fame  or  infamy  must  grow 
Till   the   great  winter  lay  the  form   and 

name 
Of  this  green  earth  with  them  forever  low; 

All  but  the  sacred  few  who  could  not  tame 

Their  spirits  to  the  conquerors,  but,  as  soon 

As  they  had  touched  the  world  with  living 

flame,  130 

Fled   back    like    eagles    to    their    native 

noon, — 
Or  those  who  put  aside  the  diadem 
Of  earthly  thrones  or  gems  .  .  . 


Were  there,  of  Athens  or  Jerusalem, 
Were    neither  mid   the    mighty   captives 

seen. 
Nor  mid  the  ribald  crowd  that  followed 

them, 

Nor  those  who  went  before  fierce  and  ob- 
scene. 

The  wild  dance  maddens  in  the  van;  and 
those 

Who  lead  it,  fleet  as  shadows  on  the  green, 

Outspeed  the  chariot,  and  without  repose 
Mix  with  each  other  in  tempestuous  mea- 
sure 141 
To  savage  music,  wilder  as  it  grows. 

They,  tortured  by  their  agonizing  pleasure, 
Convulsed  and  on  the   rapid   whirlwinds 

spun 
Of  that  fierce  spirit  whose  unholy  leisure 

Was  soothed  by  mischief  since  the  world 

begun. 
Throw  back  their  heads  and  loose   their 

streaming  hair; 
And,  in  their  dance  round  her  who  dims 

the  sun, 

Maidens  and  youths  fling  their  wild  arms 

in  air 
As  their  feet  twinkle;  they  recede,   and 

now,  150 

Bending  within  each  other's  atmosphere, 

Kindle  invisibly,  and,  as  they  glow. 
Like  moths  by  light  attracted  and  repelled, 
Oft  to  their  bright  destruction  come  and 
go: 

Till,  like  two  clouds  into  one  vale  im- 
pelled 

That  shake  the  mountains  when  their  light- 
nings mingle 

And  die  in  rain,  the  fiery  band  which  held 

Their  natures,  snaps,  while  the  shock  still 

may  tingle;  — 
One  falls  and  then  another  in  the  path 
Senseless,  nor  is  the  desolation  single,      160 

Yet  ere  I  can  say  tohere,  the  chariot  hath 
Passed    over    them  —  nor   other   trace   I 

find 
But  as  of  foam  after  the  ocean's  wrath 


♦74 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Is  spent  upon  the  desert  shore.     Behind, 
Old  men  and  women  foully  disarrayed 
Shake   their   gray   hairs   in  the   insulting 
wind 

And  follow  in  the  dance,  with  limbs  de- 
cayed, 

Seeking  to  reach  the  light  which  leaves 
them  still 

Farther  behind  and  deeper  in  the  shade. 

But  not  the  less  with  impotence  of  will   170 
They  wheel,  though  ghastly  shadows  inter- 
pose 
Hound   them  and  round  each  other,  and 
fulfil 

Their  work,  and  in  the  dust  from  whence 

they  rose 
Sink,  and  corruption  veils  them  as  they 

lie, 
And  past  in  these  performs  what  in 

those. 

Struck  to  the  heart  by  this  sad  pageantry, 
Half  to   myself  I   said  —  'And   what  is 

this? 
Whose  shape  is  that  within  the  car  ?     And 

why'  — 

I  would  have  added  — '  is  all  here 
amiss  ? '  — 

But  a  voice  answered  —  '  Life  ! '  —  I 
turned,  and  knew  180 

(0  Heaven,  have  mercy  on  such  wretched- 
ness !) 

That  what  I  thought  was  an  old  root  which 

grew 
To  strange  distortion  out  of  the  hillside 
Was  indeed  one  of  those  deluded  crew; 

And  that  the  grass,  which  methought  hung 

so  wide 
And  white,   was  but  his  thin  discolored 

hair; 
And  that  the  holes  he  vainly  sought  to  hide 

Were  or  had  been  eyes:  — 'If  thou  canst, 
forbear 

To  join  the  dance,  which  I  had  well  for- 
borne I  * 

Said  the  grim  Feature  (of  my  thought 
aware).  190 


*  I  will  unfold  that  which  to  this  deep  scorn 
Led  me  ajid  my  companions,  and  relate 
The   progress    of   the  pageant   since    the 

morn. 

'  If  thirst  of  knowledge  shall  not  then  abate. 
Follow  it  thou  even  to  the  night;  but  I 
Am  weary.'  —  Then  like  one  who  with  the 
weight 

Of  his  own  words  is  staggered,  wearily 
He   paused  ;  and  ere   he  could  resume,  I 
cried: 

*  First,  who  art  thou  ?  '  —  *  Before  thy  mem- 

ory, 

*  I  feared,  loved,  hated,  suffered,  did,  and 

died,  200 

And  if  the  spark  with  which  Heaven  lit  my 

spirit 
Had  been  with  purer  nutriment  supplied, 

'  Corruption  would  not  now  thus  much  in- 
herit 

Of  what  was  once  Rousseau,  —  nor  this 
disguise 

Stain  that  which  ought  to  have  disdained 
to  wear  it; 

'  If  I  have  been  extinguished,  yet  there  rise 
A   thousand    beacons    from    the    spark    I 

bore  '  — 
'  And  who  are  those  chained   to  the  car  ?  ' 

'The  wise, 

'  The  great,  the  unforgotten,  —  they   who 

wore 
Mitres  and  helms  and  crowns,  or  wreaths 

of  light,  210 

Signs   of  thought's  empire  over  thought; 

their  lore 

'Taught  them  not  this,  to  know  themselves; 

their  might 
Could  not  repress  the  mystery  within. 
And,  for  the  morn  of  truth  they  feigned, 

deep  night 

*  Caught  them  ere  evening.'    •  Who  is  he 

with  chin 
Upon  his  breast,  and  hands  crossed  on  his 

chain  ? ' 
'  The  child  of  a  fierce  hoar;  he  sought  to 

win 


FRAGMENTS 


475 


*  The  world,  and  lost  all  that  it  did  contain 
Of  greatness,  in   its   hope   destroyed;  and 

more 
Of  fame  and  peace  than  virtue's  self  can 

gain  220 

'  Without  the  opportunity  which  bore 
Him  on  its  eagle  pinions  to  the  peak 
From  which  a  thousand  climbers  have  be- 
fore 

'Fallen,   as   Napoleon    fell.' — ^^I   felt  my 

cheek 
Alter,  to  see  the  shadow  pass  away, 
Whose  grasp  had  left  the  giant  world  so 

weak 

That  every  pigtny  kicked  it  as  it  lay; 
And  much  I  grieved  to  think  how  power 

and  will 
In  opposition  rule  our  mortal  day, 

And  why  God  made  irreconcilable  230 

Good  and  the  means  of  good;  and  for  de- 
spair 
I  half  disdained  mine  eyes'  desire  to  fill 

With  the  spent  vision  of  the  times  that 
were 

And  scarce  have  ceased  to  be.  '  Dost  thou 
behold,' 

Said  my  guide,  *  those  spoilers  spoiled,  Vol- 
taire, 

'  Frederick,  and  Paul,  Catherine,  and  Leo- 
pold, 
And    hoary    anarchs,     demagogues,    and 


names  which  the  world  thinks 
always  old,  238 

•  For  in  the  battle  Life  and  they  did  wage, 
She  remained  conqueror.     I  was  overcome 
By   my   own  heart   alone,   which    neither 
age, 

'  Nor  tears,  nor  infamy,  nor  now  the  tomb. 
Could  temper  to  its  object.'  —  *  Let  them 

pass,' 
I    cried,   'the  world    and    its    mysterious 

doom 

'  Is  not  so  much  more  glorious  than  it  was 
That  I  desire  to  worship  those  who  drew 
New  figures  on  its  false  and  fragile  glass 


'  As  the  old  faded.'  — '  Figures  ever  new 
Rise   on  the   bubble,  paint  them  as  you 

may; 
We  have  but  thrown,  as  those  before  us 

threw,  250 

'  Our  shadows  on  it  as  it  passed  away. 
But  mark  how  chained   to  the  triumplial 

chair 
The  mighty  phantoms  of  an  elder  day; 

*  All  that  is  mortal  of  great  Plato  there 
Expiates  the  joy  and  woe  his  Master  knew 

not; 
The  star  that  ruled  his  doom  was  far  too 
fair, 

'  And  life,  where  long  that  flower  of  Hea- 
ven grew  not, 

Conquered  that  heart  by  love,  which  gold, 
or  pain, 

Or  age,  or  sloth,  or  slavery,  could  subdue 
not. 

*  And  near  him  walk  the  twain,  260 
The  tutor  and  his  pupil,  whom  Dominion 
Followed  as  tame  as  vulture  in  a  chain. 

'The  world  was  darkened  beneath  either 

pinion 
Of  him  whom  from  the  flock  of  conquerors 
Fame  singled  out  for  her  thunder-bearing 

minion ; 

'The  other  long  outlived  both  woes  and 

wars. 
Throned  in  the  thoughts  of  men,  and  still 

had  kept 
The  jealous  key  of  truth's  eternal  doors, 

'  If  Bacon's  eagle  spirit  had  not  leapt 
Like  lightning  out  of  darkness  —  he  com- 
pelled 270 
The  Proteus  shape  of  Nature,  as  it  slept, 

<  To  wake,  and  lead  him  to  the  caves  that 

held 
The  treasure  of  the  secrets  of  its  reign. 
See  the  great  bards  of  elder  time,  who 

quelled 

*  The  passions  which  they  sung,  as  by  their 

strain 
May  well  be  known:  their  living  melody 
Tempers  its  own  contagion  to  the  vein 


476 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


*  Of  those  who  are  infected  with  it.     I 
Have    suffered   what    I    wrote,    or    viler 

paiu !  279 

And  so  my  words  have  seeds  of  misery  — 

*  Even  as  the  deeds  of  others,  not  as  theirs.' 
And  then  he  pointed  to  a  company, 

'Midst  whom  I  quickly  recognized  the 
heirs 

Of  Caesar's  crime,  from  him  to  Constan- 
tine; 

The  anarch  chiefs,  whose  force  and  mur- 
derous snares 

Had  founded  many  a  sceptre-bearing  line, 
And  spread  the  plague  of  gold  and  blood 

abroad ; 
And  Gregory  and  John,  and  men  divine. 

Who  rose  like  shadows  between  man  and 

God, 
Till  that  eclipse,  still  hanging  over  heaven. 
Was  worshipped,  by  the  world  o'er  which 

they  strode,  291 

For  the   true   sun  it  quenched.      '  Their 

power  was  given 
But  to  destroy,'  replied  the  leader:  —  '  I 
Am  one  of  those  who  have  created,  even 

'  If  it  be  but  a  world  of  agony.' 

*  Whence  earnest  thou  ?  and  whither  goest 

thou  ? 
How  did  thy  course  begin  ?  '  I  said,  '  and 
why? 

*Mine    eyes   are  sick    of    this    perpetual 

flow 
Of  people,  and  my  heart  sick  of  one  sad 

thought  — 
Speak  ! '  — '  Whence  I  am,  I  partly  seem 

to  know,  300 

'  And  how  and  by  what  paths  I  have  been 

brought 
To   this  dread  pass,  methinks  even  thou 

mayst  guess. 
Why  this  should  be,  my  mind  can  compaBS 

not; 

'  Whither  the  conqueror  hurries  me,  still 

less. 
But  follow  thou,  and  from  spectator  turn 
Actor  or  victim  in  this  wretchedness; 


'  And  what  thou  wouldst  be  taught  I  then 

may  learn 
From   thee.     Now  listen:  —  In   the  April 

prime. 
When  all  the  forest  tips  began  to  burn 

'  With    kindling    green,   touched    by   the 
azure  clime  310 

Of  the  young  season,  I  was  laid  asleep 
Under  a  mountain,  which  from  unknown 
time 

'  Had  yawned  into  a  cavern,  high  and  deep ; 
And  from  it  came  a  gentle  rivulet. 
Whose  water,  like  clear  air,  in   its   calm 
sweep 

•Bent   the   soft  grass,   and  kept  forever 

wet 
The  stems  of  the  sweet  flowers,  and  filled 

the  grove 
With  sounds  which  whoso  hears  must  needs 

forget 

*  All  pleasure  and  all  pain,  all   hate  and 

love. 
Which  they  had  known  before  that  hour  of 

rest.  320 

A  sleeping  mother  then  would  dream  not  of 

'  Her  only  child  who  died  upon  the  breast 
At  eventide;  a  king  would  mourn  no  more 
The  crown  of  which  his  brows  were  dispos- 
sessed 

'  When  the  sun  lingered  o'er  his  ocean  floor 

To  gild  his  rival's  new  prosperity; 

Thou  wouldst  forget  thus  vainly  to  deplore 

'  Ills,  which,  if  ills,  can  find  no  cure  from 

thee. 
The  thought  of  which  no  other  sleep  will 

quell, 
Nor  other  music  blot  from  memory,  —  330 

*  So  sweet  and  deep  is  the  oblivious  spell ; 
And  whether  life  bad  been  before  that 

sleep 
The  heaven  which  I  imagine,  or  a  hell 

'  Like  this  harsh  world  in  which  I  wake  to 

weep, 
I  know  not.     I  arose,  and  for  a  space 
The  scene  of  woods  and  waters  seemed  to 

keep, 


FRAGMENTS 


477 


♦Though  it  was  now  broad  day,  a  gentle 

trace 
Of  light  diviner  than  the  common  sun 
Sheds  on  the  common  earth,  and  all  the 

place 

'  Was  filled  with  magic  sounds  woven  into 
one  ■  340 

Oblivious  melody,  confusing  sense 
Amid  the  gliding  waves  and  shadows  dun; 

•And,  as  I  looked,  the  bright  omnipre- 
sence 

Of  morning  through  the  orient  cavern 
flowed. 

And  the  sun's  image  radiantly  intense 

•  Burned  on  the  waters  of  the  well  that 

glowed 
Like  gold,  and  threaded  all  the  forest's 

maze 
With  winding  paths  of  emerald  fire.    There 

stood 

•  Amid  the  sun,  as  he  amid  the  blaze 

Of  bis  own  glor)',  on  the  vibrating  350 

Floor  of  the  fountain,  paved  with  flashing 
rays, 

*A  Shape  all  light,  which  with  one  hand 

did  fling 
Dew  on  the  earth,  as  if  she  were  the  dawn, 
And  the  invisible  rain  did  ever  sing 

•  A  silver  music  on  the  mossy  lawn; 
And  still  before  me  on  the  dusky  grass, 
Iris  her  many-colored  scarf  had  drawn: 

'  In  her  right  hand  she  bore  a  crystal  glass. 
Mantling  with  bright  nepenthe;  the  fierce 

splendor 
Fell   from  her  as   she   moved   under  the 

mass  •  360 

'  Of  the  deep  cavern,  and,  with  palms  so 

tender 
Their  tread  broke   not    the  mirror  of  its 

billow. 
Glided  along  the  river,  and  did  bend  her 

'  Head  under  the  dark  boughs,  till  like  a 

willow, 
Her  fair  hair  swept  the  bosom  of  the  stream 
That  whispered  with  delight  to  be  its  pil- 
low. 


*  As  one  enamoured  is  upborne  in  dream 
O'er  lily-paven  lakes  mid  silver  mist. 

To  wondrous  music,  so  this  Shape  might 
seem 

*  Partly  to  tread  the  waves  with  feet  which 

kissed  370 

The  dancing  foam;  partly  to  glide  along 
The  air  which  roughened  the  moist  ame- 
thyst, 

*0r  the  faint  morning    beams  that   fell 

among 
The  trees,  or  the  soft  shadows  of  the  trees; 
And  her  feet,  ever  to  the  ceaseless  song 

*  Of  leaves  and  winds  and  waves  and  birds 

and  bees 
And  falling  drops,  moved  in  a  measure  new, 
Yet  sweet,   as    on    the    summer  evening 

breeze 

*  Up  from  the  lake  a  shape  of  golden  dew 
Between  two   rocks,   athwart    the    rising 

moon,  380 

Dances  i'  the  wind,  where  never  eagle  flew; 

*  And  still  her  feet,  no  less  than  the  sweet 

tune 
To   which   they   moved,   seemed   as    they 

moved  to  blot 
The  thoughts  of  him  who  gazed  on  them; 

and  soon 

*  All  that  was  seemed  as  if  it  had  been  not; 
And  all  the  gazer's  mind  was  strewn  be- 
neath 

Her  feet  like  embers;  and  she,  thought  by 
thought, 

*  Trampled  its  sparks  into  the  dust  of  death, 
As  Day  upon  the  threshold  of  the  east 
Treads  out  the  lamps  of  night,  until  the 

breath  390 

*  Of  darkness  reillumine  even  the  least 

Of  heaven's  living  eyes;  like  day  she  came. 
Making  the  night  a  dream;  and  ere  she 
ceased 

*  To  move,  as    one    between  desire    and 

shame 
Suspended,  I  said  —  "  If,  as  it  doth  seem. 
Thou  comest  from   the   realm  without  a 

name, 


478 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


' "  Into  tkis  valley  of  perpetual  dream, 
Show  whence  I  came,  and  where  I  am,  and 

why  — 
Pass  not  away  upon  the  passing  stream." 

' "  Arise  and  quench  thy  thirst,"  was  her 
reply.  400 

And,  as  a  shut  lily  stricken  by  the  wand 
Of  dewy  morning's  vital  alchemy, 

'  I  rose ;  and,  bending  at  her  sweet  com- 
mand, 
Touched  with  faint  lip?  the  cup  she  raised. 
And  suddenly  my  braiu  became  as  sand 

•  Where  the  first  wave  had  more  than  half 

erased 
The  track  of  deer  on  desert  Labrador, 
Whilst   the   wolf,    from    which    they   fled 

amazed, 

*  Leaves  his  stamp  visibly  upon  the  shore 
Until  the  second  bursts; —  so  on  my  sight 
Burst  a  new  Vision,  never  seen  before,    411 

'  And  the  fair  Shape  waned  in  the  coming 

light. 
As  veil  by  veil  the  silent  splendor  drops 
From  Lucifer,  amid  the  chrysolite 

*  Of  sunrise,  ere  it  tinge  the  mountain  tops ; 
And  as  the  presence  of  that  fairest  planet. 
Although  unseen,  is  felt  by  one  who  hopes 

•  That  his  day's  path  may  end,  as  he  be- 

gan it. 
In  that  star's  smile  whose  light  is  like  the 

scent  419 

Of  a  jonquil  when  evening  breezes  fan  it, 

'  Or  the  soft  note  in  which  his  dear  lament 
The   Bresciau  shepherd   breathes,   or  the 

caress 
That   turned   his  weary  slumber  to  con- 
tent, — 

'  So  knew  I  in  that  light's  severe  excess 
The  presence  of  that  Shape  which  on  the 

stream 
Moved,  as  I  moved  along  the  wilderness, 

'  More  dimly  than  a  day-appearing  dream, 
The  ghost  of  a  forgotten  form  of  sleep, 
A  light  of  heaven  whose  half-extinguished 
beam 


*  Through  the  sick  day,  in  which  we  wake 

to  weep,  430 

Glimmers,  forever  sought,  forever  lost; 
So  did  that  Shape  its  obscure  tenor  keep 

'  Beside  my  path,  as  silent  as  a  ghost. 
But  the  new  Vision,  and  the  cold  bright  car, 
With  solemn '  speed   and  stunning  music, 
crossed 

'The  forest;  and,  as  if  from  some  dread 

war 
Triumphantly  returning,  the  loud  million 
Fiercely  extolled  the  fortune  of  her  star. 

'  A  moving  arch  of  victory,  the  vermilion 
And  green  and  azure  plumes  of  Iris  Iiad44c 
Built  high  over  her  wind- winged  pavilion; 

*  And  underneath  ethereal  glory  clad 
The  wilderness;  and  far  before  her  flew 
The  tempest  of  the  splendor,  which   for- 
bade 

*  Shadow  to  fall  from  leaf  and  stone.     The 

crew 
Seemed  in  that  light,  like  atomies  to  dance 
Within  a  sunbeam.     Some  upon  the  new 

'  Embroidery  of  flowers,  that  did  enhance 
The  grassy  vesture  of  the  desert,  played. 
Forgetful  of  the  chariot's  swift  advance;  459 

*  Others  stood  gazing,  till  within  the  shade 
Of  the  great  mountain  its  light  left  them 

dim; 
Others  outspeeded  it;  and  others  made 

'  Circles  around  it,  like  the  clouds  that  swim 
Round  the  high  moon  in  a  bright  sea  of  air; 
And  more  did  follow,  with  exulting  hymn, 

'  The  chariot  and  the  captives  fettered  there; 
But  all  like  bubbles  on  an  eddying  flood 
Fell  into  the  same  track  at  last,  and  were 

*  Borne  onward.     I  among  the  multitude 
Was  swept.     Me   sweetest  flowers  delayed 

not  long;  461 

Me  not  the  shadow  nor  the  solitude; 

*  Me   not  that  falling    stream's  Lethean 

song; 
Me  not  the  phantom  of  that  early  Form 
Which  moved  upon  its  motion;  but  among 


FRAGMENTS 


479 


'  The  thickest  billows  of  that  living  storm 
I    plunged,  and   bared   my  bosom   to  the 

clime 
Of  that  cold  light,  whose  airs  too  soon  de- 
form. 

*  Before  the  chariot  had  begun  to  climb 
The  opposing  steep  of  that  mysterious  dell, 
Behold  a  wonder  worthy  of  the  rhyme     471 

'  Of  him  who  from  the  lowest  depths  of  hell, 
Through  every  paradise  and  through  all 

glory, 
Love  led  serene,  and  who  returned  to  tell 

'  The  words  of  hate  and  awe,  —  the  won- 
drous story 

How  all  things  are  transfigured  except 
Love; 

For  deaf  as  is  a  sea  which  wrath  makes 
hoary, 

*  The  world  can  hear  not  the  sweet  notes 

that  move 
The    sphere    whose    light    is    melody    to 

lovers,  — 
A  wonder  worthy  of  his  rhyme.   The  grove 

'Grew  dense  with  shadows  to  the  inmost 
covers;  481 

The  earth  was  g^ay  with  phantoms;  and 
the  air 

Was  peopled  with  dim  forms,  as  when  there 
hovers 

'  A  flock  of  vampire-bats  before  the  glare 
Of  the  tropic  sun,  bringing,  ere  evening, 
Strange    night     upon    some    Indian    isle. 
Thus  were 

'Phantoms  diffused  around;  and  some  did 

fling 
Shadows  of  shadows,  yet  unlike  themselves, 
Behind  them;  some   like  eaglets   on    the 

wing 

*  Were  lost  in  the  white  day ;  others  like 

elves  490 

Danced  in  a  thousand  unimagined  shapes 
Upon  the  sunny  streams  and  grassy  shelves; 

'And  others  sate  chattering  like  restless 

apes 
On  vulgar  hands,  .  .  . 
Some  made  a  cradle  of  the  emiined  capes 


'  Of  kingly  mantles;  some  across  the  tiar 
Of  pontiffs  sate  like  vultures;  others  played 
Under  tlie  crown  which  girt  with  empire 

'  A  baby's  or  an  idiot's  brow,  and  made 
Their  nests  in  it.     The  old  anatomies       500 
Sate  hatching  their  bore  broods  under  the 
shade 

*  Of  demon  wings,  and  laughed  from  their 

dead  eyes 
To  reasaume  the  delegated  power. 
Arrayed   in   which  those  worms  did  mon- 

archize 

'Who     made     this    earth    their    charnel. 

Others  more 
Humble,  like  falcons,  sate  upon  the  fist 
Of  common  men,  and  round  their  heads 

did  soar; 

'  Or  like  small  gnats  and  flies,  as  thick  as 

mist 
On  evening  marshes,   thronged  about  the 

brow  509 

Of  lawyers,  statesmen,  priest  and  theorist; 

'  And    others,    like    discolored    flakes    of 

snow, 
On  fairest  bosoms  and  the  sunniest  hair, 
Fell,   and  were  melted  by   the    youthful 

glow 

'  Which  they  extinguished ;  and,  like  tears, 

they  were 
A  veil  to  those  from  whose  faint  lids  they 

rained 
In  drops  of  sorrow.     I  became  aware 

'  Of  whence  those  forms  proceeded  which 

thus  stained 
The   track   in    which    we   moved.     After 

brief  space. 
From  every  form  the  beauty  slowly  waned; 

*  From  every  firmest  limb  and  fairest  face 
The  strength  and  freshness  fell  like  dust, 

and  left  521 

The  action  and  the  shape  withoixt  the  grace 

'  Of  life.     The  marble  brow  of  youth  was 

cleft 
With  care;  and  in  those  eyes  where  once 

hope  shone. 
Desire,  like  a  lioness  bereft 


480 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


*  Of  her  last  cub,  glaxed  ere  it  died;  each 

one 
Of  that  great  crowd  sent  forth  incessantly 
These    shadows,    numerous    as    the  dead 

leaves  blown 

*  In  autumn  evening  from  a  poplar  tree.  329 
Each  like  himself  and  like  each  other  were 
At  first;  but  some,  distorted,  seemed  to  be 

*  Obscure  clouds,  moulded  by  the  casual 

air; 
And  of  this  stuff  the  car's  creative  ray 
Wrought  all  the  busy  phantoms  that  were 

there, 

•As  the  sun  shapes  the  clouds.     Thus  on 

the  way 
Mask  after  mask  fell  from  the  countenance 
And  form  of  all;  and,  long  before  the  day 

'Was    old,  the    joy,   which    waked    like 

heaven's  glance 
The  sleepers  in  the  oblivious  valley,  died ; 
And  some  grew  weary  of  the  ghastly  dance, 

*  And  fell,  as  I  have  fallen,  by  the  way- 

side;—  541 

Those    soonest    from   whose    forms    most 

shadows  passed, 
And  least  of  strength  and  beauty  did  abide.' 

*  Then,  what  is  life  ?  I  cried.'  — 


II 

MINOR   FRAGMENTS 

These  minor  f  ragrments  have  been  recovered, 
often  with  great  difficulty,  principally  from 
the  Shelley  MSS.,  by  successive  editors.  Their 
general  character  is  described  by  Mrs.  Shelley : 
'  In  addition  to  such  poems  as  have  an  intelli- 
gible aim  and  shape,  many  a  stray  idea  and 
transitory  emotion  found  imperfect  and  abrupt 
expression,  and  then  again  lost  themselves  in 
silence.  As  he  never  wandered  without  a  book 
and  without  implements  of  writing,  I  find 
many  such  in  his  manuscript  books,  that 
scarcely  bear  record ;  while  some  of  them, 
broken  and  vague  as  they  are,  will  appear 
valuable  to  those  who  love  Shelley's  mind,  and 
desire  to  trace  its  workings.'  The  titles  are, 
as  a  rule,  those  given  in  previous  editions. 
The  dates  of  composition,  often  conjectural, 
and  of  publication,  are  affixed. 


HOME 

Dear  home,  thou  scene  of  earliest  hopes 

and  joys. 
The  least  of  which  wronged  Memory  ever 

makes 
Bitterer  than  all  thine  unremembered  tears. 
1816.    Gamett,  1862. 


FRAGMENT   OF   A   GHOST   STORY 

A  SHOVEL  of  his  ashes  took 
From  the  hearth's  obscurest  nook, 
Muttering  mysteries  as  she  went. 
Helen  and  Henry  knew  that  Granny 
Was  as  much  afraid  of  ghosts  as  any, 

And  so  they  followed  hard  — 
But  Helen  clung  to  her  brother's  arm, 
And  her  own  spasm  made  her  shake. 

1816.    Gamett,  1862. 


TO  MARY 

0  Mary  dear,  that  you  were  here  ! 
With  your  brown  eyes  bright  and  clear, 

And  your  sweet  voice,  like  a  bird 
Singing  love  to  its  lone  mate 
In  the  ivy  bower  disconsolate; 
Voice  the  sweetest  ever  heard  I 
And  your  brow  more 
Than  the  sky 

Of  this  azure  Italy. 
Mary  dear,  come  to  me  soon, 

1  am  not  well  whilst  thou  art  far; 
As  sunset  to  the  sphered  moon. 
As  twilight  to  the  western  star. 
Thou,  beloved,  art  to  me. 

O  Mary  dear,  that  yon  were  here  f 
The  Castle  echo  whispers  '  Here  ! ' 
Este,  1818.    Mrs.  Shelley,  1824. 


TO   MARY 

This,  and  the  following,  probably  refer  to 
Mrs.  Shelley's  grief  for  the  death  of  their  child, 
William. 

The  world  is  dreary. 
And  I  am  weary 
Of  wandering  on  without  thee,  Mary; 


FRAGMENTS 


481 


A  joy  was  erewhile 
In  thy  voice  and  thy  smile, 
And  't  is  goue,  when  I  should  be  gone  too, 
Mary. 
1819.    Mrs.  Shelley,  1839,  2d  ed. 


TO  MARY 

My  dearest  Mary,   wherefore  hast  thou 

gone, 
"And  left  me  in  this  dreary  world  alone  I 
Thy  form  is  here  indeed  —  a  lovely  one  — 
But  thou  art  fled,  gone  down  the  dreary 

road, 
That  leads  to  Sorrow's  most  obscure  abode ; 
Thou  sittest  on  the  hearth  of  pale  despair, 

where 
For  thine  own  sake  I  cannot  follow  thee. 
1819.    Mrs.  Shelley,  1839,  2d  ed. 


TO   WILLIAM   SHELLEY 

With  what  truth  may  I  say  — 

Roma,  Roma,  Roma, 
Non  e  piu  come  era  prima  ! 

Mrs.  Shelley  describes  Shelley's  grief  for 
the  death  of  this  child  :  '  Shelley  had  suffered 
severely  from  the  death  of  our  son  during  this 
summer.  His  heart,  attuned  to  every  kindly 
affection,  was  full  of  burning  love  for  his  off- 
spring. No  words  can  express  the  anguish  he 
felt  when  his  elder  children  were  torn  from 
him.  .  .  .  When  afterwards  this  child  [Wil- 
liam] died  at  Rome,  he  wrote,  apropos  of  the 
English  burying  ground  in  that  city :  "  This 
spot  is  the  repository  of  a  sacred  loss,  of  which 
the  yearnings  of  a  parent's  heart  are  now  pro- 
phetic ;  he  is  rendered  immortal  by  love,  as  his 
memory  is  by  death.  My  beloved  child  is  bu- 
ried here.  I  envy  death  the  body  far  less  than 
the  oppressors  the  minds  of  those  Vhom  they 
have  torn  from  me.  The  one  can  only  kill  the 
body,  the  other  crushes  tlie  affections." ' 


My  lost  William,  thou  in  whom 

Some  bright  spirit  lived,  and  did 
That  decaying  robe  consume 

Which  its  lustre  faintly  hid,  — 
Here  its  ashes  find  a  tomb; 
But  beneath  this  pyramid 
Thou  art  not  —  if  a  thing  divine 
Like  thee  can  die,  thy  funeral  shrine 
Is  thy  mother's  grief  and  mine. 


W^here  art  thou,  my  gentle  child  ? 

Let  me  think  thy  spirit  feeds, 
With  its  life  intense  and  mild. 
The  love  of  living  leaves  and  weeds 
Among  these  tombs  and  ruins  wild; 

Let  me  think  that  through  low  seeds 
Of  sweet  flowers  and  sunny  grass 
Into  their  hues  and  scents  uiay  pass 

A  portion 

June,  1819.    Mrs.  Shelley,  1824. 

LINES    WRITTEN    FOR    THE    POEM 
TO  WILLIAM   SHELLEY 


The  world  is  now  our  dwelling-place; 
Where'er  the  earth  one  fading  trace 

Of  what  was  great  and  free  does  keep, 
That  is  our  home  ! 
Mild  thoughts  of  man's  ungentle  race 

Shall  our  contented  exile  reap; 
For  who  that  in  some  happy  place 
His  own  free  thoughts  can  freely  chase 
By  woods  and  waves  can  clothe  his  face 

In  cynic  smiles  ?    Child  !  we  shall  weep. 

II 

This  lament, 
The  memory  of  thy  grievous  wrong 
Will  fade 

But  genius  is  Omnipotent 
To  hallow 

1818.  Gamett,  1862. 

TO  WILLIAM  SHELLEY 

Thy  little  footsteps  on  the  sands 
Of  a  remote  and  lonely  shore; 
The  twinkling  of  thine  infant  hands 

Where  now  the  worm  will  feed  no  more; 
Thy  mingled  look  of  love  and  glee 
When  we  returned  to  gaze  on  thee  — 

1819.  Mrs.  Shelley,  1839,  1st  ed. 

TO   CONSTANTIA 
I 
The  rose  that  drinks  the  fountain  dew 

In  the  pleasant  air  of  noon. 
Grows  pale  and  blue  with  altered  hue 

In  the  gaze  of  the  nightly  moon; 
For  the  planet  of  frost,  so  cold  and  bright, 
Makes  it  wan  with  her  borrowed  light. 


482 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Such  is  my  heart  —  roses  are  fair, 
And  that  at  best  a  withered  blossom; 

But  thy  false  care  did  idly  wear 

Its  withered  leaves  in  a  faithless  bosom ; 

And  fed  with  love,  like  air  aud  dew, 

Its  growth 

1817.    Mrs.  Shelley,  1839,  Ist  ed. 


TO   EMILIA  VIVIANI 

Medwin  writes :  '  Shelley  felt  deeply  the 
fate  of  p»oor  Emilia,  frequently  wrote  to  her, 
and  received  from  her  iu  reply  bouquets  of 
flowers,  iu  return  for  one  of  which  he  sent  her 
the  following  exquisite  madrigal.' 


Madonna,  wherefore  hast  thou  sent  to  me 

Sweet-basil  aud  mignonette  ? 
Embleming  love  and  health,  which  never 

yet 
In  the  same  wreath  might  be. 

Alas,  and  they  are  wet ! 
Is  it  with  thy  kisses  or  thy  tears  ? 
For  never  rain  or  dew 
Such  fragrance  drew 
From  plant  or  flower  —  the  very  doubt  en- 
dears 
My  sadness  ever  new. 
The  sighs  I  breathe,  the  tears  I  shed  for 
thee. 


Send  the  stars  light,  but  send  not  love  to 
nie. 

In  whom  love  ever  made 
Health  like  a  heap  of  embers  soon  to  fade. 

March,  1821.    Mrs.  Shelley,  1824,  completed 
by  Gamett,  1862,  Forman,  1876. 


TO 

Rossetti  conjectures  that  Byron  is  addressed. 

O  MIGHTY  mind,  in  whose  deep  stream 

this  age 
Shakes  like  a  reed  in  the  unheeding  storm, 
Why  dost  thou  curb  not  thine  own  sacred 
rage  ? 
1818.    Garnett,  1862. 


SONNET   TO   BYRON 

Medwin  writes :  '  What  his  real  opinion  of 
Byron's  powers  was  may  be  collected  from  a 
sonnet  he  once  showed  me,  and  which  the  sub- 
ject of  it  never  saw.  The  sentiments  accord 
well  with  that  diffidence  of  his  own  powers, 
that  innate  modesty  which  always  distinguished 
him.     It  begins  thus  ' 

[I  am  afraid  these  verses  will  not  please  you, 
but] 

If  I  esteemed  you  less.  Envy  would  kill    ' 
Pleasure,  and  leave  to  Wonder  aud  De- 
spair 
The  ministration  of  the  thoughts  that  fill 
The  mind  which,  like  a  worm  whose  life 
may  share 
A  portion  of  the  unapproachable, 

Marks  your  creations  rise  as  fast  and  fair 
As  perfect  worlds  at  the  Creator's  will. 
But  such  is  my  regard  that   nor  your 
power 
To  soar  above  the   heights  where   othera 
[climb], 
Nor  fame,  that  shadow  of  the  unborn 

hour 
Cast  from   the   envious    future   on   the 
time. 
Move  one  regret  for  his  unhonored  name 
Who  dares  these  words :  —  the  worm  be- 
neath the  sod 
May  lift  itself  in  homage  of  the  God. 
1821.  Medwin,  1832,  1847,  revised  by  Ros- 
setti, 1870. 

A  LOST  LEADER 

My  head  is  wild  with  weeping  for  a  grief 
Which  is  the  shadow  of  a  gentle  mind. 

I  walk  into  the  air  (but  no  relief 

To  seek,  —  or  haply,  if  I  sought,  to  find; 

It  came  unsought) ;  —  to  wonder  that  a  chief 
Among  men's  spirits  should  be  cold  aud 

blind. 
1818.    Rossetti,  1870. 


ON  KEATS 

WHO   DESIRED   THAT   ON   HIS   TOMB 
SHOULD   BE   INSCRIBED  — 

'  Here  lieth  One  whose  name  was  writ  on 

water  ! ' 
But  ere  the  breath  that  could  erase  it  blew, 


FRAGMENTS 


483 


Death,  in  remorse  for  that  fell  slaughter,  — 
Death,  the  immortalizing  winter,  tiew 
Athwart  the  stream,  and   time's  priutless 

torrent  grew 
A  scroll' of  crystal,  blazoning  the  name 
Of  Adonais  ! 
1821.    Mra.  Shelley,  1839, 1st  ed. 

TO 

Rossetti  conjectures  that  the  lines  are  ad- 
dressed to  Leigh  Hunt ;  Forman,  that  they 
may  be  a  cancelled  passage  of  Rosalind  and 
Helen. 

For  me,  my  friend,  if  not  that  tears  did 

tremble 
In  my  faint  eyes,  and  that  my  heart  beat 

fast 
With  feelings  which  make  rapture   pain 

resemble, 
Yet,  from  thy  voice  that  falsehood  starts 

aghast, 
I  thank  thee  — let  the  tyrant  keep 
His  chains  and  tears,  yea  let  him  weep 
With  rage  to  see  thee  freshly  risen. 
Like  strength  from  slumber,  from   the 

prison. 
In  which  he  vainly  hoped  the  sonl  to  bind 
Which  on  the  chains  must  prey  that  fetter 

humankind. 
1817.     Gamett,  1862. 

MILTON'S  SPIRIT 

I  DREAMED  that  Milton's  spirit  rose,  and 

took 
From  life's  green  tree  his  Uranian  lute; 
And  from  his  touch  sweet  thunder  flowed, 

and  shook 
All   human   things   built   in   contempt   of 

man,  — 
And  sanguine  thrones  and  impious  altars 

quaked, 
Prisons  and  citadels. 
1820.    Rossetti,  1870. 

'MIGHTY   EAGLE' 

Mighty  eagle  !  thou  that  soarest 
O'er  the  misty  mountain  forest. 

And  amid  the  light  of  morning 
Like  a  cloud  of  glory  hiest. 
And  when  night  descends  defiest 

The  embattled  tempests'  warning  ! 
1817.    Forman,  1882. 


LAUREL 

•  What  art  thou,  presumptuous,  who  pro- 
fanest 
The  wreath  to  mighty  poets  only  due, 
Even  whilst   like  a  forgotten   moon   thou 
wanest  ? 
Touch  not  those   leaves  which  for   the 
eternal  few 
Who  wander  o'er  the  paradise  of  fame, 

In  sacred  dedication  ever  grew: 
One  of  the  crowd  thou  art  without  a  name,' 
'  Ah,  friend,  't  is  the  false  laurel  that  I  wear. 
Bright  though  it  seem,  it  is  not  the  same 
As   that  which  bound   Milton's  immortal 
hair: 
Its  dew  is  poison;  and  the  hopes  that 
quicken 
Under  its  chilling  shade,  though  seeming 
fair, 
Are  flowers  which  die  almost  before  they 

sicken.' 
1821,    Mrs.  Shelley,  1839,  Ist  ed. 

*ONCE   MORE   DESCEND' 

Forman  conjectures  this  and  the  following  to 
be  fragments  of  Otho. 

Once  more  descend 

The  shadows  of  my  soul  upon  mankind; 

For,  to  those  hearts  with  which  they  never 

blend, 

Thoughts   are   but   shadows  which   the 

flashing  mind 

From   the   swift   clouds,  which   track   its 

flight  of  fire. 
Casts  on  the  gloomy  world  it  leaves  behind. 
1817.     Gamett,  1862. 

INSPIRATION 

Those  whom  nor  power,  nor  lying  faith, 
nor  toil. 
Nor    custom,    queen    of   many    slaves, 
makes  blind, 
Have  ever  grieved  that  man  should  be  the 
spoil 
Of  his  own  weakness,  and  with  earnest 
mind 
Fed  hopes  of  its  redemption ;  these  recur 
Chastened  by  deathful  victory  now,  and 
find 
Foundations  in  this  foulest  age,  and  stir 
Me  whom  they  cheer  to  be  their  minister. 
1817.    Garnett,  1862. 


484 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


TO   THE   PEOPLE   OF  ENGLAND 

People    of    England,   ye    who    toil    and 
groan, 

Who  reap  the  harvests  which  are  not  your 
own, 

Who  weave   the   clothes  which   your   op- 
pressors wear, 

And    for    your  own   take   the   inclement 
air; 

Who  build  warin  houses  .  .  . 

And  are  like  gods  who  give  them  all  they 
have, 

And  nurse  them  from   the  cradle   to  the 
grave  .  .  . 
1819.     Garnett,  1862. 


•WHAT   MEN   GAIN   FAIRLY 

Forman  joins  this  with  the  preceding. 

What  men  gain  fairly,  that  they  should 

possess; 
And  children  may  inherit  idleness, 
From   him  who  earns   it  —  this  is  under- 
stood ; 
Private  injustice  may  be  general  good. 
But  he    who  gains  by   base    and    armed 

wrong. 
Or  guilty  fraud,  or  base  compliances, 
May  be  despoiled;  even  as  a  stolen  dress 
Is  stripped  from  a  convicted  thief,  and  he 
Left  in  the  nakedness  of  infamy. 
1819.    Mrs.  SheUey,  1839,  2d  ed. 


ROME 

Rome  has  fallen;  ye  see  it  lying 
Heaped  in  undistinguished  ruin: 

Nature  is  alone  undying. 
1819.    Mrs.  Shelley,  1839,  2d  ed. 


TO  ITALY 

As  the  sunrise  to  the  night, 

As  the  north  wind  to  the  clouds, 

As  the  earthquake's  fiery  flight. 
Ruining  mountain  solitudes. 

Everlasting  Italy, 

Be  those  hopes  and  fears  on  thee. 
1819.     Gamett,  1862. 


'UNRISEN   SPLENDOR' 

Unrisen  splendor  of  the  brightest  sun, 
To  rise  upon  our  darkness,  if  the  star 
Now  beckoning  thee  out  of  thy  misty  throne 
Could  thaw  the  clouds  which  wage  an  ob- 
scure war 
With  thy  young  brightness  1 

1820.  Garnett,  1862. 

TO   ZEPHYR 

Come,  thou  awakener  of  the  spirit's  ocean. 

Zephyr,  whom  to  thy  cloud  or  cave 
No   thought   can  trace  !    speed   with  thy 
gentle  motion  ! 

1821.  Rossetti,  1870. 

' FOLLOW  ' 

Follow  to  the  deep  wood's  weeds, 
Follow  to  the  wild  briar  dingle. 
Where  we  seek  to  intermingle, 
And  the  violet  tells  her  tale 
To  the  odor-scented  gale. 
For  they  two  have  enough  to  do 
Of  such  work  as  I  and  you. 
1819.     Garnett,  1862. 


THE   RAIN-WIND 

The  gentleness  of  rain  was  in  the  wind. 
1821.    Rossetti,  1870. 


RAIN 

The  fitful  alternations  of  the  rain, 
When  the  chill  wind,  languid  as  with  pain 
Of  its  own  heavy  moisture,  here  and  there 
Drives  through  the  gray  and  beamless  at- 
mosphere. 
1819.    Mrs.  Shelley,  1839,  2d  ed. 

'WHEN   SOFT   WINDS' 

When  soft  winds  and  sunny  skies 
With  the  green  earth  harmonize, 
And  the  young  and  dewy  dawn, 
Bold  as  an  unhunted  fawn. 
Up  the  windless  heaven  is  gone,  — 
Laugh  —  for,  ambushed  in  the  day, 
Clouds  and  whirlwinds  watch  their  prey. 
1821.    Mrs.  Shelley,  18;}9, 2d  ed. 


FRAGMENTS 


485 


THE   VINE 

Flourish  TNG  vine,  whose  kindling  clusters 
glow 
Beneath  the  autumnal  sun,  none  taste  of 
thee; 
For  thou  dost  shroud  a  ruin,  and  below 
The  rotting  bones  of  dead  antiquity. 
1818.    Rossetti,  1870. 

THE   WANING   MOON 

And  like  a  dying  lady,  lean  and  pale, 
Who   totters  forth,  wrapped  in  a  gauzy 

veil, 
Out  of  her  chamber,  led  by  the  insane 
And  feeble  wanderings  of  her  fading  brain. 
The  mood  arose  up  in  the  nmrky  East, 
A  white  and  shapeless  mass. 
1820.    Mrs.  Shelley,  1824. 

TO   THE   MOON 

Bright  wanderer,  fair  coquette  of  heaven, 
To  whom  alone  it  has  been  given 
To  change  and  be  adored  forever, 
Envy  not  this  dim  world,  for  never 
But  once  within  its  shadow  grew 

One  fair  as 

1822.    Gamett,  1862. 

TO   THE   MOON 


Art  thou  pale  for  weariness 
Of  climbing    heaven  and    gazing   on  the 
earth, 
"Wandering  companionless 
Among   the   stars  that   have    a    different 

birth, — 
And  ever  changing,  like  a  joyless  eye 
That  finds  no  object  worth  its  constancy  ? 


Thou  chosen  sister  of  the  spirit. 
That  gazes  on  thee  till  in  thee  it  pities  .  .  . 

1820.     Mrs.    Shelley,    1824,  completed    by 
Rossetti,  1870. 

POETRY  AND   MUSIC 

How  sweet  it  is  to  sit  and  read  the  tales 
Of  mighty  poets,  and  to  hear  the  while 


Sweet  music,   which  when    the   attention 

fails 
Fills  the  dim  pause  ! 

1819.    Mrs.  Shelley,  1839,  2d  ed. 


'A   GENTLE   STORY' 

A  GENTLE  story  of  two  lovers  young, 
Who  met  in  innocence  and  died  in  sor- 
row, 
And   of    one   selfish  heart,   whose  rancor 
clung 
Like   curses  on  them;  are   ye   slow  to 
borrow 
The  lore  of  truth  from  such  a  tale  ? 
Or  in  this  world's  deserted  vale. 
Do  ye  not  see  a  star  of  gladness 
Pierce  the  shadows  of  its  sadness,  — 
When  ye  are  cold,  that  love  is  a  light  sent 
From  heaven,  which  none  shall  quench,  to 
cheer  the  innocent  ? 
1819.    Mrs.  SheUey,  1839,  2d  ed. 


THE   LADY   OF  THE   SOUTH 

Faint  with  love,  the  Lady  of  the  South 

Lay  in  the  paradise  of  Lebanon 
Under  a    heaven    of    cedar  boughs;  the 
drouth 
Of  love  was  on  her  lips;  the  light  was 
gone 
Out  of  her  eyes. 

1821.    Rossetti,  1870. 


THE   TALE   UNTOLD 

One  sung  of  thee  who  left  the  tale  untold, 

Like  the  false  dawns  which  perish  in  the 

bursting; 

Like   empty  cups  of  wrought  and  daedal 

gold. 

Which  mock  the  lips  with  air,  when  they 

are  thirsting. 
1819.    Mrs.  Shelley,  1839,  2d  ed. 


WINE   OF   EGLANTINE 

I  AM  drunk  with  the  honey  wine 
Of  the  moon-unfolded  eglantine. 
Which  fairies  catch  in  hyacinth  bowls. 
The  bats,  the  dormice,  and  the  moles 


486 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Sleep  in  the  walls  or  under  the  sward 
Of  the  desolate  Castle  yard; 
And  wbeu  't  is  spilt  on  the  stimmer  earth 
Or  its  fumes  arise  among  the  dew, 
Their  jocund  dreams  are  full  of  mirth, 
They  gibber  their  joy  in  sleep;  for  few 
Of  the  fairies  bear  those  bowls  so  new  I 
1819.     Mrs.  Shelley,  1839,  Ist  ed. 

A   ROMAN'S   CHAMBER 
I 
In  the  cave  which  wild  weeds  cover 
Wait  for  thine  ethereal  lover; 
For  the  pallid  moon  is  waning, 
O'er  the  spiral  cypress  hanging, 
And  the  moou  no  cloud  is  staining. 


It  was  once  a  Roman's  chamber,  — 
And  the  wild  weeds  twine  and  clamber, 
Where  he  kept  his  darkest  revels; 
It  was  then  a  chasm  for  devils. 
1819.     Mrs.  Shelley,  1839,  2d  ed. 

SONG   OF  THE   FURIES 

When  a  lover  clasps  his  fairest. 
Then  be  our  dread  sport  the  rarest. 
Their  caresses  were  like  the  chafE 
In  the  tempest,  and  be  our  laugh 
His  despair  —  her  epitaph  ! 

When  a  mother  clasps  a  child. 
Watch  till  dusty  Death  has  piled 
His  cold  ashes  on  the  clay; 
She  has  loved  it  many  a  day  — 
She  remains,  —  it  fades  away. 
1819.    Mrs.  Shelley,  1839,  2d  ed. 

'THE  RUDE  WIND   IS   SINGING' 

The  rude  wind  is  singing 
The  dirge  of  the  music  dead; 

Tlie  cold  worms  are  clinging 
Where  kisses  were  lately  fed. 
1821.    Mrs.  SheUey,  1839,  Ist  ed. 

BEFORE  AND   AFTER 

The  babe  is  at  peace  within  the  womb; 
The  corpse  is  at  rest  within  the  tomb: 

We  begin  in  what  we  end. 

1821.    Mrs.  Shelley,  1839,  2d  ed. 


THE   SHADOW   OF   HELL 

A  GOLDEN-WINGED  Angel  stood 

Before  the  Eternal  Judgment-seat: 
His  looks  were  wild,  and  Devils'  blood 

Stained  his  dainty  hands  and  feet. 
The  Father  and  the  Son 
Knew  that  strife  was  now  begun. 
They  knew   that   Satan    had    broken  his 

chain. 
And  with  millions  of  demons  in  his  train, 
Was  ranging  over  the  world  again. 
Before  the  Angel  had  told  his  tale, 
A  sweet  and  a  creeping  sound 
Like   the   rushing   of  wings  was   heard 
around; 
And  suddenly  the  lamps  grew  pale  — 
The  lamps,  before  the  Archangels  seven  — 
That  burn  continually  in  heaven. 
1817.    Eossetti,  1870. 

CONSEQUENCE 

The  viewless  and  invisible  Consequence 
Watches  thy  goings-out,  and  comings-iu, 
And  .  .  .  hovers  o'er  thy  guilty  sleep, 
Unveiling     every     new-born     deed,     and 

thoughts 
More  ghastly  than  those  deeds. 
1820.     Rossetti,  1870. 

A   HATE-SONG 

Rossetti  gives  the  source  of  this :  '  Mr. 
Browning  has  furnished  me  with  this  amusing 
absurdity,  retailed  to  liini  by  Leigh  Hunt. 
It  seems  that  Hunt  and  Shelley  were  talking 
one  day  (probably  in  or  about  1817)  concerning 
Love-Sonps ;  and  Shelley  said  that  he  did  n't 
see  why  Hate-Songfs  also  should  not  be  written, 
and  that  he  could  do  them ;  and  on  the  spot 
he  improvised  these  lines  of  doggerel.' 

A  Hater  he  came  and  sat  by  a  ditch. 
And  he  took  an  old  cracked  lute; 

And  he  sang  a  song  which  was  more  of  a 
screech 
'Gainst  a  woman  that  was  a  brute. 
1817.    Rossetti,  1870. 

A   FACE 

His  face  was  like  a  snake's  —  wrinkled  and 

loose 
And  withered. 
1820.    Rossetti,  1870. 


FRAGMENTS 


487 


THE   POET'S   LOVER 

I  AM  as  a  spirit  who  has  dwelt 
Within  his  heart  of  hearts,  and  I  have  felt 
His  feelings,  and  have  thought  his  thoughts, 

and  known 
The  inmost  converse  of  his  soul,  the  tone 
Unheard  but  in  the  silence  of  his  blood, 
When  all  the  pulses  in  their  multitude 
Image  the  trembling  calm  of  summer  seas. 
I  have  unlocked  the  golden  melodies 
Of  his  deep  soul,  as  with  a  master-key. 
And    loosened    them  and  bathed   myself 

therein  — 
Even  as  an  eagle  in  a  thunder-mist 
Clothing  his  wings  with  lightning. 
1819.    Gamett,  1862. 

♦I   WOULD  NOT   BE   A   KING' 

I  WOULD  not  be  a  king  —  enough 

Of  woe  it  is  to  love; 
The  path  to  power  is  steep  and  rough, 

And  tempests  reign  above. 
I  would  not  climb  the  imperial  throne; 
'T  is  built  on  ice  which  fortune's  sun 

Thaws  in  tlie  height  of  noon. 
Then  farewell,  king,  yet  were  I  one, 

Care  would  not  come  so  soon. 
Would  he  and  I  were  far  away 
Keeping  flocks  on  Hinialay  ! 

1821.    Mrs.  Shelley,  1839,  2d  ed. 

'IS  IT  THAT  IN   SOME  BRIGHTER 
SPHERE' 

Is  it  that  in  some  brighter  sphere 
We  part  from  friends  we  meet  with  here  ? 
Or  do  we  see  the  Future  pass 
Over  the  Present's  dusky  glass  ? 
Or  what  is  that  that  makes  us  seem 
To  patch  up  fragments  of  a  dream. 
Part  of  which  comes  true,  and  part 
Beats  and  trembles  in  the  heart  ? 
1819.    Gamett,  1862. 

TO-DAY 

And  who  feels  discord  now  or  sorrow  ? 

Love  is  the  universe  to-day; 
Th^se  are  the  slaves  of  dim  to-morrow. 

Darkening  Life's  labyrinthine  way. 

1819.    Mrs.  Shelley,  1839,  Ist  ed. 


LOVE'S   ATMOSPHERE 

There  is  a  warm  and  gentle  atmosphere 
About  the  form  of  one  we  love,  and  thus 
As  in  a  tender  mist  our  spirits  are 
Wrapped  in  the  of  that  which  is  to  us 

The  health  of  life's  own  life. 
1819.    Mrs.  Shelley,  1839,  2d  ed. 


TORPOR 

My  head  is  heavy,  my  limbs  are  weary, 
And  it  is  not  life  that  makes  me  move. 
1820.    Gamett,  1862. 


•WAKE   THE   SERPENT   NOT' 

Wake  the  serpent  not  —  lest  he 
Should  not  know  the  way  to  go: 
Let  him  crawl  which  yet  lies  sleeping 
Through  the  deep  grass  of  the  meadow  f 
Not  a  bee  shall  hear  him  creeping. 
Not  a  May-fly  shall  awaken, 
From  its  cradling  blue-bell  shaken. 
Not  the  starlight  as  he  's  sliding 
Through  the  grass  with  silent  gliding. 
1819.    Mrs.  Shelley,  1839,  2d  ed. 


'IS   NOT  TO-DAY   ENOUGH?' 

Is  not  tc-day  enough  ?    Why  do  I  peer 
Into  the  darkness  of  the  day  to  come  ? 
Is  not  to-morrow  even  as  yesterdaj'  ? 
And  will  the  day  that  follows  change  thy 
doom? 
Few  flowers  grow  upon  thy  wintry  way; 
And  who  waits  for  thee  in  that  cheerless 
home 
Whence  thou  hast  fled,  whither  thou  must 

return 
Charged  with  the  load  that  makes  thee  faint 
and  mourn  ? 
1819.    Gamett,  1862. 


'TO   THIRST    AND    FIND    NO    FILL' 

Mrs.  Shelley  introduces  the  fragment  thus : 

'  And  then  again  this  melancholy  trace  of  the 

sad  thronging  thoughts,  which  were  the  well 

I  whence  he   drew   the  idea  of  Athanase,  and 


488 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


express  the  restless,  passion-fraught  emotions  of 
one  whose  sensibility,  kindled  to  too  intense 
a  life,  perpetually  preyed  upon  itself.'  For- 
man  conjectures  that  it  is  a  cancelled  passage 
of  Julian  and  Maddalo. 

To  thirst  aud  find  no  fill  —  to  wail  aud  wan- 
der 

With  short  uneasy  steps  —  to  pause  aud 
ponder  — 

To  feel  the  blood  run  through   the  veins 
and  tingle 

Where  busy  thought   and  blind  sensation 
mingle; 

To  nurse  the  image  of  unfelt  caresses 

Till  dim  imagination  just  possesses 

The  half-created  shadow. 

1817.    Mrs.  SheUey,  1839,  1st  ed. 


LOVE 

Mrs.  Shelley  introduces  the  fragment  thus  : 
'  In  the  next  page  I  find  a  calmer  sentiment, 
better  fitted  to  sustain  one  whose  whole  being 
was  love.' 

Wealth  and  dominion  fade  into  the  mass 
Of  the  great  sea  of   human   right  and 
wrong, 
When  once  from  our  possession  they  must 
pass; 
But  love,  though  misdirected,  is  among 
The  things  which  are  immortal,  and  sur- 
pass 
All  that  frail  stuff  which  will  be  —  or  which 
was. 
1817.    Mrs.  SheUey,  1839,  1st  ed. 


MUSIC 


I  PANT  for  the  music  which  is  divine, 
My  heart  in  its  thirst  is  a  dying  flower  ; 

Pour  forth  the  sound  like  enchanted  wine, 
Loosen  the  notes  in  a  silver  shower; 

Like  a  herbless  plain  for  the  gentle  rain, 

I  gasp,  1  faint,  till  they  wake  again. 


L^t  me  drink  of  the  spirit  of  that  sweet 
sound, 

More,  oh,  more,  —  I  am  thirsting  yet; 
It  loosens  the  serpent  which  care  has  bound 

Upon  my  heart  to  stifle  it; 


The  dissolving  strain  through  every  vein 
Passes  into  my  heart  and  brain. 

in 

As  the  scent  of  a  violet  withered  up, 

Which  grew  by  the  brink  of  a  silver  lake, 
When  the  hot  noon  has  drained  its  dewy 
cup, 
And  mist  there  was  none  its  thirst  to 
slake  — 
And  the  violet  lay  dead  while  the  odor  flew 
On  the  wings  of  the  wind  o'er  the  waters 
blue  — 


As  one  who  drinks  from  a  charmed  cup 
Of  foaming,  and  sparkling,  and  murmur- 
ing wine. 

Whom,  a  mighty  enchantress  filling  up, 
Invites  to  love  with  her  kiss  divine  — 

1821.    Mrs.  SheUey,  1824. 


TO  ONE  SINGING 

My  spirit  like  a  charmed  bark  doth  swim 
Upon  the  liquid  waves  of  thy  sweet  sing- 
ing. 
Far  away  into  the  regions  dim 

Of  rapture  —  as  a  boat,  with  swift  sails 
winging 
Its  way  adown  some  many-winding  river. 
1817.    Mrs.  SheUey,  1839,  Ist  ed. 


TO   MUSIC 

Silver  key  of  the  fountain  of  tears. 

Where  the  spirit  drinks  till  the  brain  is 
wild; 
Softest  grave  of  a  thousand  fears. 

Where  their  mother,  Care,  like  a  drowsy 

child, 
Is  laid  asleep  in  flowers. 
1817.    Mrs.  SheUey,  1839,  Ist  ed. 


TO   MUSIC 

No,  Music,  thou  art  not  the  *  food  of  Lov<»,' 
Unless  Love  feeds  upon  its  own  sweet  se'f. 
Till  it  becomes  all  Music  murmurs  of. 
1817.    Mrs.  SheUey,  1839,  Ist  ed. 


FRAGMENTS 


489 


'I   FAINT,   I    PERISH    WITH    MY 
LOVE  I' 

I  FAINT,  I  perish  with  my  love  !     I  grow 
Frail  as  a  cloud  whose  [splendors]  pale 

Under  the  evening's  ever-changing  glow  ; 
I  die  like  mist  upon  the  gale, 

And  like  a  wave  under  the  calm  I  fail. 
1821.     Rossetti,  1870. 


TO   SILENCE 

SiLEN'CE  !     Oh,  well  are  Death  and  Sleep 

and  Tliou 
Three    brethren     named,    the     guardians 

gloomy-winged 
Of  one  abyss,  where  life,  and  truth,  and 

joy 

Are  swallowed  up  —  yet  spare  me.  Spirit, 

pity  me. 
Until  the  sounds  I  hear  become  my  soul, 
And  it  has  left  these  faint  and  weary  limbs, 
To  track  along  the  lapses  of  the  air 
This  wandering  melody  until  it  rests 
Among  lone  mountains  in  some  .  .  . 
1818.    Garnett,  1862. 


'OH,  THAT  A   CHARIOT  OF  CLOUD 
WERE   MINE!' 

Oh,  that  a  chariot  of  cloud  were  mine  ! 
Of  cloud  which  the  wild  tempest  weaves 
in  air. 
When  the  moon  over  the  ocean's  line 

Is  spreading  the  locks  of  her  bright  gray 
hair. 
Oh,  that  a  chariot  of  cloud  were  mine  ! 
I  would  sail  on  the  waves  of  the  billowy 
wind 
To  the  mountain  peak  and  the  rocky  lake, 
Aud  the  .  .  . 

1817.    Garnett,  1862. 


♦THE   FIERCE   BEASTS' 

The  fierce  beasts  of  the  woods  and  wilder- 
nesses 
Track  not  the  steps  of  him  who  drinks  of 

it;. 

For  the  light  breezes,  which  forever  fleet 
Around  its  margin,  heap  the  sand  thereon. 
1818.    Roesetti,  1817. 


'HE   WANDERS' 

He  wanders,  like  a  day-appearing  dream, 
Through   the   dim  wildernesses   of   the 
mind; 
Through   desert  woods  and  tracts,  which 
seem 
Like  ocean,  homeless,  boundless,  uncon- 

fined. 
1821.    Mrs.  Shelley,  18-39,  1st  ed. 

THE  DESERTS    OF   SLEEP 

I  WENT  into  the  deserts  of  dim  sleep  — 
That  world  which,  like  an  unknown  wil- 
derness. 

Bounds  this  with  its  recesses  wide  and 
deep. 

1820.  Rossetti,  1870. 

A   DREAM 

Methought  I  was  a  billow  in  the  crowd 
Of  common  men,  that  stream  without  a 
shore, 
That  ocean  which  at  once  is  deaf  and  loud ; 
That  I,  a  man,  stood  amid  many  more 
By   a  wayside  which    the    aspect 

bore 
Of  some  imperial  metropolis. 

Where  mighty  shapes  —  pyramid,  dome, 

and  tower  — 
Gleamed  like  a  pile  of  crags. 

1821.  Rossetti,  1870. 

THE   HEART'S  TOMB 

And  where  is  truth  ?  On  tombs  ?  for  such 
to  thee 

Has  been  my  heart  —  and  thy  dead  memory 

Has  lain  from  childhood,  many  a  change- 
ful year. 

Unchangingly  preserved  and  buried  there. 

1819.  Mrs.  Shelley,  1839,  Ist  ed. 

HOPE,   FEAR,  AND  DOUBT 

Such  hope,  as  is  the  sick  despair  of  good, 
Such  fear,  as  is  the  certainty  of  ill. 
Such  doubt,  as  is  pale  Expectation's  food 
Turned  while  she  tastes  to  poison,  when 

the  will 
Is  powerless,  and  the  spirit  .  .  . 

1820.  Garnett,  1862. 


49© 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


'ALAS!   THIS   IS   NOT   WHAT   I 
THOUGHT   LIFE   WAS' 

Mrs.  Shelley  introduces  the  fragment  thus : 
'  That  he  felt  these  things  [public  neglect  and 
calumny]  deeply  cannot  be  doubted,  though 
he  armed  himself  with  the  consciousness  of 
acting  from  a  lofty  and  heroic  sense  of  right. 
The  truth  burst  from  his  heart  sometimes  in 
solitude,  and  he  would  write  a  few  unfinished 
verses  that  showed  he  felt  the  sting.  Among 
such  I  find  the  following.' 

Alas  !  this  is  not  what  I  thought  life  was. 
I  knew  that  there  were  crimes  and  evil 

men, 
Misery  and  hate ;  nor  did  I  hope  to  pass 
Untouched  by  suffering,  through  the  rugged 

glen. 
In  mine  own  heart  I  saw  as  in  a  glass 
The    hearts     of     others  And 

when 
I  went  among  my  kind,  with  triple  brass 
Of    calm  endurance    my   weak    breast  I 

armed, 
To  bear  scorn,  fear,   and  hate,   a  woful 

mass  ! 
1820.    Mrs.  SheUey,  1839,  Ist  ed. 


CROWNED 

Originally  published  as  the  conclusion  of 
*  When  soft  winds  and  sunny  skies.''  Rossetti 
joins  it  with  Laurel  at  the  end. 

Akd  that  I  walked  thus  proudly  crowned 

withal 
Is  that  't  is  my  distinction;  if  I  fall, 
I  shall  not  weep  out  of  the  vital  day. 
To-morrow  dust,  nor  wear  a  dull  decay. 
1821.    Mrs.  SheUey,  1839,  2d  ed. 


'GREAT  SPIRIT' 

Forman  conjectures  that  this  and  the  follow- 
ing are  addressed  to  Liberty. 


Great  Spirit  whom  the  sea  of  boundless 
thought 

Nurtures  within  its  unimagined  caves, 
In  which  thou  sittest  solo,  as  in  my  mind, 

Giving  a  voice  to  its  mysterious  waves. 

1821.     Rossetti,  1870. 


'O  THOU  IMMORTAL  DEITY' 

0  THOU  immortal  deity 

Whose  throne  is  in  the  depth  of  human 
thought, 

1  do  adjure  thy  power  and  thee 

By  all  that  man  may  be,  by  all  that  he  is 
not. 
By  all  that  he  has  been  and  yet  must  be  ! 
1821.    Mrs.  Shelley,  1839,  2d  ed. 


'YE  GENTLE  VISITATIONS' 

Ye  gentle  visitations  of  calm  thought. 
Moods   like   the    memories    of    happier 

earth, 
Which  come  arrayed  in  thoughts  of  little 

worth. 
Like   stars  in  clouds   by  the  weak  winds 

enwrought,  — 
But  that  the  clouds  depart  and   stars 

remain, 
While  they  remain,  and  ye,  alas,  depart ! 
1819.    Mrs.  Shelley,  1839,  Ist  ed. 


'MY  THOUGHTS' 

My  thoughts  arise  and  fade  in  solitude. 
The  verse  that  would  invest  them  melts 

away 
Like  moonlight  in  the  heaven  of  spread- 
ing day: 
How  beautiful  they  were,  how  firm  they 

stood, 
Flecking  the  starry  sky  like  woven  pearl  1 
1817.     Mrs.  Shelley,  1839,  Ist  ed. 


HYMN   TO   MERCURY 


49 1 


TRANSLATIONS 


The  Translations  were  published  partly  by 
Shelley,  with  other  poems,  partly  by  Mrs. 
Shelley,  and  partly  by  Medwin,  Garnett,  Ros- 
setti  and  Forraan  from  MSS.  They  were 
written  from  1818  to  1822.  Two  pieces,  hy- 
pothetically  ascribed  to  Shelley  by  Forman, 

HYMN  TO  MERCURY 

FROM  THE  GREEK  OF  HOMER 

This  remarkable  piece  of  facile  rendering 
from  the  Homeric  Hymn  was  composed  in  the 
summer  of  1820.  Shelley  mentions  it  in  a 
letter  to  Peacock,  July  20  :  'I  am  translating', 
in  ottava  rivia,  the  Hymn  to  Mercury  of  Homer. 
Of  course  my  stanza  precludes  a  literal  transla- 
tion. My  next  effort  will  be  that  it  should  be 
legible  —  a  quality  much  to  be  desired  in  trans- 
lations.'  It  was  published  by  Mrs.  Shelley, 
Posthumous  Poems,  1824. 


Sing,  Muse,  the  son  of  Maia  and  of  Jove, 

The  Herald-child,  king  of  Arcadia 
And  all  its  pastoral  hills,  whom,  in  sweet 
love 
Having  been  interwoven,  modest  May 
Bore  Heaven's  dread  Supreme.    An  antique 
grove 
Shadowed  the  cavern   where  the  lovers 
lay 
In  the  deep  night,  unseen  by  Gods  or  Men, 
And  white-armed  Juno  slumbered  sweetly 
then. 


Now,  when  the  joy  of  Jove  had  its  fulfilling. 
And   Heaven's   tenth    moon    chronicled 
her  relief. 
She  gave  to  light  a  babe  all  babes  excelling, 

A  schemer  subtle  beyond  all  belief, 
A  shepherd  of  thin  dreams,  a  cow-stealing, 
A   night-watching,   and  door- way  laying 
thief. 
Who  'mongst  the  Gods  was  soon  about  to 

thieve, 
And  other  glorious  actions  to  achieve. 


The  babe  was  bom  at  the  first  peep   of 
day; 
He  began  playing  on  the  lyre  at  noon, 


The  Dinner  Party  Anticipated,  a  paraphrase  of 
Horace  III.  xix.,  and  The  Magic  Horn  from 
Bronzino,  are  excluded  from  the  text,  there 
being  no  substantial  evidence  that  Shelley 
wrote  them. 


And  the  same  evening  did  he  steal  away 
Apollo's  herds.     The  fourth  day  of   the 
moon. 
On  which  him  bore  the  venerable  May, 
From  her  immortal  limbs  he  leaped  full 
soon. 
Nor  long  could  in  the  sacred  cradle  keep, 
But  out  to  seek  Apollo's  herds  would  creep. 


Out  of  the  lofty  cavern  wandering 

He  found  a  tortoise,  and  cried  out  — '  A 
treasure  ! ' 

(For  Mercury  first  made  the  tortoise  sing) 
The  beast  before  the  portal  at  his  leisure 

The  flowery  herbage  was  depasturing, 
Moving  his  feet  in  a  deliberate  measure 

Over  the  turf.     Jove's  profitable  son 

Eying  him  laughed,  and  laughing  thus  be- 
gun:— 


'  A  useful  godsend  are  you  to  me  now, 

King  of  the  dance,  companion  of  the  feast. 
Lovely  in  all  your  nature  !     Welcome,  you 
Excellent     plaything  !       Where,    sweet 
mountain  beast. 
Got  you  that  speckled  shell  ?     Thus  much 
I  know, 
You  must  come   home  with  me  and  be 
my  guest; 
You  will  give  joy  to  me,  and  I  will  do 
All  that  is  in  my  power  to  honor  you. 

VI 

'  Better  to  be  at  home  than  out  of  door. 
So  come  with  me;  and  though  it  has  been 

said 
That  you  alive  defend  from  magic  power, 
I  know  you  will  sing  sweetly  when  you  're 

dead.' 
Thus  having  spoken,  the  quaint  infant  bore, 
Lifting  it  from  the  grass  on  which  it  fed 
And  grasping  it  in  his  delighted  hold, 
Hia  treasured  prize  into  the  cavern  old. 


492 


TRANSLATIONS 


Then,  scooping  with  a  chisel  of  gray  steel, 
He  bored  the  life  and  soul  out  of   the 
beast. 
Not   swifter   a   swift   thought   of   woe   or 
weal 
Darts  through  the   tumult  of  a  human 
breast 
Which  tlironging  cares  annoy  —  not  swifter 
wheel 
The  flashes  of  its  torture  and  unrest 
Out  of  the  dizzy  eyes  —  than  Maia's  son 
All  that  he  did  devise  hath  featly  done. 

VIII 

And  through   the  tortoise's  hard  stony 
skin 
At  proper  distances  small  holes  he  made, 
And   fastened   the  cut   stems   of   reeds 
within, 
And  witli  a  piece  of  leather  overlaid 

The  open  space  and  fixed  the  cubits  in, 
Fitting  the  bridge  to  both,  and  stretched 

o'er  all 
Symphonious  cords  of  sheep-gut  rhythmi- 
cal. 


Wlien  he  had  wrought  the  lovely  instru- 
ment. 
He  tried  the  chords,  and  made  division 
meet, 
Preluding   with   the   plectrum,  and   there 
weut 
Up  from  beneath  his  hand  a  tumult  sweet 
Of  mighty  sounds,  and  from  his  lips  be 
sent 
A  strain  of  unpremeditated  wit 
Joyous  and  wild  and  wanton  —  such   you 

may 
Hear  among  revellers  on  a  holiday. 


He  sung  how  Jove  and  May  of  the  bright 
sandal 
Dallied  in  love  not  quite  legitimate; 
And  bis  own   birth,  still  scoffing  at  the 
scandal 
And  naming  his  own  name,  did  celebrate; 
His  mother's  cave  and  servant  maids  he 
planned  all 
In  plastic  verse,  her  household  stuff  and 
state. 
Perennial  pot,  trippet,  and  brazen  pan,  — 
But  singing,  lie  conceived  another  plan. 


Seized  with   a  sudden  fancy  for  fresh 
meat. 
He  in  his  sacred  crib  deposited 

The  hollow  lyre,  and   from  the  cavern 
sweet 
Rushed  with  great  leaps  up  to  the  moun- 
tain's head. 
Revolving  in  his  mind  some  subtle  feat 
Of  thievish  craft,  such  as  a  swindler  might 
Devise  in  the  lone  season  of  dun  night. 


Lo  !  the  great  Sun  under  the  ocean's  bed 
has 
Driven  steeds  and   chariot.     The  child 
meanwhile  strode 
O'er    the    Pierian   mountains  clothed    in 
shadows, 
Wliere  the  immortal  oxen  of  the  God 
Are  pastured   in    the   flowering  unmown 
meadows 
And  safely  stalled  in  a  remote  abode. 
The  archer  Argicide,  elate  and  proud. 
Drove  fifty  from  the  herd,  lowing  aloud. 


He  drove  them  wandering  o'er  the  sandy 
way. 
But,  being  ever  mindful  of  his  craft. 
Backward   and    forward   drove   he    them 
astray. 
So  that  the  tracks  which  seemed  before, 
were  aft; 
His   sandals  then  he   threw  to  the  ocean 
spray. 
And  for  each  foot  he  wrought  a  kind  of 
raft 
Of  tamarisk  and  tamarisk-like  sprigs. 
And   bound   them   in  a  lump  with  withy 
twigs. 

XIV 

And  on  his  feet  he  tied   these  sandals 
light. 
The  trail  of  whose  wide  leaves  might  not 
betray 
His    track;    and    then,   a  self-sufficing 
wight. 
Like  a  man  hastening  on  some  distant  way, 
He    from    Pieria's   mountain   bent    his 
flight; 
But  an  old  man  perceived  the  infant  pass 
Down  green  Onchestus  heaped  like  beds 
with  grass. 


HYMN   TO   MERCURY 


493 


XV 

The  old  man  stood  dressing  his  sunny  vine. 
'  Halloo !   old   fellow  with   the  crooked 
shoulder ! 
You  grub  those  stumps  ?  before  they  will 
bear  wine 
Methinks  even  you  must  grow  a  little 
older. 
Attend,  I  pray,  to  this  advice  of  mine, 
As  you  would  'scape  what  might  appall  a 
bolder: 
Seeing,  see  not  —  and  hearing,  hear  not  — 

and  — 
If  you  have  understanding,  understand.' 


So  saying,  Hermes  roused  the  oxen  vast; 
O'er  shadowy  mountain  and  resounding 
dell 
And    flower-paven  plains    great    Hermes 
passed ; 
Till  the  black  night  divine,  which  favor- 
ing fell 
Around  his  steps,  grew  gray,  and  morning 
fast 
Wakened  the  world  to  work,  and  from 
her  cell 
Sea-strewn  the  Pallantean  Moon  sublime 
Into  her  watch-tower  just  began  to  climb. 

XVII 

Now  to  Alphens  he  bad  driven  all 

The  broad-foreheaded  oxen  of  the  Sun; 

They  came  unwearied  to  the  lofty  stall 
And  to  the  water  troughs  which  ever  run 

Through  the  fresh  fields;  and  when  with 
rushgrass  tall. 
Lotos  and  all  sweet  herbage,  every  one 

Had  pastured  been,  the  great  God  made 
them  move 

Towards  the  stall  in  a  collected  drove. 


A   mighty   pile   of   wood    the   God    then 
heaped. 
And,  having  soon  conceived  the  mystery 
Of  fire,  from  two  smooth  laurel  branches 
stripped 
The  bark,  and  rubbed  them  in  his  palms; 
on  high 
Suddenly  forth  the  burning  vapor  leaped, 

And  the  divine  child  saw  delightedly. 
Mercury  first  found  out  for  human  weal 
Tinder-box,  matches,   fire-irons,  flint  and 
steel. 


And  fine  dry  logs  and  roots  innumerous 
He    gathered     in    a    delve    upon     the 
ground  — 
And  kindled  them  —  and  instantaneous 
The   strength  of  the   fierce   flame  was 
breathed  around ; 
And,  whilst  the  might  of  glorious  Vulcan 
thus 
Wrapped  the  great  pile  with  glare  and 
roaring  sound, 
Hermes  dragged  forth  two  heifers,  lowing 

loud, 
Close  to  the  fire  —  such  might  was  in  the 
God. 

XX 

And   on   the   earth   upon   their  backs   he 

threw 
The  panting  beasts,  and  rolled  them  o'er 

and  o'er, 
And  bored  their  lives  out.     Without  more 

ado 
He  cut  up  fat  and  flesh,  and  down  be- 
fore 
The   fire  on  spits  of  wood  he  placed  the 

two, 
Toasting  their  flesh  and  ribs,  and  all  the 

gore 
Pursed  in  the  bowels;  and  while  this  was 

done 
He   stretched  their  hides   over  a  craggy 

stone. 


We  mortals  let  an  ox  grow  old,  and  then 

Cut  it  up  after  long  consideration,  — 
But  joyous-minded  Hermes  from  the  glen 
Drew  the   fat  spoils  to  the  more  open 
station 
Of  a  flat  smooth  space,  and  portioned  them; 
and  when 
He  had  by  lot  assigned  to  each  a  ration 
Of  the   twelve   Gods,    his   mind    became 

aware 
Of  all  the  joys  which  in  religion  are. 

xxn 
For  the  sweet  savor  of  the  roasted  meat 
Tempted  him  though  immortal.     Nathe- 
less 
He  checked  his  haughty  will  and  did  not 
eat. 
Though  what    it  cost    him   words  can 
scarce  express, 


494 


TRANSLATIONS 


And  every  wish  to  put  such  morsels  sweet 
Dowu  his  most  sacred  throat  he  did  re- 
press ; 
But  soon  within  the  lofty  portaled  stall 
He  placed  the  fat  and  flesh  and  bones  and 
all. 

XXIII 
And  every  trace  of  the  fresh  butchery 
And  cooking  the  God  soon  made  disap- 
pear, 
As   if  it  all  had  vanished    through    the 
sky; 
He  burned  the  hoofs  and  horns  and  head 
and  hair,  — 
The  insatiate  fire  devoured  them  hungrily; 
And,  when  he  saw  that  everything  was 
clear, 
He  quenclied  the  coals,  and  trampled  the 

black  dust, 
And   in  the    stream    his    bloody   sandals 
tossed. 

XXIV 

All  night  he  worked  in  the  serene  moon- 
shine. 
But  when  the  light  of  day  was  spread 
abroad 
He  sought  his  natal  mountain-peaks  divine. 
On  his  long  wandering  neither  man  nor 
god 
Had  met  him,    since   he    killed   Apollo's 
kine, 
Nor  house-dog  had  barked  at  him  on  his 
road; 
Now  he   obliquely  through   the   key-hole 

passed, 
Like  a  thin  mist  or  an  autumnal  blast. 


Right  through  the  temple  of  the  spacious 

cave 
He  went  with  soft  light  feet,  as  if  his 

tread 
Fell  not  on  earth;  no  sound  their  falling 

gave; 
Then  to  his  cradle  he  crept  quick,  and 

spread 
The  swaddling-clothes  about  him;  and  the 

knave 
Lay  playing  with  the  covering  of  the 

bed 
With  his  left  hand  about  his  knees  —  the 

right 
Held  his  beloved  tortoise-lyre  tight. 


XXVI 

There  he  lay  innocent  as  a  new-born  child. 
As  gossips  say;  but  though  he  was  a  god. 
The  goddess,  his  fair  mother,  tmbeguiled 

Knew  all  that  he  had  done  being  abroad. 
'  Whence  come  you,  and  from  what  ad- 
venture wild. 
You  cunning  rogue,  and  where  have  you 
abode 
All  the  long  night,  clothed  in  your  impu- 
dence ? 
What  have  you  done  since  you  departed 
hence  ? 


*  Apollo  soon  will  pass  within  this  gate 

And  bind  your  tender  body  in  a  chain 
Inextricably  tight,  and  fast  as  fate. 

Unless  you  can  delude  the  God  again. 
Even  when  within  his   arms.     Ah,  rnna« 
gate  ! 
A  pretty  torment  both  for  gods  and  men 
Your  father  made  when  he  made  you  ! '  — 

*  Dear  mother,' 
Replied  sly  Hermes,  '  wherefore  scold  and 
bother  ? 

XXVIII 

'  As  if  I  were  like  other  babes  as  old. 

And  understood  nothing  of  what  is  what, 
And  cared  at  all  to  hear  my  mother  scold. 
I  in   my   subtle    brain   a  scheme    have 
got. 
Which    whilst    the    sacred     stars    round 
Heaven  are  rolled 
Will  profit  you  and  me;  nor  shall  our 
lot 
Be  as  you  counsel,  without  gifts  or  food, 
To  spend  our  lives  in  this  obscure  abode. 

XXIX 

<  But  we  will  leave  this   shadow-peopled 
cave 
And  live  among  the  Gods,  and  pass  each 
day 
In   high  communion,  sharing   what    they 
have 
Of  profuse  wealth  and  unexhausted  prey; 
And  from   the  portion  which  my  father 
gave 
To    Phoebus,   I  will    snatch    my  share 
away; 
Which  if  my  father  will  not,  natheless  I, 
Who   am   the   king  of  robbers,   can  but 
try. 


HYMN  TO   MERCURY 


495 


XXX 

*  And,  if  Latona's  son  should  find  me  out, 
I  '11  countermine  him  by  a  deeper  plan; 
I  '11  pierce  the  Pythian  temple-walls,  though 
stout, 
And  sack  the  fane  of  everything  I  can  — 
Caldrons  and   tripods  of   great  worth   no 
doubt, 
Each  golden  cup  and  polished  brazen 
pan. 
All  the  wrought  tapestries  and  garments 

gay-' 

So  they  together  talked.     Meanwhile  the 
Day, 


Ethereal  born,  arose  out  of  the  flood 

Of  flowing  Ocean,  bearing  light  to  men. 
Apollo  passed  toward  the  sacred  wood, 
Which   from  the   inmost   depths  of  its 
green  glen 
Echoes  the  voice  of  Neptune;  and  there 
stood, 
On  the   same  spot  in  green  Onchestus 
then, 
That  same  old  animal,  the  vine-dresser. 
Who  was  employed  hedging  his  vineyard 
there. 

XXXII 

Latona's  glorious  Son  began :  —  'I  pray 

Tell,  ancient  hedger  of  Onchestus  green. 
Whether  a  drove  of  kine  has  passed  this 
way, 
All  heifers  with  crooked  horns  ?  for  they 
have  been 
Stolen  from  the  herd  in  high  Pieria, 

Where  a  black  bull  was  fed  apart,  be- 
tween 
Two   woody  mountains   in  a  neighboring 

glen. 
And  four  fierce  dogs  watched  there,  unani- 
mous as  men. 

XXXIII 

*And  what  is  strange,  the  author  of  this 
theft 
Has  stolen  the  fatted  heifers  every  one. 
But  the  four  dogs  and  the  black  bull  are 
left. 
Stolen  they  were  last  night  at  set  of  sun, 
Of  their  soft  beds  and  their  sweet  food  be- 
reft. 
Now  tell  me,  man  bom  ere  the  world 
begun. 


Have  you   seen  any   one   pass   with    the 

cows  ? ' 
To  whom  the  man  of  overhanging  brows: 

XXXIV 

*  My  friend,  it  would  require  no  common 

skill 
Justly  to  speak  of  everything  I  see ; 
On  various  purposes  of  good  or  ill 

Many  pass  by  my  vineyard,  —  and   to 
me 
'T  is  difficult  to  know  the  invisible 

Thoughts,  which  in  all  those  many  minds 
may  be. 
Thus  much  alone  I  certainly  can  say, 
I  tilled  these  vines  till  the  decline  of  day, 


*  And  then  I  thought  I  saw,  but  dare  not 

speak 

With  certainty  of  such  a  wondrous  thing, 

A  child,  who  could  not  have  been  born  a 

week. 

Those  fair-horned  cattle  closely  foUow- 

.  ^°^' 
And  in  his  band  he  held  a  polished  stick; 

And,  as  on  purpose,  he  walked  wavering 

From  one  side  to  the  other  of  the  road. 

And  with  his  face  opposed  the  steps  he 

trod.' 


Apollo  hearing  this,  passed  quickly  on  — 
No  wingfed  omen  could  have  shown  more 
clear 
That  the  deceiver  was  his  father's  son. 

So  the  God  wraps  a  purple  atmosphere 
Around  his  shoulders,  and  like  fire  is  gone 
To  famous  Pylos,  seeking  his  kine  there, 
And  found  their  track  and  his,  yet  hardly 

cold. 
And  cried  — '  What  wonder  do  mine  eyes 
behold  ! 


'  Here  are  the  footsteps  of  the  horned  herd 
Turned  back  towards  their  fields  of  as- 
phodel ; 

But   these  are  not  the  tracks  of  beast  or 
bird. 
Gray  wolf,  or  bear,  or  lion  of  the  dell, 

Or  manfed  Centaur  —  sand  was  never  stirred 
By  man  or  woman  thus  I     Inexplicable  ! 

Who  with  unwearied  feet  could  e'er  impress 

The  sand  with  such  enormous  vestiges  ? 


496 


TRANSLATIONS 


*  That   was   most    strange  —  but    this    is 
stranger  still !  ' 
Thus  having  said,  Phoebus  impetuously 
Sought  high  Cyllene's  forest-ciutured  hill, 
And  the  deep  cavern  where  dark  shad- 
ows lie. 
And   where    the    ambrosial    nymph   with 
happy  will 
Bore  the  Saturnian's  love-child,  Mercury ; 
And  a  delightful  odor  from  the  dew 
Of  the  hill  pastures,  at  his  coming,  flew. 

XXXIX 

And  Phoebus   stooped    under  the   craggy 
roof 
Arched  over  the  dark  cavern.     Maia's 
child 
Perceived  that  he  came  angry,  far  aloof. 
About  the  cows  of  which  he  had  been 
beguiled ; 
And  over  him  the  fine  and  fragrant  woof 
Of  his  ambrosial   swaddling  clothes  he 
piled. 
As  among  firebrands  lies  a  burning  spark 
Covered,  beneath  the  ashes  cold  and  dark. 

XL 

There,  like  an  infant  who  had  sucked  his 
fill 
And  now  was  newly  washed,  and  put  to 
bed, 
Awake,   bxit    courting    sleep   with   weary 
will. 
And  gathered  in  a  lump,  hands,  feet,  and 
head, 
He  lay,  and  his  belovfed  tortoise  still 
He  grasped,  and  held  under  his  shoulder- 
blade. 
Phoebus  the  lovely  mountain-goddess  knew, 
Not  less  her  subtle,  swindling  baby,  who 

XLI 

Lay  swathed  in  his  sly  wiles.    Round  every 
crook 
Of  the  ample  cavern  for  his  kine  Apollo 
Looked  sharp;  and  when  he  saw  them  not, 
he  took 
The   glittering  key,  and   opened   three 
great  hollow 
Recesses  in  the  rock,  where  many  a  nook 
Was  filled  with  the  sweet  food  immortals 
swallow; 
And  mighty  heaps  of  silver  and  of  gold 
Were  piled  within  —  a  wonder  to  behold  I 


XLII 

And  white  and  silver  robes,  all  overwrought 
With  cunning  workmanship  of   tracery 
sweet; 

Except  among  the  Gods  there  can  be  nought 
In  the  wide  world  to  be  compared  with  it. 

Latona's  offspring,  after  having  sought 
His  herds  in  every  corner,  thus  did  greet 

Great   Hermes:  —  'Little   cradled   rogue, 
declare 

Of  my  illustrious  heifers,  where  they  are  ! 


'  Speak  quickly  !  or  a  quarrel  between  us 
Must  rise,  and  the  event  will  be  that  I 

Shall  hurl  you  into  dismal  Tartarus, 
In  fiery  gloom  to  dwell  eternally; 

Nor  shall  your  father  nor  your  mother  loose 
The  bars  of  that  black  dungeon;  utterly 

You  shall  be  cast  out  from  the  light  of  day, 

To  rule    the  ghosts  of  men,  unblessed  as 
they.' 


To  whom  thus  Hermes  slyly  answered:  — 
'Son 
Of  great  Latona,  what  a  speech  is  this  ! 
Why  come  you  here  to  ask  me  what  is  done 
With  the  wild  oxen  which  it  seems  you 
miss  ? 
I  have  not  seen  them,  nor  from  any  one 

Have  heard  a  word  of  the  whole  business; 
If  you  should  promise  an  immense  reward, 
I  could  not  tell  more  than  you  now  have 
heard. 

XLV 

*  An  ox-stealer  should    be  both  tall    and 
strong. 
And  I  am  but  a  little  new-born  thing. 
Who,  yet  at  least,  can   think   of   nothing 
wrong. 
My  business  is  to  suck,  and  sleep,  and 
fling 
The  cradle-clothes  about  me  all  day  long,  — 
Or  half  asleep,  hear  my  sweet   mother 
sing. 
And  to  be  washed  in  water  clean  and  warm, 
And  hushed  and  kissed  and  kept  secure 
from  harm. 

XLVI 
'  Oh,  let  not  e'er  this  quarrel  be  averred  ? 
The  astounded  Gods  would  laugh  at  you, 
if  e'er 


HYMN   TO   MERCURY 


497 


You  should  allege  a  story  so  absurd 
As  that  a  new-born  infant  forth  could 
fare 
Out  of  his  home  after  a  savage  herd. 
I  was  born  yesterday  —  my  small  feet 
are 
Too  tender  for  the  roads  so  hard  and  rough. 
And  if  you  think  that  this  is  not  enough, 


*  I  swear  a  great  oath,  by  my  father's  head. 
That  I  stole  not  your  cows,  and  that  I 
know 

Of  no  one  else,  who  might,  or  could,  or  did. 
Whatever  things  cows  are  I  do  not  know, 

For  I  have  only  heard  the  name.'  This  said, 
He  winked  as  fast  as  could  be,  and  his 
brow 

Was  wrinkled,  and  a  whistle  loud  gave  he. 

Like  one  who  hears  some  strange  absurdity. 

XLVIII 

Apollo  gently  smiled  and  said:  —  *  Aye, 
aye,  — 
You  cunning  little  rascal,  you  will  bore 
Many  a  rich  man's  house,  and  your  array 
Of  thieves  will  lay  their  siege  before  his 
door, 
•Silent  as  night,  in  night;  and  many  a  day 
lu  the  wild  glens  rough  shepherds  will 
deplore 
That  you  or  yours,  having  an  appetite, 
Met  with  their  cattle,  comrade  of  the  night ! 

XLIX 
'And  this  among  the  Gods  shall  be  your 

gift, 
To  be  considered  as  the  lord  of  those 
Who  swindle,  house-break,  sheep-steal,  and 
shop-lift. 
But  now  if  you  would  not  your  last  sleep 
doze, 
Crawl  out  ! '  —  Thus  saying,  Phoebus   did 
uplift 
The  subtle  infant  in  his  swaddling  clothes. 
And  in  his  arms,  according  to  his  wont, 
A  scheme  devised  the  illustrious  Argiphont. 


And  sneezed  and  shuddered.     Phoebus  on 
the  grass 
Him  threw  ;  and  whilst  all  that  he  had 
designed 


He  did  perform  —  eager  although  to  pass, 

Apollo  darted  from  his  mighty  mind 
Towards  the  subtle  babe  the  following  scoff'. 
'  Do  not  imagine  this  will  get  you  off, 

LI 

'  You  little  swaddled  child  of  Jove  and 
May!  ' 
And  seized  him  :  — '  By  this  omen  I  shall 
trace 
My  noble  herds,  and  you   shall  lead  the 
way.' 
Cyllenian  Hermes  from  the  grassy  place, 
Like  one  in  earnest  haste  to  get  away, 
Kose,  and  with  hands  lifted  towards  his 
face, 
Round  both  his  ears  up  from  his  shoulders 

drew 
His  swaddling  clothes,  and  —  *  What  meao 
you  to  do 


*  With  me,  you  unkind  God  ? '  —  said  Mer- 
cury: 
*  Is  it  about  these  cows  you  tease   me 
so? 
I  wish  the  race  of  cows  were  perished  !  —  I 
Stole  not  your  cows  —  I  do  not  even  know 
What  things  cows  are.     Alas  !  I  well  may 
sigh 
That  since  I  came  into  this  world  of  woe 
I  should  have  ever  heard  the  name  of  one  — 
But  I  appeal  to  the  Saturnian's  throne.' 

LIU 
Thus  Phoebus  and  the  vagrant  Mercury 

Talked  without  coming  to  an  explanation. 
With  adverse  purpose.    As  for  Phoebus,  he 
Sought  not  revenge,  but  «»uly  informa- 
tion. 
And  Hermes  tried  with  lies  and  roguery 

To  cheat  Apollo.     But  when  no  evasion 
Served  —  for  the  cunning   one  his  match 

had  found  — 
He  paced  on  first  over  the  sandy  ground. 

LIV 

He  of  the  Silver  Bow  the  child  of  Jove 
Followed  behind,  till  to  their  heavenly  Sire 

Came  both  his  children, beautiful  as  Love, 
And  from  his  equal  balance  did  require 

A  judgment  in  the  cause  whereiu  they 
strove. 
O'er  odorous  Olympus  and  its  snows 
A  murmuring  tumult  as  they  came  arose,  — 


498 


TRANSLATIONS 


LV 

And  from  the  folded  depths  of  the  great 
Hill, 

While  Hermes  and  Apollo  reverent  stood 
Before  Jove's  throne,  the  indestruetihle 

Immortals  rushed  in  mighty  multitude; 
And  whilst  their  seats  in  order  due  they  fill, 

The  lofty  Thunderer  in  a  careless  mood 
To  Phoebus  said  :  — '  Whence  drive  you  this 

sweet  prey, 
This  herald-baby,  born  but  yesterday  ?  — 

LVI 

*  A  most  important  subject,  trifler,  this 
To  lay  before  the  Gods  ! '  — '  Nay,  fa- 
ther, nay. 

When  you  have  understood  the  business, 
Say  not  that  I  alone  am  fond  of  prey, 

I  found  this  little  boy  in  a  recess 

Under  Cyllene's  mountains  far  away  — 

A  manifest  and  most  apparent  thief, 

A  scandal-monger  beyond  all  belief. 


*  I  never  saw  his  like  either  in  heaven 

Or  upon  earth  for  knavery  or  craft. 
Out  of  tlie  field  my  cattle  yester-even. 
By  the  low  shore  on  which  the  loud  sea 
laughed. 
He  right  down  to  the  river-ford  had  driven ; 
And  mere  astonishment  would  make  you 
daft 
To  see  the  double  kind  of  footsteps  strange 
He  has  impressed  wherever  he  did  range. 

LVIII 

*  The  cattle's  track  on  the  black  dust  full 

well 
Is  evident,  as  if  they  went  towards 
The   place  from  which  they  came  —  that 
asphodel 
Meadow,  in  which  I  feed  my  many  herds; 
His  steps  were  most  incomprehensible. 

I  know  not  how  I  can  describe  in  words 
Those  tracks;  he  could  have   gone   along 

the  sands 
Neither  upon  his  feet  nor  on  his  hands; 

LIX 

*He  must  have  had  some  other  stranger 
mode 
Of  moving  on.    Those  vestiges  immense, 
Far  as  I  traced  them  on  the  sandy  road, 
Seemed  like  the  trail  of  oak-toppings; 
but  thence 


No   mark   or  track  denoting  where  they 

trod 
The  hard  ground  gave.     But,  working  at 

his  fence, 
A  mortal  hedger  saw  him  as  he  passed 
To  Pylos,  with  the  cows,  in  fiery  haste. 


*  I  found  that  in  the  dark  he  quietly 

Had   sacrificed  some   cows,  and   before 
light 
Had  thrown  the  ashes  all  dispersedly 
About  the  road;  then,  still   as  gloomy 
night. 
Had  crept  into  his  cradle,  either  eye 

Rubbing,     and     cogitating    some    new 
sleight. 
No  eagle  could  have  seen  him  as  he  lay 
Hid  in  his  cavern  from  the  peering  day. 

LXI 

*  I  taxed  him  with  the  fact,  when  he  averred 

Most  solemnly  that  he  did  neither  see 
Nor  even  had  in  any  manner  heard 

Of  my  lost  cows,  whatever  things  cows 
be; 
Nor  could  he  tell,  though  offered  a  reward, 
Not  even  who  could  tell  of  them  to  me.' 
So  speaking,  Phoebus   sate;  and   Hermes* 

then 
Addressed  the  Supreme  Lord  of  Gods  and 
Men: 

LXII 

*  Great   Father,  you  know  clearly  before- 

hand 
That   all   which  I   shall  say  to  you  is 
sooth ; 
I  am  a  most  veracious  person,  and 

Totally  unacquainted  with  untruth. 
At  sunrise  Phoebus  came,  but  with  no  band 
Of  Gods  to  bear  him  wituess,  in  great 
wrath. 
To  my  abode,  seeking  his  heifers  there. 
And  saying  that  I  must  show  him  where 
they  are, 

LXIII 

*  Or  he   would  hurl   me   down   the  dark 

abyss. 

I  know  that  every  Apollonian  limb 
Is  clothed  with  speed  and  might  and  man- 
liness. 

As  a  green  bank  with  flowers  —  but,  un- 
like him, 


HYMN  TO   MERCURY 


499 


I  was  born  yesterday,  and  you  may  guess 
He  well  knew  this  when  he  indulged  the 
whim 
Of  bullying  a  poor  little  new-born  thing 
That  slept,  and  never  thought  of  cow-driv- 
ing. 

LXIV 

'  Am  I  like  a  strong  fellow  who  steals  kine  ? 
Believe  me,  dearest  Father  —  such  you 
are  — 
This  driving  of  the  herds  is  none  of  mine; 

Across  my  threshold  did  I  wander  ne'er. 
So  may  I  thrive  !  I  reverence  the  divine 
Sun  and  the  Gods,  and  I  love  you,  and 
care 
Even  for  this  hard  accuser  —  who  must 

know 
I  am  as  innocent  as  they  or  you. 

LXV 

'  I  swear  by  these  most  gloriously-wrought 
portals 
(It  is,  you  will  allow,  an  oath  of  might) 
Througli  which  the  multitude  of  the  Im- 
mortals 
Pass  and  repass  forever,  day  and  night, 
Devising  schemes  for  the  affairs  of  mor- 
tals — 
That  I  am  guiltless;  and  I  will  requite. 
Although  mine  enemy  be  great  and  strong, 
His   cruel   threat  —  do  thou    defend   the 


young 


LXVI 


So  speaking,  the  Cyllenian  Argiphont 
Winked,   as   if   now  his  adversary  was 
fitted; 

And  Jupiter  according  to  his  wont 

Laughed   heartily   to   hear   the    subtle- 
witted 

Infant  give  such  a  plausible  account. 
And  every  word  a  lie.     But  he  remitted 

Judgment  at  present,  and  his  exhortation 

Was,  to  compose  the  affair  by  arbitration. 

LXVII 

And  they  by  mighty  Jupiter  were  bidden 
To  go  forth  with  a  single  purpose  both. 
Neither  the  other  chiding  nor  yet  chidden; 

And  Mercury  with  innocence  and  truth 
To  lead  the  way,  and  show  where  he  had 
hidden 
The  mighty  heifers.     Hermes,  nothing 
loath. 


Obeyed  the  .3igis-bearer's  will  • 
Is  able  to  persuade  all  easily. 


•  for  he 


LXVIII 


These  lovely  children  of  Heaven's  highest 
Lord 
Hastened  to  Pylos  and  the  pastures  wide 
And  lofty  stalls  by  the  Alphean  ford. 
Where  wealth  in  the  mute  night  is  multi- 
plied 
With  silent  growth.    Whilst  Hermes  drove 
the  herd 
Out  of  the  stony  cavern,  Phoebus  spied 
The  hides  of  those  the  little  babe  had  slain, 
Stretched  on  the  precipice  above  the  plain. 


'  How  was  it  possible,'  then  Phoebus  said, 
'  That  you,  a  little  child,  born  yesterday, 

A  thing  on  mother's  milk  and  kisses  fed, 
Could  two  prodigious  heifers  ever  flay  ? 

Even  I  myself  may  well  hereafter  dread 
Your  prowess,   offspring    of    Cyllenian 
May, 

When  you   grow    strong    and    tall.'     He 
spoke,  and  bound 

Stiff  withy  bands  the  infant's  wrists  around. 


He  might  as  well   have   bound  the   oxen 
wild; 
The  withy  bands,  though  starkly  inter- 
knit. 
Fell  at  the  feet  of  the  immortal  child, 
Loosened  by  some  device  of   his  quick 
wit. 
Phoebus  perceived  himself  again  beguiled. 
And  stared,  while  Hermes  sought  some 
hole  or  pit, 
Looking    askance    and    winking    fast    as 

thought 
Where  he  might  hide  himself  and  not  be 
caught. 


Sudden   he   changed    his   plan,   and   with 
strange  skill 
Subdued   the   strong    Latonian   by   the 
might 
Of  winning  music  to  his  mightier  will; 
His  left  hand  held  the  lyre,  and  in  his 
I'ight 
The   plectrum  struck   the  chords;   uncon- 
querable 
Up  from  beneath  his  hand  in  circling  flight 


50O 


TRANSLATIONS 


The  gathering  music  rose  —  and  sweet  as 

Love 
The  penetrating  notes  did  live  and  move 

LXXII 
Within  the  heart  of  great  Apollo.     He 
Listened  with  all  his  soul,  and  laughed 
for  pleasure. 
Close  to  his  side  stood  harping  fearlessly 

The  unabashM  boy ;  and  to  the  measure 
Of  the  sweet  lyre  there  followed  loud  and 
free 
His  joyous  voice;   for  he  unlocked   the 
treasure 
Of  his  deep  song,  illustrating  the  birth 
Of   the  bright  Gods  and  the  dark  desert 
Earth; 


And  bow  to  the  Immortals  every  one 
A  portion  was  assigned  of  all  that  is  ; 

But  chief  Mnemosyne  did  Maia's  son 
Clothe  in  the  light  of  his  loud  melodies; 

And,  as  each  God  was  born  or  had  begun, 
He  in  their  order  due  and  iit  degrees 

Sung  of  his  birth  and  being  —  and  did  move 

Apollo  to  unutterable  love. 

LXXIV 

These  words  were  winged  with  his  swift 
delight: 
♦You   heifer-stealing  schemer,  well  do 
you 
Deserve  that  fifty  oxen  should  requite 
Such  minstrelsies  as  I  have  heard  even 
now. 
Comrade  of  feasts,  little  contriving  wight, 
One    of    your   secrets    I   would   gladly 
know, 
Whether  the  glorious  power  you  now  show 

forth 
Was  folded  up  vrithin  you  at  your  birth. 


'  Or  whether  mortal  taught  or  God  inspired 

The  power  of  unpremeditated  song  ? 
Many  divinest  sounds  have  I  admired. 
The    Olympian   Gods  and   mortal   men 
among; 
But   such   a  strain  of  wondrous,  strange, 
untired. 
And   soul-awakening  music,  sweet   and 
strong, 
Yet  did  I  never  hear  except  from  thee. 
Offspring  of  May,  impostor  Mercury  I 


LXXVI 

'  What  Muse,  what  skill,  what  unimagined 
use, 
What  exercise  of  subtlest  art,  has  given 
Thy  songs  such  power  ?  —  for  those  who 
hear  may  choose 
From  three,  the  choicest  of  the  gifts  of 
Heaven, 
Delight,  and  love,  and  sleep  —  sweet  sleep 
whose  dews 
Are  sweeter  than  the  balmy  tears  of  even. 
And   I,   who   speak   this   praise,  am   that 

Apollo 
Whom  the  Olympian  Muses  ever  follow; 

LXXVII 

*  And  their  delight  is  dance,  and  the  blithe 
noise 

Of  song  and  overflowing  poesy; 
And  sweet,  even  as  desire,  the  liquid  voice 

Of  pipes,  that  fills  the  clear  air  thrill- 

ingiy; 

But  never  did  my  inmost  soul  rejoice 

In  this  dear  work  of  youthful  revelry. 
As  now.  I  wonder  at  thee,  son  of  Jove ; 
Thy  harpings  and  thy  song  are  soft  as  love, 

LXXVIII 
'  Now  since   thou   hast,  although   so  very 
small. 
Science  of  arts  so  glorious,  thus  I  swear  — 
And  let  this  cornel  javelin,  keen  and  tall. 
Witness   between   us   what    I    promise 
here  — 
That  I  will  lead  thee  to  the  Olympian  Hall, 
Honored  and  mighty,  with  thy  mother 
dear. 
And  many  glorious  gifts  in  joy  will  give 

thee. 
And  even   at   the  end  will   ne'er  deceive 
thee.' 


To    whom    thus    Mercury   with    prudent 
speech : 
'  Wisely  hast  thou  inquired  of  my  skill; 
I  envy  thee  no  thing  I  know  to  teach 
Even   this   day;   for  both   in  word  and 
will 
I  would   be  gentle  with  thee;  thou  canst 
reach 
All  things  in  thy  wise  spirit,  and  thy  sill 
Is  highest   in  heaven  among   the   sons  of 

Jove, 
Who  loves  thee  in  the  fulness  of  his  love. 


HYMN  TO   MERCURY 


501 


LXXX 

*  The  Counsellor   Supreme  has   given  to 
thee 
Divinest  gifts,  out  of  the  amplitiide 
Of  his  profuse,  exhaustless  treasury; 
By  thee,  't  is  said,  the  depths  are  under- 
stood 
Of  his  far  voice;  by  thee  the  mystery 
Of  all  oracular  fates,  —  aud  the  dread 
mood 
Of  the  diviner  is  breathed  up ;  even  I  — 
A  child  —  perceive   thy  might  aud   maj- 
esty. 

LXXXI 

'  Thou  canst  seek  out  and  compass  all  that 
wit 
Can  find  or  teach.     Yet  since  thou  wilt, 
come  take 
The  lyre  —  be  mine  the  glory  giving  it  — 
Strike  the  sweet  chords,  and  sing  aloud, 
and  wake 
Thy  joyous  pleasure  out  of  many  a  fit 
Of  tranced  sound  —  and  with  fleet   fin- 
gers make 
Thy     liquid-voiced     comrade     talk     with 

thee, — 
It  can  talk  measured  music  eloquently. 


'  Then  bear  it  boldly  to  the  revel  loud, 
Love-wakening  dance,  or  feast  of  solemn 
state, 
A  joy  by  night  or  day ;  for  those  endowed 

With  art  and  wisdom  who  interrogate 
It  teaches,  babbling  in  delightful  mood 
All  things  which  make  the  spirit  most 
elate. 
Soothing  the   mind  with    sweet    familiar 

play, 
Chasing  the  heavy  shadows  of  dismay. 

LXXXIII 

*  To  those  who  are  unskilled  in  its  sweet 
tongue. 
Though  they  should   question  most  im- 
petuously 
Its    hidden    soul,    it     gossips    something 
wrong  — 
Some  senseless  and  impertinent  reply. 
But    thou    who   art   as   wise   as  thou   art 
strong 
Canst  compass  all  that  thou  desirest.     I 
Present  thee  with  this  music-flowing  shell, 
Knowing  thou  canst  interrogate  it  well. 


LXXXIV 

*  And  let  us  two  henceforth  together  feed 
On  this  green  mountain  slope  and  pas- 
toral plain. 
The  herds  in  litigation.     They  will  breed 

Quickly  enough  to  recompense  our  pain. 

If  to  the  bulls  and  cows  we  take  good  heed ; 

And  thou,   though  somewhat  over  fond 

of  gain. 

Grudge  me  not  half  the  profit.'     Having 

spoke. 
The  shell  he  proffered,  and  Apollo  took; 

LXXXV 
And  gave  him  in  return  the  glittering  lash, 
Installing   him   as  herdsman;  from   the 
look 
Of  Mercury  then  laughed  a  joyous  flash. 
And   then   Apollo     with    the    plectrum 
strook 
The  chords,  and  from  beneath  his  hands  a 
crash 
Of  mighty    sounds    rushed    up,   whose 
music  shook 
The  soul  with  sweetness,  and  like  an  adept 
His  sweeter  voice  a  just  accordance  kept. 


The  herd  went  wandering  o'er  the  divine 
mead. 
Whilst   these     most   beautiful   Sons   of 
Jupiter 
Won  their  swift  way  up  to  the  snowy  head 

Of  white  Olympus,  with  the  joyous  lyre 
Soothing  their   journey;  and   their   father 
dread 
Gathered  them  botli  into  familiar 
Affection   sweet,  —  aud    then,    and    now, 

and  ever, 
Hermes    must    love   Him   of   the  Golden 
Quiver, 


To  whom   he  gave  the  lyre  that  sweetly 
sounded, 
Which    skilfully    he    held  and    plaj'ed 
thereon. 
He  piped  the  while,  and  far  and  wide  re- 
bounded 
The  echo  of  his  pipings,  —  every  one 
Of  the  Olympians  sat  with  joy  astounded ; 
While  he  conceived  another  piece  of  fun. 
One  of  his  old  tricks — which  the  God  of  Day 
Perceiving,    said: — 'I  fear  thee,  Son   of 


S02 


TRANSLATIONS 


LXXXVIII 

♦  I  fear  thee  and  tby  sly  chameleon  spirit, 
Lest  thou   shouldst  steal  my   lyre  and 
crooked  bow; 
This  glory  and  power  thou  dost  from  Jove 
inherit, 
To  teach  all  craft  upon  the  earth  below; 
Thieves  love  and  worship  thee  —  it  is  thy 
merit 
To  make  all  mortal  business  ebb  and  flow 
By  roguery.     Now,  Hermes,  if  you  dare 
By  sacred  Styx  a  mighty  oath  to  swear 


*  That  you  will  never  rob  me,  you  will  do 
A  thing  extremely  pleasing  to  my  heart.' 

Then  Mercury  sware  by  the  Stygian  dew. 
That   he  would  never  steal  his  bow  or 
dart. 

Or  lay  his  hands  on  what  to  him  was  due, 
Or  ever  would  employ  his  powerful  art 

Against  his  Pythian  fane.     Then  Phoebus 
swore 

There  was  no  God  or  man  whom  he  loved 


xc 

*  And  I  will  give  thee  as  a  good-will  token. 

The  beautiful  wand  of  wealth  and  happi- 
ness; 
A  perfect  three-leaved  rod    of   gold  un- 
broken. 
Whose  magic    will   thy   footsteps  ever 
bless ; 
And  whatsoever  by  Jove's  voice  is  spoken 

Of  earthly  or  divine  from  its  recess. 
It,  like  a  loving  soul,  to  thee  will  speak,  — 
And   more   than  this,  do  thou  forbear   to 
seek. 

XCI 

*  For,  dearest  child,  the  divinations  high 

Which  thou  requirest,  't  is  unlawful  ever 
That  thou  or  any  other  deity 

Should  understand  —  and  vain  were  the 
endeavor; 
For  they  are  hidden  in  Jove's  mind,  and  I 
In  trust  of  them  have  sworn  that  I  would 
never 
Betray  the  counsels  of  Jove's  inmost  will 
To  any  God  —  the  oath  was  terrible. 

XCII 
Then,  golden-wanded  brother,  ask  me  not 
To  speak  the  fates  by  Jupiter  designed; 


But  be  it  mine  to  tell  their  various  lot 
To   the   unnumbered  tribes  of  human- 
kind. 

Let    good    to  these   and  ill    to   those  be 
wrought 
As  I  dispense.     But  he,  who  comes  con- 
signed 

By  voice  and  wings  of  perfect  augury 

To   my   great  shrine,  shall  find   avail  in 
me. 

XCIII 

'Him  will  I  not  deceive,  but  will  assist; 
But    he    who   comes    relying    on    such 
birds 
As  chatter  vainly,  who  would  strain  and 
twist 
The  purpose  of  the  Gods  with  idle  words, 
And  deems  their  knowledge  light,  he  shall 
have  missed 
His   road  —  whilst  I  among  my  other 
hoards 
His  gifts  deposit.     Yet,  O  son  of  May, 
I  have  another  wondrous  thing  to  say. 

XCIV 

'  There  are  three  Fates,  three  virgin  Sisters, 
who. 
Rejoicing     in     their    wind-outspeeding 
wings, 
Their  heads  with  flour  snowed  over  white 
and  new. 
Sit    in  a   vale   round   which   Parnassus 
flings 
Its    circling    skirts;  from    these    I    have 
learned  true 
Vaticinations  of  remotest  things. 
My  father  cared  not.     Whilst  they  search 

out  dooms. 
They  sit  apart  and  feed  on  honeycombs. 


*  They,    having    eaten    the    fresh    honey, 
grow 
Drunk  with  divine  enthusiasm,  and  utter 
With   earnest   willingness   the   truth  they 
know; 
But  if  deprived  of  that  sweet  food,  they 
mutter 
All  plausible  delusions.     These  to  you 
I  give;    if  you   inquire,   they  will   not 
stutter. 
Delight  your  own  soul  with  them.     Any 

man 
You  would  instruct  may  profit  if  he  can. 


HOMER'S   HYMN  TO  VENUS 


503 


XCVI 

'Take  these  and  the  fierce  oxen,  Maia's 
child; 
O'er  many  a  horse    and   toil-enduring 
mule, 
O'er  jagged-jaw^d  lions,  and  the  wild 
White-tusk5d  boars,  o'er  all,  by  field  or 
pool, 
Of  cattle  which  the  mighty  Mother  mild 

Nourishes  in  her  bosom,  thou  shalt  rule; 
Thou  dost  alone  the  veil  from  death  uplift; 
Thou  givest  not  —  yet  this  is  a  great  gift.' 

XCVII 

Thus  King  Apollo  loved  the  child  of  May 
In  truth,  and  Jove  covered  their  love 
with  joy. 
Hermes  with  Gods  and  men  even  from  that 
day 
Mingled,  and  wrought  the  latter  much 
annoy. 
And  little  profit,  going  far  astray 

Through  the  dun  night.     Farewell,  de- 
lightful Boy, 
Of  Jove  and  Maia  sprung,  —  never  by  me. 
Nor  thou,  nor  other  songs,  shall  unremem- 
bered  be. 


HOMER'S    HYMN   TO   VENUS 

This  fragment  was  written  in  1818,  and  pub- 
lished by  Garuett,  1862. 

[V.  1-55,  with  some  omissions.] 

Muse,  sing  the  deeds  of  golden  Aphrodite, 
Who   wakens   with   her   smile   the   lulled 

delight 
Of  sweet  desire,  taming  the  eternal  kings 
Of   Heaven,  and  men,  and  all  the  living 

things 
That  fleet  along  the  air,  or  whom  the  sea. 
Or  earth,  with  her  maternal  ministry. 
Nourish  innumerable,  thy  delight 
All  seek  O  crowned  Aphrodite  ! 

Three   spirits   canst   thou  not   deceive   or 

quell, 
Minerva,  child  of  Jove,  who  loves  too  well 
Fierce  war  and  mingling  combat,  and  the 

fame 
Of  glorious  deeds,  to  heed  thy  gentle  flame. 
Diana,  golden-shafted  queen. 

Is  tamed  not  by  thy  smiles;  the  shadows 

green 
Of  the  wild  woods,  the  bow,  the 


And  piercing  cries  amid  the  swift  pursuit 
Of  beasts  among  waste  mountains,  —  such 

delight 
Is  hers,  and  men  who  know  and  do  the 

right. 
Nor   Saturn's    first-born   daughter,   Vesta 

chaste, 
Whom  Neptune  and  Apollo  wooed  the  last, 
Such  was  the  will  of  segis-bearing  Jove ; 
But  sternly  she  refused  the  ills  of  Love, 
And  by  her  mighty  father's  head  she  swore 
An  oath  not  unperformed,  that  evermore 
A  virgin  she  would  live  'mid  deities 
Divine ;  her  father,  for  such  gentle  ties 
Renounced,  gave  glorious  gifts;  thus  in  his 

hall 
She  sits  and  feeds  luxuriously.     O'er  all 
In  every  fane,  her  honors  first  arise 
From  men  —  the  eldest  of  Divinities. 

These  spirits  she  persuades  not,  nor  de- 
ceives. 

But  none  beside  escape,  so  well  she  weaves 

Her  unseen  toils;  nor  mortal  men,  nor  gods 

Who  live  secure  in  their  unseen  abodes. 

She  won  the  soul  of  him  whose  fierce  de- 
light 

Is  thunder  —  first  in  glory  and  in  might. 

And,  as  she  willed,  his  mighty  mind  deceiv- 
ing, 

With  mortal  limbs  his  deathless  limbs  in- 
weaving. 

Concealed  him  from  his  spouse  and  sister 
fair, 

Whom  to  wise  Saturn  ancient  Rhea  bare. 

but  in  return, 
In  Venus  Jove  did  soft  desire  awaken. 
That,  by  her  own  enchantments  overtaken, 
She   might,  no   more   from   human  union 

free, 
Burn  for  a  nursling  of  mortality. 
For  once,  amid  the  assembled  Deities, 
The  laughter-loving  Venus  from  her  eyes 
Shot   forth   the   light   of   a  soft  starlight 

smile. 
And  boasting  said,  that  she,  secure   the 

while. 
Could  bring  at  will  to  the  assembled  gods 
The  mortal  tenants  of  earth's  dark  abodes. 
And  mortal  offspring  from  a  deathless  stem 
She   could  produce   in  scorn  and  spite  of 

them. 
Therefore  he  poured  desire  into  her  breast 
Of  young  Anchises, 


504 


TRANSLATIONS 


Feeding  his  herds  among  the  mossy  foun- 
tains 

Of  the  wide  Ida's  many-folded  mountains, 

Whom  Venus  saw,  and  loved,  and  the  love 
clung 

Like  wasting  fire  her  senses  wild  among. 

HOMER'S    HYMN   TO   CASTOR 
AND   POLLUX 

This  and  the  remaining  Homeric  Hymns 
•were  written  in  1818,  and  published  by  Mrs. 
Shelley  in  her  second  collected  edition,  18:39. 
She  writes  that  they  '  may  be  considered  as 
having  received  the  author's  ultimate  correc- 
tions.' 

Ye   wild-eyed  Muses,  sing  the  Twins  of 

Jove, 
Whom  the  fair-ankled  Leda,  mixed  in  love 
W^ith   mighty   Saturn's  heaven  -  obscuring 

Child, 
Du  Taygetus,  that  lofty  mountain  wild, 
Brought  forth  in  joy;  mild  Pollux  void  of 

blame, 
And  steed-subduing  Castor,  heirs  of  fame. 
These  are  the  Powers  who  earth-born  mor- 
tals save 
A.nd  ships,  whose  flight  is  swift  along  the 

wave. 
When  wintry  tempests  o'er  the  savage  sea 
Are  raging,  and  the  sailors  tremblingly 
Call  on  the  Twins  of  Jove  with  prayer  and 

vow, 
Gathered  in  fear  upon  the  lofty  prow. 
And  sacrifice  with  snow-white  lambs,  —  the 

wind 
And  the  huge  billow  bursting  close  behind 
Even  then  beneath  the  weltering  waters 

bear 
The  staggering  ship,  —  they  suddenly  ap- 
pear. 
On  yellow  wings  rushing  athwart  the  sky. 
And  lull  the  blasts  in  mute  tranquillity. 
And  strew  the  waves  on  the  white  ocean's 

bed. 
Fair  omen  of  the  voyage;  from  toil  and 

dread. 
The  sailors  rest,  rejoicing  in  the  sight. 
And  plough  the  quiet  sea  in  safe  delight. 

HOMER'S  HYMN  TO  MINERVA 

I  SING  the  glorious  Power  with  azure  eyes, 
Ath«nian  Pallas,  tameless,  chaste,  and  wise, 


Tritogenia,  town-preserving  maid, 
Revered  and  mighty;  from  his  awful  head 
Whom    Jove    brought    forth,   in   warlike 

armor  dressed. 
Golden,  all  radiant !  wonder  strange  pos- 
sessed 
The  everlasting  Gods  that  shape  to  see, 
Shaking  a  javelin  keen,  impetuously 
Rush  from  the  crest  of  ^Egis-bearing  Jove ; 
Fearfully   Heaven   was    shaken,  and  did 

move 
Beneath  the  might  of  the  Cerulean-eyed; 
Earth  dreadfully  resounded,  far  and  wide; 
And,  lifted  from  its  depths,  the  sea  swelled 

high 
In  purple  billows,  the  tide  suddenly 
Stood  still,  and  great  Hyperion's  son  long 

time 
Checked   his  swift   steeds,  till  where  she 

stood  sublime, 
Pallas  from  her  immortal  shoulders  threw 
The  arms  divine;   wise   Jove   rejoiced   to 

view. 
Child  of  the  JEgis-bearer,  hail  to  thee. 
Nor   thine  nor  other's  praise   shall   unre- 

membered  be. 

HOMER'S  HYMN  TO  THE  SUN 

Offspring  of  Jove,  Calliope,  once  more 
To  the  bright  Sun  thy  hymn  of  music  pour. 
Whom  to  the  child  of  star-clad  Heaven  and 

Earth 
Euryphaessa,  large-eyed   nymph,  brought 

forth; 
Euryphaessa,  the  famed  sister  fair 
Of  great  Hyperion,  who  to  him  did  bear 
A  race  of   loveliest   children;   the   young 

Morn, 
Whose  arms  are  like  twin  roses  newly  born. 
The  fair-haired  Moon,  and   the  immortal 

Sun, 
Who  borne   by  heavenly  steeds  his  race 

dotli  run 
Unconquerably,  illuming  the  abodes 
Of  mortal  men  and  the  eternal  Gods. 

Fiercely  look  forth  his  awe-inspiring  eyes 
Beneath  his  golden  helmet,  whence  arise 
And  are  shot  forth  afar  clear  beams  of  light; 
His  countenance  with  radiant  glory  bright 
Beneath    his    graceful    locks    far    shines 

around. 
And   the  light  vest  with  which  his  limbs 

are  bound. 


HOMER'S   HYMN  TO   THE  EARTH,  MOTHER  OF  ALL    505 


Of  woof  ethereal  delicately  twined, 
Glows  in  the  stream  of  the  uplifting  wind. 
His  rapid  steeds  soon  bear  him  to  the  west. 
Where  their  steep  flight  his  hands  divine 

arrest. 
And  the  fleet  car  with  yoke  of  gold,  which 

he 
Sends    from  bright  heaven  beneath    the 

shadowy  sea. 


HOMER'S  HYMN  TO  THE  MOON 

Daughters  of  Jove,  whose  voice  is  melody, 
Muses,  who  know  and  rule  all  minstrelsy, 
Sing  the  wide-winged  Moon  !     Around  the 

earth. 
From  her  immortal  head  in  Heaven  shot 

forth. 
Far  light  is  scattered  —  boundless  glory 

springs ; 
Where'er  she  spreads   her  many-beaming 

wings. 
The  lampless  air  glows  round  her  golden 

crown. 

But  when  the  Moon  divine  from  Heaven 

is  gone 
Under  the  sea,  her  beams  within  abide, 
Till,  bathing  her  bright  limbs  in  Ocean's 

tide, 
Clothing  her  form  in  garments  glittering 

far, 
And  having  yoked  to  her  immortal  car 
The  beam-invested  steeds  whose  necks  on 

high 
Curve  back,  she  drives  to  a  remoter  sky 
A  western  Crescent,  borne  impetuously. 
Then  is  made  full  the  circle  of  her  light. 
And  as  she  grows,  her  beams  more  bright 

and  bright 
Are  poured  from   Heaven,  where   she   is 

hovering  then, 
A  wonder  and  a  sign  to  mortal  men. 

The   Son  of  Saturn  with  this  glorious 

Power 
Mingled   in  love  and  sleep,  to  whom  she 

bore, 
Pandeia,  a  bright  maid  of  beauty  rare 
Among  the  Gods  whose  lives  eternal  are. 

Hail   Queen,  great  Moon,  white-armed 
Divinity, 
Fair-haired  and  favorable  I  thus  with  thee, 


My  song  beginning,  by  its  music  sweet 
Shall  make  immortal  many  a  glorious  feat 
Of  demigods, —  with  lovely  lips,  so  well 
Which  minstrels,  servants  of   the   Muses, 
tell. 


HOMER'S  HYMN  TO  THE  EARTH, 
MOTHER  OF  ALL 

O  UNIVERSAL  Mother,  who  dost  keep 
From  everlasting  thy  foundations  deep, 
Eldest  of  things.  Great  Earth,  I   sing  of 

thee  ! 
All  shapes  that  have  their  dwelling  in  the 

sea, 
All  things  that  fly,  or  on  the  ground  divine 
Live,  move,    and   there   are   nourished  — 

these  are  thine; 
These  from  thy  wealth  thou  dost  sustain; 

from  thee 
Fair  babes  are  born,  and  fruits  on  every 

tree 
Hang  ripe  and  large,  revered  Divinity  ! 

The  life  of  mortal  men  beneath  thy  sway 
Is  held;  thy  power  both  gives  and  takes 

away. 
Happy  are  they  whom   thy  mild  favors 

nourish ; 
All  things  unstinted  round  them  grow  and 

flourish. 
For  them  endures  the  life-sustaining  field 
Its  load  of  harvest,  and  their  cattle  yield 
Large  increase,  and  their  house  with  wealth 

is  filled. 
Such  honored  dwell  in  cities  fair  and  free, 
The  homes  of  lovely  women,  prosperously; 
Their  sons  exult   in  youth's  new  budding 

gladness, 
And  their  fresh  daughters,  free  from  care 

or  sadness, 
With  bloom-inwoven  dance  and  happy  song. 
On    the    soft    flowers    the   meadow-grass 

among. 
Leap  round  them  sporting;  such  delights 

by  thee 
Are  given,  rich  Power,  revered  Divinity. 

Mother  of  gods,   thou  wife   of    starry 

Heaven, 
Farewell !  be  thou  propitious,  and  be  given 
A  happy  life  for  this  brief  melody. 
Nor  thou  nor  other  songs  shall  unreraemsi 

bered  be. 


5o6 


TRANSLATIONS 


THE   CYCLOPS; 
A   SATYRIC   DRAMA 

TRANSLATED  FROM   THE   GREEK   OF    EU- 
RIPIDES 

The  Cyclops  was  translated  in  1819,  and 
published  by  Mrs.  Shelley,  Posthumous  Poems, 
1824.  Shelley  read  it  to  Williams,  November 
5,  1821.  He  writes  of  it  and  the  whole  sub- 
ject of  translation  to  Hunt,  November,  1819  : 
'  With  respect  to  translation,  even  /will  not  be 
seduced  by  it ;  although  the  Greek  plays,  and 
some  of  the  ideal  dramas  of  CaJderon  (with 
which  I  have  lately,  and  with  inexpressible 
wonder  and  delight,  become  acquainted),  are 
perpetually  tempting  me  to  throw  over  their 
perfect  and  glowing  forms  the  gray  veil  of  my 
own  words.  And  you  know  me  too  well  to  sus- 
pect that  I  refrain  from  a  belief  that  v/hat  I 
could  substitute  for  them  would  deserve  the 
regret  which  yours  would,  if  suppressed.  I 
have  confidence  in  my  moral  sense  alone  ;  but 
that  is  a  kind  of  originality.  I  have  only  trans- 
lated The  Cyclops  of  Euripides,  when  I  could 
absolutely  do  nothing  else,  and  the  Symposium 
of  Plato,  which  is  the  delight  and  astonishment 
of  all  who  read  it,  —  I  mean  the  original.' 


Snjuiiis 
Ultbsbs 


Chohus  or  Sattrb 
Thb  Cyclops 


O  Bacchus,  what  a  world  of  toil,  both  now 
And  ere  these  limbs  were  overworn  with  age, 
Have  I  endured  for  thee  !    First,  when  thou 

fled'st 
The  mountain-nymphs   who  nursed  thee, 

driven  afar 
By  the  strange  madness  Juno  sent  upon 

thee; 
Then  in  the  battle  of  the  sons  of  Earth, 
When  I  stood  foot  by  foot  close  to  thy  side. 
No  unpropitious  fellow-combatant, 
And,  driving  through  his  shield  my  wingfed 

spear, 
Slew  vast  Enceladus.     Consider  now, 
Is  it  a  dream  of  which  I  speak  to  thee  ? 
By  Jove  it  is  not,  for  you  have  the  trophies  I 
And  now  I  suffer  more  than  all  before. 
For  when  I  heard  that  Juno  had  devised 
A  tedious  voyage  for  you,  I  put  to  sea 
With  all  my  children  quaint  in  search  of 

yo", 
And  I  myself  stood  on  the  beakfed  prow 
And  fixed  the  naked  mast;  and  all  my  boys 


Leaning  upon  their  oars,  with  splash  and 

strain 
Made  white  with  foam  the  green  and  pur- 
ple sea. 
And  so  we  sought  you,  king.     We  were 

sailing 
Near  Malea,  when  an  eastern  wind  arose, 
And  drove  us  to  this  wild  ^tueau  rock; 
The  one-eyed  children  of  the  Ocean  God, 
The  man-destroying  Cyclopses  inhabit. 
On  this  wild  shore,  their  soiltary  caves, 
And  one  of  these,  named  Polypheme,  has 

caught  us 
To  be  his  slaves;  and  so,  for  all  delight 
Of  Bacchic  sports,  sweet  dance  and  melody, 
We   keep   this  lawless  giant's  wandering 

flocks. 
My  sons  indeed,  on  far  declivities. 
Young    things    themselves,   tend    on    the 

youngling  sheep, 
But  I  remain  to  fill  the  water  casks. 
Or  sweeping  the  hard  floor,  or  ministering 
Some  impious  and  abominable  meal 
To  the  fell  Cyclops.     1  am  wearied  of  it ! 
And   now  I   must  scrape  up  the  littered 

floor 
With  this  great  iron  rake,  so  to  receive 
My  absent  master  and  his  evening  sheep 
In  a  cave  neat  and  clean.     Even  now  I 

see 
My  children  tending  the  flocks  hitherward. 
Ha  I  what  is  this  ?  are  your  Sicinnian  mea- 
sures 
Even  now  the  same  as  when  with  dance  and 

song 
You  brought  young  Bacchus  to  Althaea's 
halls  ? 


CHORUS   OF   SATYRS 

8TROPHB 

Where  has  he  of  race  divine 

Wandered  in  the  winding  rocks? 
Here  the  air  is  calm  and  fine 

For  the  father  of  the  flocks; 
Here  the  grass  is  soft  and  sweet, 
And  the  nver-eddies  meet 
In  the  trough  beside  the  cave, 
Bright  as  in  their  fountain  wave. 
Neither  here,  nor  on  the  dew 

Of  the  lawny  uplands  feeding  ? 
Oh,  you  come  I  —  a  stone  at  you 

Will  I  throw  to  mend  your  breeding; 
Get  along,  you  horned  thing, 
Wild,  seditious,  rambling ! 


THE  CYCLOPS 


507 


An  lacchic  melody 

To  the  golden  Aphrodite 
Will  I  lift,  as  erst  did  I 

Seeking  her  and  her  delight 
With  the  Msenads  whose  white  feet 
To  the  music  glance  and  fleet. 
Bacchus,  O  beloved,  where. 
Shaking  wide  tliy  yellow  hair, 
Wanderest  thou  alone,  afar  ? 

To  the  one-eyed  Cyclops,  we, 
Who  by  riglit  thy  servants  are. 

Minister  in  misery. 
In  these  wretched  goat-skins  clad. 

Far  from  thy  delights  and  thee. 

8ILENUS 
Be   silent,    sons;   command  the   slaves   to 

drive 
The  gathered   flocks  into  the  rock-roofed 

cave. 

CHORUS 

Go  !  But  what  needs  this  serious  haste,  O 
father  ? 

SILKNUS 

I  see  a  Grecian  vessel  on  the  coast, 
And  thence  the  rowers  with  some  general 
Approaching  to  this  cave.  About  their  necks 
Hang  empty  vessels,  as  they  wanted  food. 
And  water-flasks.    Oh,  miserable  strangers  ! 
Whence    come   they  that   they  know  not 

what  and  who 
My  master  is,  approaching  in  ill  hour 
The  inhospitable  roof  of  Polypheme, 
And  the  Cyclopian  jaw-bone,  man-destroy- 
ing ? 
Be  silent,  Satyrs,  while  I  ask  and  hear 
Whence  coming   they   arrive  the  Mtne&n 
hill. 

ULYSSES 

Friends,  can  you  show  me  some  clear  water 
spring, 

The  remedy  of  our  thirst  ?     Will  any  one 

Furnish  with  food  seamen  in  want  of  it  ? 

Ha !  what  is  this  ?  We  seem  to  be  ar- 
rived 

At  the  blithe  court  of  Bacchus.   I  observe 

This  sportive  band  of  Satyrs  near  the  caves. 

First  let  me  greet  the  elder.  —  Hail  I 

BILEKUa 

Hail  thou 
O  Stranger  !  tell  thy  country  and  thy  race. 


ULYSSES 

The  Ithacan  Ulysses  and  the  king 
Of  Cephalonia. 

SILENUS 

Oh  !  I  know  the  man, 
Wordy  and  shrewd,  the  son  of  Sisyphus. 

ULYSSES 

I  am  the  same,  but  do  not  rail  upon  me. 

SILENUS 

Whence  sailing  do  you  come  to  Sicily  ? 

ULYSSES 

From  Hion,  and  from  the  Trojan  toils. 

SILENUS 

How  touched  you   not  at  your  paternal 
shore  ? 

ULYSSES 

The  strength  of  tempests  bore  me  here  by 
force. 

SILENUS 

The  self-same  accident  accurred  to  me. 

ULYSSES 

Were  yon  then  driven  here  by  stress  of  wea- 
ther ? 

SILENUS 

Following  the  Pirates  who  had  kidnapped 
Bacchus. 

ULYSSES 

What  land  is  this,  and  who  inhabit  it  ? 

SILENUS 

^tna,  the  loftiest  peak  in  Sicily. 

ULYSSES 

And  are  there  walls,  and  tower-surrounded 
towns  ? 

SILENUS 

There  are  not.     These  lone  rocks  are  bare 
of  men. 

ULYSSES 

And  who  possess  the  land  ?  the  race  of 
beasts? 

SILENUS 

Cyclops,  who  live  in  caverns,  not  in  hottaes. 


So8 


TRANSLATIONS 


ULYSSES 

SILENUS 

Obeying  whom  ?     Or  is  the  state  popular  ? 

Cow's  milk  there  is,  and  store  of  curdled 

cheese. 

8ILEN08 

Shepherds ;  no  one  obeys  any  in  aught. 

ULYSSES 

Bring  out.    I  would  see  all  before  I  bar- 

ULYSSES 

gain. 

How  live  they  ?  do  they  sow  the  corn  of 

Ceres  ? 

SILENUS 

But  how  much  gold  will  you  engage  to  give  ? 

SILENUS 

On  milk  and  cheese,  and  the  flesh  of  sheep. 

ULYSSES 

I  bring  no  gold,  but  Bacchic  juice. 

ULYSSES 

Have  they  the  Bromian  drink  from   the 

SILENUS 

vine's  stream  ? 

Oh,  joy  ! 

'T  is  long  since  these  dry  lips  were   wet 

SILENUS 

with  wine. 

Ah,  no;  they  live  in  an  ungracious  land. 

ULYSSES 

ULYSSES 

Maron,  the  son  of  the  God,  gave  it  me. 

And  are  they  just  to  strangers  ?  hospitable  ? 

SILENUS 

SILENUS 

Whom  I  have  nursed  a  baby  in  my  arms. 

They  think  the  sweetest  thing  a  stranger 

brings 
Is  his  own  flesh. 

ULYSSES 

The  son  of  Bacchus,  for  your  clearer  know- 

ledge. 

ULYSSES 

What  1  do  they  eat  man's  flesh  ? 

SILENUS 

Have  you  it  now  ?  or  is  it  in  the  ship  ? 

SILENUS 

No  one  comes  here  who  is  not  eaten  up. 

ULYSSES 

Old  man,  this  skin  contains  it,  which  you 

ULYSSES 

see. 

The  Cyclops  now  —  where  is  he  ?    Not  at 

home  ? 

SILENUS 

Why  this  would  hardly  be  a  mouthful  for 

SILENUS 

me. 

Absent  on  ^tna,  hunting  with  his  dogs. 

ULYSSES 

ULYSSES 

Nay,  twice  as  much  as  you  can  draw  from 

Know'st  thou  what  thou  must  do  to  aid  us 

thence. 

hence  ? 

SILENUS 

SILENUS 

You  speak  of  a  fair  fountain,  sweet  to  me. 

I  know  not;  we  will  help  you  all  we  can. 

ULYSSES 

ULYSSES 

Would  you  first  taste  of  the  immingled 

Provide  us  food,  of  which  we  are  in  want. 

wine? 

SILENUS 

SILENUS 

Here  ia  not  anything,  as  I  said,  but  meat. 

'Tis  just;  tasting  invites  the  purchaser. 

ULYSSES 

ULYSSES 

Bat  meat  is  a  sweet  remedy  for  hanger. 

Here  is  the  cup,  together  with  the  skin. 

THE  CYCLOPS 


509 


Pour,  that  the  draught  may  fillip  my  re- 
membrance. 


See! 

SILEKUS 

Papaiax  !  what  a  sweet  smell  it  has  ! 

ULYSSES 

You  see  it  then  ?  — 

SILENUS 

By  Jove,  no  !  but  I  smell  it. 

ULYSSES 

Taste,  that  you  may  not  praise  it  in  words 
only. 

SILENUS 

Babai !    Great  Bacchus  calls  me  forth  to 

dance ! 
Joy  !  joy  ! 

ULYSSES 

Did  it  flow  sweetly  down  your  throat  ? 

SILEKUS 

So  that  it  tingled  to  my  very  nails. 

ULYSSES 

And  in  addition  I  will  give  you  gold. 

SILENUS 

Let  gold  alone  !  only  unlock  the  cask. 

ULYSSES 

Bring  out  some  cheeses  now,  or  a  young 
goat. 

SILENUS 

That  will  I  do,  despising  any  master. 
Yes,  let  me  drink  one  cup,  and  I  will  give 
All  that  the  Cyclops  feed  upon  their  moun- 
tains. 


Ye  have  taken  Troy  and  laid  your  hands  on 
Helen  ? 

ULYSSES 

And  utterly  destroyed  the  race  of  Priam. 


SILENUS 

The  wanton  wretch  I  she  was  bewitched  to 

see 
The  many-colored  anklets  and  the  chain 
Of   woven   gold  which   girt   the   neck   of 

Paris, 
And  so  she  left  that  good  man  Menelaus. 
There  should  be  no  more   women  in  the 

world 
But  such  as  are  reserved  for  me  alone. 
See,  here  are  sheep,  and  here  are  goats, 

Ulysses, 
Here    are   unsparing    cheeses   of  pressed 

milk ; 
Take  them ;  depart  with  what  good  speed 

ye  may; 
First  leaving  ray  reward,  the  Bacchic  dew 
Of  joy-inspiring  grapes. 

ULYSSES 

Ah  me  !  Alas  ! 
What  shall  we  do  ?  the  Cyclops  is  at  hand  ! 
Old  man,  we  perish  !  whither  can  we  fly  ? 

SILENUS 

Hide  yourselves  quick  within  that  hollow 
rock. 

ULYSSES 

'T  were  perilous  to  fly  into  the  net. 

SILENUS 

The  cavern  has  recesses  numberless; 
Hide  yourselves  quick. 

ULYSSES 

That  will  I  never  do ! 
The   mighty  Troy  would  be   indeed  dis- 
graced 
If  I  should  fly  one  man.     How  many  times 
Have  I  withstood,  with  shield  immovable. 
Ten  thousand  Phrygians  !  if  I  needs  must 

die, 
Yet  will  I  die  with  glory;  if  I  live. 
The  praise  which  I  have  gained  will  yet 
remain. 

SILENUS 

What,  ho  !  assistance,  comrades,  haste  as- 
sistance ! 

The  Cyclops,  Silenus,  Ulysses  ;  Chorus. 

CYCLOPS 

What  is  this  tumult  ?     Bacchus  is  not  here, 
Nor  tympanies  nor  brazen  castanets. 


5IO 


TRANSLATIONS 


How  are  my  young  lambs  in  the  cavern  ? 

Milking 
Their  dams   or   playing   by   their   sides  ? 

And  is 
The  new  cheese  pressed  into  the  bulrush 

baskets  ? 
Speak  !  I  '11  beat  some  of  you  till  you  rain 

tears. 
Look  up,  not  downwards  when  I  speak  to 

you. 

SIIiENTTS 

See  !  I  now  gape  at  Jupiter  himself; 
I  stare  upon  Orion  and  the  stars. 

CYCLOPS 

Well,  is  the  dinner  fitly  cooked  and  laid  ? 

SILENDS 

All  ready,  if  your  throat  is  ready  too. 

CYCLOPS 

Are  the  bowls  full  of  milk  besides  ? 

SILENU8 

O'erbrimming; 
So  you  may  drink  a  tunful  if  you  will. 


Is  it   ewe's   milk  or  cow's  milk,  or  both 
mixed  ? 

BILENU8 

Both,  either;  only  pray  don't  swallow  me. 


By  no  means.  — 


What  is  this  crowd  I  see  beside  the  stalls  ? 

Outlaws  or  thieves  ?  for  near  my  cavern- 
home, 

I  see  my  young  lambs  coupled  two  by 
two 

With  willow  bands;  mixed  with  my  cheeses 
lie 

Their  implements;  and  this  old  fellow  here 

Has  his  bald  head  broken  with  stripes. 

SILENU8 

Ah  me  ! 
I  have  been  beaten  till  I  burn  with  fever. 

CYCLOPS 

By  whom  ?    Who  laid  his  fist  upon  youv 


head? 


SILENUS 

Those   men,  because   I   would  not  suffer 

them 
To  steal  your  goods. 

CYCLOPS 

Did  not  the  rascals  know 
I  am  a  God,  sprung  from  the  race  of  hea- 
ven ? 

SILENUS 

I   told  them  so,  but   they   bore  off  your 

things. 
And  ate  the  cheese  in  spite  of  all  I  said. 
And   carried   out  the   lambs — and    said, 

moreover. 
They  'd   pin  you  down  with  a  three-cubit 

collar, 
And  pull  your  vitals  out  through  your  one 

eye, 
Torture  your  back  with  stripes,  then  bind- 
ing you 
Throw  you  as  ballast  into  the  ship's  hold. 
And  then  deliver  you,  a  slave,  to  move 
Enormous  rocks,  or  found  a  vestibule. 

CYCLOPS 

In  truth  ?     Nay,  haste,  and  place  in  ordeo" 

quickly 
The   cooking    knives,  and  heap   upon  the 

hearth, 
And  kindle  it,  a  great  faggot  of  wood. 
As  soon  as  they  are  slaughtered,  they  shall 

fill 
My  belly,   broiling    warm    from  the  live 

coals. 
Or  boiled  and  seethed  within  the  bubbling 

caldron. 
I  am  quite  sick  of  the  wild  mountain  game; 
Of  stags  and  lions  I  have  gorged  enough. 
And  I  grow  hungry  for  the  flesh  of  men. 

SILENtrS 

Nay,  master,  something  new  is  very  plea- 
sant 
After  one  thing  forever,  and  of  late 
Very  few  strangers  have  approached  our 
cave. 

ULYSSES 

Hear,  Cyclops,  a  plain  tale  on  the  other 

side. 
We,  wanting  to  buy  food,  came  from  our 

ship 
Into  the  neighborhood   of  your  cave,  and 

here    • 


THE  CYCLOPS 


5" 


This  old  Silenus  gave  us  in  exchange 
These  lambs  for  wine,  the  which  he  took 

and  drank, 
And  all  by  mutual  compact,  without  force. 
There  is  no  word  of  truth  in  what  lie  says. 
For  slyly  he  was  selling  all  your  store. 


I  ?     May  you  perish,  wretch  ■ 


If  I  speak  false  ! 

SILENtrg 

Cyclops,  I  swear  by   Neptune  who  begot 

thee, 
By  mighty  Triton  and  by  Nereus  old. 
Calypso  and  the  glaucous  ocean  nymphs. 
The    sacred    waves    and    all    the  race  of 

fishes  — 
Be    these    the   witnesses,  my  dear    sweet 

master,    . 
My  darling  little  Cyclops,  that  I  never 
Gave    any  of  your  stores  to  these  false 

strangers. 
If  I  speak   false  may  those  whom  most  I 

love, 
My  children,  perish  wretchedly  ! 

CHORUS 

There  stop  ! 
I  saw  him  giving  these  things  to  the  stran- 
gers. 
If  I  speak  false,  then  may  my  father  perish. 
But  do  not  thou  wrong  hospitality. 

CYCLOPS 

You  lie  !     I  swear  that  he  is  juster  far 
Than  Rhadamanthus.     I  trust  more  in  him. 
But  let  me  ask,  whence  have  ye  sailed,  0 

strangers  ? 
Who  are  you  ?     And   what  city  nourished 

ye? 

ULYSSES 

Our  race  is  Ithacan;  having  destroyed 
The  town  of  Troy,  the  tempests  of  the  sea 
Have  driven  us  on  thy  land,  O  Polypheme. 


CYCLOPS 

What,  have  ye  shared  in  the  unenvied  si 
Of    the   false    Helen,    near    Scamand 
stream  ? 

ULYSSES 

The  same,  having  endured  a  woful  toil. 


spoil 


CYCLOPS 

Oh,  basest  expedition  !  sailed  ye  not 
From  Greece  to  Phrygia  for  one  woman's 
sake  ? 


'T  was  the  Gods'  work  —  no  mortal  was  in 

fault. 
But,  O  great  offspring  of  the  Ocean-king, 
We  pray  thee  and  admonish  thee  with  free- 
dom 
That  thou  dost  spare  thy  friends  who  visit 

thee, 
And  place  no  impious  food  within  thy  jaws. 
For  in  the   depths  of   Greece  we  have  up- 
reared 
Temples  to  thy  great  father,  which  are  all 
His  homes.     The  sacred  bay  of  Tfenarus 
Remains  inviolate,  and  each  dim  recess 
Scooped  high  on  the  Malean  promontory, 
And  aery  Sunium's  silver-veined  crag 
Which  divine  Pallas  keeps  unprofaned  ever, 
The  Gerastian  asylums,  and  whate'er 
Within  wide  Greece  our  enterprise  has  kept 
From  Phrygian  contumely;  and  in  which 
You  have  a  common  care,  for  you  inhabit 
The  skirts  of  Grecian  land,  under  the  roots 
Of  iEtna  and  its  crags,  spotted  with  fire. 
Turn  then  to  converse  under  human  laws. 
Receive   us   shipwrecked    suppliants,   and 

provide 
Food,  clothes,  and  fire,  and  hospitable  gifts; 
Nor  fixing  upon  oxen-piercing  spits 
Our  limbs,  so  fill  your  belly  and  your  jaws. 
Priam's   wide   land   has   widowed    Greece 

enough; 
And   weapon-winged  murder  heaped   to- 
gether 
Enough  of  dead,  and  wives  are  husbandless, 
And  ancient  women  and  gray  fathers  wail 
Their  childless  age.     If  you  should  roast 

the  rest  — 
And  't  is  a  bitter  feast  that  yon  prepare  — 
Where   then   would  any   turn  ?     Yet    be 

persuaded ; 
Forego  the  lust  of  your  jaw-bone;  prefer 
Pious  humanity  to  wicked  will. 
Many  have  bought  too  dear  their  evil  joys. 

8ILENC8 

Let  me  advise  you,  do  not  spare  a  morsel 
Of  all   his  flesh.     If   you   should  eat   his 

tongue 
You  would  become  most  eloquent,  O  Cy- 
clops. 


5" 


TRANSLATIONS 


Wealth,  my  good  fellow,  is  the  wise  man's 

God; 
All  other  things  are  a  pretence  and  boast. 
What  are  my  father's  ocean  promontories, 
The  sacred  rocks  whereon  he  dwells,  to  me  ? 
Stranger,  I  laugh  to  scorn  Jove's  thunder- 
bolt, 
I  know  not  that  his  strength  is  more  than 

mine. 
As  to  the  rest  I  care  not.     When  he  pours 
Rain  from  above,  I  have  a  close  pavilion 
Under  this  rock,  in  which  I  lie  supine, 
Feasting  on  a  roast  calf  or  some  wild  beast, 
And  drinking  pans  of  milk,  and  gloriously 
Emulating  the  thunder  of  high  heaven. 
And  when  the  Thracian  wind  pours  down 

the  snow, 
I  wrap  my  body  in  the  skins  of  beasts, 
Kindle  a  fire,  and  bid  the  snow  whirl  on. 
The  earth,  by  force,  whether  it  will  or  no. 
Bringing  forth  grass,  fattens  my  Hocks  and 

herds, 
Which,  to  what  other  God  but  to  myself 
And  this  great  belly,  first  of  deities. 
Should   I   be  bound  to  sacrifice  ?     I  well 

know 
The  wise  man's  only  Jupiter  is  this. 
To  eat  and  drink  during  his  little  day, 
And  give  himself  no  care.     And  as  for  those 
Who  complicate  with  laws  the  life  of  man, 
I  freely  give  them  tears  for  their  reward. 
I  will  not  cheat  my  soul  of  its  delight. 
Or  hesitate  in  dining  upon  you. 
And  that  I  may  be  quit  of  all  demands. 
These  are  my  hospitable  gifts;  —  fierce  fire 
And  yon  ancestral  caldron,  which  o'erbub- 

bling 
Shall  finely  cook  your  miserable  flesh. 
Creep  in  I  — 


Ai !  ai !     I  have  escaped  the  Trojan  toils, 
I  have  escaped  the  sea,  and  now  I  fall 
Under  the  cruel  grasp  of  one  impious  man. 
O  Pallas,  mistress.  Goddess  sprung  from 

Jove, 
Now,  now,  assist  me  !     Mightier  toils  than 

Troy 
Are  these.    I  totter  on  the  chasms  of  peril. 
And  thou  who  inhabitest  the  thrones 
Of  the  bright  stars,  look,  hospitable  Jove, 
Upon  this  outrage  of  thy  deity. 
Otherwise  be  considered  as  no  God  ! 


CHORL'S  (alone) 
For  your  gaping  gulf,  and  your  gullet  wide 
The  ravin  is  ready  on  every  side. 
The  limbs  of  the  strangers  are  cooked  and 
done; 
There   is  boiled  meat,  and  roast  meat, 
and  meat  from  the  coal. 
You  may  chop  it,  and  tear  it,  and  gnash  it 
for  fun. 
An  hairy  goat's-skin  contains  the  whole. 
Let  me  but  escape,  and  ferry  me  o'er 
Tlie  stream  of  your  wrath  to  a  safer  shore. 
The  Cyclops  JEtnean  is  cruel  and  bold. 
He  murders  the  strangers 

That  sit  on  his  hearth. 
And  dreads  no  avengers 
To  rise  from  the  earth. 
He  roasts  the  men  before  they  are  cold, 
He  snatches  them  broiling  from  the  coal. 
And  from  the  caldron  pulls  them  whole. 
And  minces   their  flesh,  and  gnaws   their 

bone 
With  his  cursfed  teeth,  till  all  be  gone. 
Farewell,  foul  pavilion: 

Farewell,  rites  of  dread  ! 
The  Cyclops  vermilion, 

With  slaughter  uncloying, 
Now  feasts  on  tlie  dead. 

In  the  flesh  of  strangers  joying  ! 

ULYSSES 

O  Jupiter  !     I  saw  within  the  cave 
Horrible   things;  deeds   to  be  feigned   in 

words. 
But  not  to  be  believed  as  being  done. 

CHORUS 

What !  sawest  thou  the  impious  Polypheme 
Feasting  upon  your  loved  companions  now  ? 

ULYSSES 

Selecting  two,  the  plumpest  of  the  crowd. 
He  grasped  them  in  his  hands.  — 


CHORUS 


Unhappy  man  I 


Soon  as  we  came  into  this  craggy  place. 
Kindling  a  fire,  he  cast  on  the  broad  hearth 
The  knotty  limbs  of  an  enormous  oak, 
Three  wagon-loads  at  least,  and  then  he 

strewed 
Upon  the  ground,  beside  the  red  firelight, 


THE  CYCLOPS 


5»3 


His  couch  of  pine  leaves;  and  he  milked 

the  cows, 
And,  pouring  forth  the  white  milk,  filled  a 

bowl 
Three  cubits  wide  and  four  in  depth,  as 

much 
As  would  contain  ten  amphorse,  and  bound 

it 
With  ivy  wreaths;  then  placed  upon  the 

fire 
A  brazen  pot  to  boil,  and  made  red  hot 
The  points  of  spits,  not  sharpened  with  the 

sickle. 
But  with  a  fruit  tree  bough,  and  with  the 

jaws 
Of  axes  for  JEfcnean  slaughterings. 
And   when    this    God-abandoned   cook   of 

hell 
Had  made  all  ready,  he  seized  two  of  us 
And   killed  them  in  a  kind  of  measured 

manner; 
For  he  flung  one  against  the  brazen  rivets 
Of  the  huge  caldron,  and  seized  the  other 
By  the  foot's  tendon,  and  knocked  out  his 

brains 
Upon  the  sharp  edge  of  the  craggy  stone ; 
Then  peeled  his  flesh  with  a  great  cooking- 
knife 
And  put  him  down  to  roast.     The  other's 

limbs 
He  chopped  into  the  caldron  to  be  boiled. 
And  I,   with   the   tears   raining  from  my 

eyes. 
Stood    near  the   Cyclops,   ministering    to 

him; 
The  rest,  in  the  recesses  of  the  cave. 
Clung  to  the  rock  like  bats,  bloodless  with 

fear. 
When  he  was  filled  with  my  companions' 

flesh. 
He   threw  himself   upon  the   ground  and 

sent 
A  loathsome  exhalation  from  his  maw. 
Then   a   divine   thought   came   to   me.     I 

filled 
The  cup  of  Maron,  and  I  offered  him 
To  taste,  and  said:  —  '  Child  of  the  Ocean 

God, 
Behold  what  drink  the  vines  of  Greece  pro- 
duce. 
The  exultation  and  the  joy  of  Bacchus.' 
He,  satiated  with  his  unnatural  food, 
Received  it,  and  at  one  draught  drank  it  off, 
And,  taking  my  hand,  praised  me:  — '  Thou 

hast  given 


A  sweet  draught  after  a  sweet  meal,  dear 

guest.' 
And  I  perceiving  that  it  pleased  him,  filled 
Another  cup,  well  knowing  that  the  wine 
Would  wound  him  soon  and  take  a  sure 

revenge. 
And  the  charm  fascinated  him,  and  I 
Plied  him  cup  after  cup,  until  the  drink 
Had  warmed  his  entrails,  and  he  sang  aloud 
In  concert  with  my  wailing  fellow-seamen 
A  hideous  discord  —  and  the  cavern  rung. 
I  have  stolen  out,  so  that  if  you  will 
You  may  achieve  my  safety  and  your  own. 
But  say,  do  you  desire,  or  not,  to  fly 
This  uncompanionable  man,  and  dwell 
As   was   your   wont   among    the    Grecian 

Nymphs 
Within  the  fanes  of  your  beloved  God  ? 
Your  father  there  within  agrees  to  it. 
But  he  is  weak  and  overcome  with  wine, 
And,  caught  as  if  with  bird-lime  by  the 

cup. 
He  claps  his  wings  and  crows  in  doting  joy. 
You  who  are  young,  escape  with  me,  and  tind 
Bacchus  your  ancient  friend;  unsuited  he 
To  this  rude  Cyclops. 

CHORUS 

Oh,  my  dearest  friend, 
That  I  could  see  that  day,  and  leave  for- 
ever 
The  impious  Cyclops. 


tJLYSSES 

Listen  then  what  a  punishment  I  have 
For  this  fell  monster,  how  secure  a  flight 
From  your  hard  servitude. 


Oh,  sweeter  far 
Than  is  the  music  of  an  Asian  lyre 
Would   be   the   news   of    Polypheme    de- 
stroyed. 


Delighted  with  the  Bacchic  drink  he  goes 
To  call  his  brother  Cyclops,  who  inhabit 
A  village  upon  ^tna  not  far  off. 

CHORUS 

I  understand,  catching  him  when  alone 
You   think  by  some  measure   to  dispatch 

him. 
Or  thrust  him  from  the  precipice. 


SH 


TRANSLATIONS 


ULYSSES 

Oh,  no; 
Nothing  of  that  kind;  my  device  is  subtle. 

CHORUS 

How  then  ?     I  heard  of  old  that  thou  wert 
wise. 

ULYSSES 

I  will  dissuade  him  from  this  plan,  by  say- 
ing 
It  were  unwise  to  give  the  Cyclopses 
This  precious  drink,  which  if  enjoyed  alone 
Would   make   life   sweeter  for  a    longer 

time. 
When,  vanquished  by  the  Bacchic  power, 

he  sleeps, 
There  is  a  trunk  of  olive  wood  within. 
Whose  point  having  made  sharp  with  this 

good  sword 
I  will  conceal  in  fire,  and  "when  I  see 
It  is  aliglit,  will  fix  it,  burning  yet, 
Within  the  socket  of  the  Cyclops'  eye 
And  melt  it  out  with  fire;  as  when  a  man 
Turns  by  its  handle  a  great  auger  round, 
Fitting  the  framework  of  a  ship  with  beams, 
So  will  I  in  the  Cyclops'  fiery  eye 
Turn  round  the  brand  and  dry  the  pupil 
up. 

CHORUS 

Joy !     I  am  mad  with  joy  at  your  device. 

ULYSSES 

And  then  with  you,  my  friends,  and  the 

old  man, 
We  '11  load  the  hollow  depth  of  our  black 

ship, 
And   row  with  double   strokes  from   this 

dread  shore. 

CHORUS 

May  I,  as  in  libations  to  a  God, 

Share   in  the   blinding  him  with  the  red 

brand  ? 
I   would    have    some    communion   in  his 

death. 

ULYSSES 

Doubtless;  the  brand  is  a  great  brand  to 
hold. 

CHORUS 

Oh  I  I  would  lift  an  hundred  wagon-loads, 
If  like  a  wasp's  nest  I  could  scoop  the  eye 

out 
Of  the  detested  Cyclops. 


ULYSSES 

Silence  now  ! 
Ye  know  the  close  device;  and  when  I  call, 
Look  ye  obey  the  masters  of  the  craft. 
I  will  not  save  myself  and  leave  behind 
My  comrades  in  the  cave ;  I  might  escape^ 
Having  got  clear  from  that  obscure  recess, 
But  't  were  unjust  to  leave  in  jeopardy 
The  dear  companions  who  sailed  here  with 


CHORUS 

Come  !  who  is  first,  that  with  his  hand 
Will  urge  down  the  burning  brand 
Through  the  lids,  and  quench  and  iiierce 
The  Cyclops'  eye  so  fiery  fierce  ? 

SEMICHORUS  I 

(Song  within) 
Listen  !  listen  !  he  is  coming, 
A  most  hideous  discord  humming. 
Drunken,  museless,  awkward,  yelling, 
Far  along  his  rocky  dwelling; 
Let  us  with  some  comic  spell 
Teach  the  yet  unteachable. 
By  all  means  he  must  be  blinded, 
If  my  counsel  be  but  minded. 

SEMICHORUS  n 

Happy  those  made  odorous 

With   the   dew   which  sweet    grapes 
weep, 
To  the  village  hastening  tnus, 

Seek  the  vines  that  soothe  to  sleep, 
Having  first  embraced  thy  friend, 
There  in  luxury  witliout  end, 
Witli  the  strings  of  yellow  hair, 
Of  thy  voluptuous  leman  fair, 
Shalt  sit  playing  on  a  bed  !  — 
Speak  what  door  is  opened  ? 


Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  I  'm  full  of  wine, 

Heavy  with  the  joy  divine. 

With  the  young  feast  oversated ; 

Like  a  merchant's  vessel  freiglited 

To  the  water's  edge,  my  crop 

Is  laden  to  the  gidlet's  top. 

The  fresh  meadow  grass  of  spring 

Tempts  me  forth  thus  wandering 
To  my  brothers  on  the  mountains, 
Who   shall    share    the    wine's    sweet 
fountains. 

Bring  the  cask,  0  stranger,  bring ! 


THE   CYCLOPS 


515 


CHORUS 

One  with  eyes  the  fairest 

Cometh  from  his  dwelling; 
Some  one  loves  thee,  rarest, 

Bright  beyond  my  telling. 
In  thy  grace  thou  shinest 
Like  some  nymph  divinest, 
In  her  caverns  dewy; 
All  delights  pursue  thee, 
Soon  pied  flowers,  sweet-breathing. 
Shall  thy  head  be  wreathing. 

ULYSSES 

Listen,  O  Cyclops,  for  I  am  well  skilled 
la  Bacchus,  whom  I  gave  thee  of  to  drink. 

CYCLOPS 

Wliut  sort  of  God  is   Bacchus   then  ac- 
counted ? 

ULYSSES 

Tht*  greatest  among  men  for  joy  of  life. 

CYCLOPS 

I  gulped  him  down  with  very  great  delight. 

ULYSSES 

This  is  a  God  who  never  injures  men. 

CYCLOPS 

How  does  the  God  like  living  in  a  skin  ? 

ULYSSES 

He  is  content  wherever  he  is  put. 

CYCLOPS 

Gods  should  not  have  their  body  in  a  skin. 

ULYSSES 

If  he  gives  joy,  what  is  his  skin  to  you  ? 

CYCLOPS 

I  hate  the  skin,  but  love  the  wine  within. 

ULYSSES 

Stay  here,  now  drink,  and  make  your  spirit 
glad. 

CYCLOPS 

Should  I   not  share   this  liquor  with  my 
brothers  ? 

ULYSSES 

Keep  it  yourself,  and  be  more  honored  so. 

CYCLOPS 

I  were  more  useful,  giving  to  my  friends. 


ULYSSES 

But  village  mirth  breeds  contests,  broils, 
and  blows. 

CYCLOPS 

When  I  am  drunk  none  shall  lay  bands  on 
me. 

ULYSSES 

A  drunken  man  is  better  within  doors. 

CYCLOPS 

He  is  a  fool,  who,  drinking,  loves  not  mirth. 

ULYSSES 

But  he  is  wise,  who  drunk  remains  at  home. 

CYCLOPS 

What  shall  I  do,  Silenus  ?     Shall  I  stay  ? 

SILENUS 

Stay  —  for   what   need  have  you  of  pot 
companions  ? 

CYCLOPS 

Indeed  this  place  is  closely  carpeted 
With  flowers. and  grass. 

SILENUS 

And  in  the  sun- warm  noon 
'T  is  sweet  to  drink.     Lie  down  beside  m^ 

now, 
Placing  your  mighty  sides  upon  the  ground. 

CYCLOPS 

What  do  you  put  the  cup  behind  me  for  ? 

SU^NUS 

That  no  one  here  may  touch  it. 

CYCLOPS 

Thievish  one  ! 
You  want  to  drink.     Here  place  it  in  the 

midst. 
And  thou,  O  stranger,  tell  how  art  thou 

called  ? 

ULYSSES 

My  name  is  Nobody.     What  favor  now 
Shall  I  receive  to  praise  you  at  your  hands  ? 

CYCLOPS 

I  '11  feast  on  you  the  last  of  your  compan- 
ions. 

ULYSSES 

You  grant  your  guest  a  fair  reward,  O  Cy- 
clops. 


5x6 


TRANSLATIONS 


CYCLOPS 

Ha !  what  is  this  ?     Stealing  the  wine,  you 
rogue  1 

BILENITS 

It  was  this  stranger  kissing  me  because 
I  looked  so  beautiful. 

CYCLOPS 

You  shall  repent 
For  kissing  the  coy  wine  that  loves  you  not. 

SILENUS 

By  Jupiter  !  you  said  that  I  am  fair. 

CYCLOPS 

Pour  out,  and  only  give  me  the  cup  full. 

8ILENDS 

How  is  it  mixed  ?  let  me  observe. 


CYCLOPS 


Give  it  me  so. 


Curse  you  ! 


Not  till  I  see  you  wear 
That  coronal,  and  taste  the  cup  to  you. 

CYCLOPS 

Thou  wily  traitor ! 

SILENUS 

But  the  wine  is  sweet. 
Ay,  you   will  roar  if  you  are  caught  iu 
drinking. 

CYCLOPS 

See  now,  my  lip  is  clean  and  all  my  beard. 

BILENTTS 

Now  put  your  elbow  right  and  drink  again. 
As  you  see  me  drink  —  ... 

CYCLOPS 

How  now  ? 

SILKNUS 

Ye  Gods,  what  a  delicious  gulp  I 

CYCLOPS 

Gaest,  take  it.     You  pour  out  the  wine  for 
uie. 

ULYSSES 

The  wine  is  well  accustomed  to  my  hand. 


CYCLOPS 

Pour  out  the  wine  ! 

ULYSSES 

I  pour;  only  be  silent 

CYCLOPS 

Silence  is  a  hard  task  to  him  who  drinks. 


Take  it  and  drink  it  off;  leave  not  a  dreg. 
Oh,  that  the   drinker  died   with  his  own 
draught ! 

CYCLOPS 

Papai !  the  vine  must  be  a  sapient  plant. 

ULYSSES 

If  you  drink  much  after  a  mighty  feast. 
Moistening  your  thirsty  maw,  you  will  sleep 

well; 
If  you  leave  aught,  Bacchus  will  dry  you 

up. 

CYCLOPS 

Ho  !  ho  !     I  can  scarce  rise.     What  pure 

delight  ! 
The   heavens  and  earth  appear  to  whirl 

about 
Confusedly.     I  see  the  throne  of  Jove 
And  the  clear  congregation  of  the  Gods. 
Now  if  the  Graces  tempted  me  to  kiss 
I  would  not,  for  the  loveliest  of  them  all 
I  would  not  leave  this  Ganymede. 


Polypheme, 
I  am  the  Ganymede  of  Jupiter. 

CYCLOPS 

By  Jove  you  are;  I  bore  you  off  from  Dar- 
danus. 


Ulysses  and  the  Chorus 

ULYSSES 

Come,  boys  of  Bacchus,  children  of  high 

race. 
This  man  within  is  folded  up  in  sleep, 
And  soon  will  vomit  flesh  from  his  fell  maw; 
The   brand  under  the  shed  thrusts  out  its 

smoke; 
No  preparation  needs,  but  to  burn  out 
The  monster's  eye;  —  but  bear  yourselves 

like  men. 


THE  CYCLOPS 


517 


CHOKUS 

We  will  have  courage   like  the  adamant 

rock. 
All  things  are  ready  for  you  here ;  go  in 
Before  our  father  shall  perceive  the  noise. 

ULYSSES 

Vulcan,  ^tnean  king  !  burn  out  with  fire 
The  shining   eye  of   this  thy  neighboring 

monster  ! 
And   thou,  O   sleep,  nursling   of  gloomy 

night, 
Descend  unmixed  on  this  God-hated  beast, 
And  suffer  not  Ulysses  and  his  comrades. 
Returning  from  their  famous  Trojan  toils, 
To  perish  by  this  man,  who  cares  not  either 
For    God    or    mortal;    or   I   needs   must 

think 
That  Chance  is  a  supreme  divinity, 
And  things  divine  are  subject  to  her  power. 

CHORUS 

Soon  a  crab  the  throat  will  seize 

Of  him  who  feeds  upon  his  guest; 
Fire  will  burn  his  lamp-like  eyes 

In  revenge  of  such  a  feast  ! 
A  great  oak  stump  now  is  lying 
In  the  ashes  yet  undying. 

Come,  Maron,  come  ! 
Raging  let  him  fix  tlie  doom. 
Let  him  tear  the  eyelid  up 
Of  the  Cyclops  —  that  his  cup 

May  be  evil ! 
Oh,  I  long  to  dance  and  revel 
With  sweet  Bromian,  long  desired, 
In  loved  ivy  wreaths  attired; 
Leaving  this  abandoned  home  — 
Will  the  moment  ever  come  ? 

UliTSSES 

Be  silent,  ye  wild  things  !  Nay,  hold  your 
peace. 

And  keep  your  lips  quite  close;  dare  not  to 
breathe. 

Or  spit,  or  e'en  wink,  lest  ye  wake  the  mon- 
ster, — 

Until  his  eye  be  tortured  out  with  fire. 

CHORUS 

Nay,  we  are  silent,  and  we  chaw  the  air. 

ULYSSES 

Come  now,  and  lend  a  hand  to  the  srreat 

stake 
Within  —  it  is  delightfully  red  hot. 


CHORUS 

You  then  command  who  first  should  seize 

the  stake 
To  burn  the  Cyclops'  eye,  that  all  may  share 
In  the  great  enterprise. 

SEMICHOBUS  I 

We  are  too  far; 
We  cannot  at  this  distance  from  the  door 
Thrust  fire  into  his  eye. 

SEftUCHORUS  n 

And  we  just  now 
Have  become  lame;  cannot  move  hand  oz 
foot. 

CHORUS 

The   same   thing  has  occurred  to  us;  our 

ankles 
Are  sprained  with  standing  here,  I  know 

not  how. 

ULYSSES 

What,  sprained  with  standing  still  ? 

CHORUS 

And  there  is  dust 
Or  ashes  in  oar  eyes,  I  know  not  whence. 

ULYSSES 

Cowardly  dogs  !  ye  will  not  aid  me  then  ? 

CHORUS 

With  pitying  my  own  back  and  my  back- 
bone. 
And  with  not  wishing  all  my  teeth  knocked 

out. 
This  cowardice  comes  of  itself.     But  stay, 
I  know  a  famous  Orphic  incantation 
To  make  tlie  brand  stick  of  its  own  accord 
Into  the  skull  of  this  one-eyed  son  of  Earth. 

ULYSSES 

Of  old  I  knew  ye  thus  by  nature;  now 

I  know  ye  better.     I  will  use  the  aid 

Of  my  own  comrades.     Yet  though  weak 

of  hand 
Speak  cheerfully,  that  so  ye  may  awaken 
The  courage  of  my  friends  with  your  blithe 

words. 


This  I  will  do  with  peril  of  my  life, 
And  blind  you  with  my  exhortations,  Cy 
clops. 

Hasten  and  thrust, 

And  parch  up  to  dust, 


Si8 


TRANSLATIONS 


The  eye  of  the  beast, 

CYCLOPS 

Who  feeds  on  his  guest ! 
Buru  aud  blind 

You  jeer  me;  where,  I  ask,  is  Nobody  ? 

The  ^tnean  hind  1 

CHORUS 

Scoop  and  draw, 

Nowhere,  0  Cyclops. 

But  beware  lest  he  claw 

Your  limbs  near  his  maw. 

CYCLOPS 

It    was    that    stranger  ruined  me.    The 

CYCLOPS 

wretch 

Ah  me  !   my  eyesight  is  parched  up  to  cin- 

First gave  me  wine  and  then  burned  out 

ders. 

my  eye, 

CHOKUS 

For  wine  is  strong  and  hard  to  struggle 

What  a  sweet  paean  !  sing  me  that  again  ! 

with. 
Have  they  escaped,  or  are  they  yet  within  ? 

CYCLOPS 

CHORUS 

Ah  me  I   indeed,  what  woe  has  fallen  upon 

They  stand  under  the  darkness  of  the  rock 

me  ! 
But  wretched  nothings,  think  ye  not  to  flee 

And  cling  to  it. 

Out  of  this  rock;  I,  standing  at  the  outlet. 

CYCLOPS 

Will  bar  the  way  and  catch  you  as  you  pass. 

At  my  right  hand  or  left  ? 

CHORUS 

CHORUS 

What  are  you  roaring  out,  Cyclops  ? 

Close  on  your  right. 

CYCLOPS 

CYCLOPS 

I  perish  ! 

Where  ? 

CHORUS 

CHORUS 

For  you  are  wicked. 

Near  the  rock  itself. 

CYCLOPS 

You  have  them. 

And  besides  miserable. 

CYCLOPS 

CHORUS 

Oh,  misfortune  on  misfortune  ! 

What,  did  you  fall  into  the  fire  when  drunk  ? 

I  've  cracked  my  skull. 

CHORUS 

CYCLOPS 

'T  was  Nobody  destroyed  me. 

Now  they  escape  you  there. 

CYCLOPS 

CHORUS 

Why,  then  no  one 

Not  there,  although  you  say  so. 

Can  be  to  blame. 

CHORUS 

CYCLOPS 

Not  on  that  side. 

I  say  't  was  Nobody 

CYCLOPS 

Who  blinded  me. 

Where  then  ? 

CHORUS 

CHORUS 

Why,  then  you  are  not  blind. 

They  creep  about  you  on  your  left. 

CYCLOPS 

CYCLOPS 

I  wish  you  were  as  blind  as  I  am. 

Ah  !  I  am  mocked  1     They  jeer  me  in  my 

CHORUS 

ills. 

Nay, 

CHORUS 

It  cannot  be  that  no  one  made  you  blind. 

Not  there  !  he  is  a  little  there  beyond  yoa 

EPIGRAMS   FROM  THE  GREEK 


519 


CYCLOPS 

Detested  wretch  I  where  are  you  ? 

ULYSSES 

Far  from  you 
I  keep  with  care  this  body  of  Ulysses. 

CYCLOPS 

What  do  you  say  ?  You  profifer  a  new 
name. 

XTLYSSES 

My  father  named  me  so;  and  I  have  taken 

A  full  revenge  for  your  unnatural  feast; 

I  should  have  done  ill  to  have  burned  down 
Troy 

And  not  revenged  the  murder  of  my  com- 
rades. 


Ai !  ai  !  the  ancient  oracle  is  accomplished ; 
It   said   that   I   should  have  my  eyesight 

blinded 
By  you  coming  from  Ti-oy,  yet  it  foretold 
That  you  should  pay  the  penalty  for  this 
By  wandering  long  over  the  homeless  sea. 


I  bid  thee  weep  —  consider  what  I  say; 
I  go  towards  the  shore  to  drive  my  ship 
To  mine  own  land,  o'er  the  Sicilian  wave. 

CYCLOPS 

Not  so,  if,  whelming   you   with  this   huge 

stone, 
I  can  crush  you  and  all  your  men  together. 
I  will   descend   upon   the    shore,    though 

blind. 
Groping  my  way  adown  the  steep  ravine. 


And  we,  the  shipmates  of  Ulysses  now, 
Will   serve   our    Bacchus   all   our    happy 
lives. 


EPIGRAMS  FROM  THE  GREEK 

I 

SPIRIT   OF   PLATO 

Eagle  !     wiiy    soarest    thou    above    that 

tomb  ? 
To  what  sublime  and  star-y-paven  home 
Floatest  thou  ?  — 


I  am  the  image  of  swift  Plato's  spirit, 
Ascending  heaven;  Athens  dotli  inherit 
His  corpse  below. 
Undated.    Mrs.  Shelley,  1839,  Ist  ed. 


II 


CIRCUMSTANCE 

A  MAN  who  was  about  to  hang  himself, 
Finding  a  purse,  then  threw  away   his 
rope; 
The  owner,  coming  to  reclaim  his  pelf, 
The   halter  foimd,  and  used   it.     So  is 
Hope 
Changed   for  Despair;  one  laid  upon  the 
shelf, 
We  take    the    other.     Under    heaven's 
high  cope 
Fortune  is  God;  all  you  endure  and  do 
Depends  on  circumstance  as  much  as  you. 
Undated.    Mrs.  Shelley,  1839,  1st  ed. 


Ill 


TO   STELLA 

FROM   PLATO 

Medwin  describes  the  composition  of  this 
stanza :  '  Plato's  epigram  on  Aster,  -which 
Shelley  had  applied  to  Keats,  happened  to  be 
mentioned,  and  I  asked  Shelley  if  he  could 
render  it.  He  took  up  the  pen  and  impro- 
vised.' 

It  was  published  by  Mrs.  Shelley  in  her  first 
collected  edition,  1839,  as  was  also  the  follow- 


Thou  wcrt  the  morning  star  among  the 
living, 
Ere  thy  fair  light  had  fled; 
Now,  having  died,  thou  art  as  Hesperus, 
giving 
New  splendor  to  the  dead. 


IV 


KISSING   HELENA 

FROM   PLATO 

Kissing  Helena,  together 

With  my  kiss,  my  soul  beside  it 

Came  to  my  lips,  and  there  I  kept  it,  ■ 


520 


TRANSLATIONS 


For  the  poor  thing  bad  wandered  thither, 
To  follow  where  the  kiss  should  guide  it, 
Oh,  cruel  I,  to  intercept  it ! 


FROM   MOSCHUS 


Thy  SXa  tw  yXavKuv  Urav  Sivtfjuos  arpeixa  $dWy 

When  winds  that  move  not  its  calm  sur- 
face sweep 

The  azure  sea,  I  love  the  land  no  more; 

The  smiles  of  the  serene  and  ti-anquil  deep 

Tempt  my  unquiet  mind.  But  when  the 
roar 

Of  ocean's  gray  abyss  resounds,  and  foam 

Gathers  upon  the  sea,  and  vast  waves  burst, 

I  turn  from  the  drear  aspect  to  the  home 

Of  earth  and  its  deep  woods,  where,  inter- 
spersed. 

When  winds  blow  loud,  pines  make  sweet 
melody. 

Whose  house  is  some  lone  bark,  whose  toil 
the  sea. 

Whose  prey  the  wandering  fish,  an  evil 
lot 

Has  chosen.  But  I  my  languid  limbs  will 
fling 

Beneath  the  plane,  where  the  brook's  mur- 
muring 

Moves  the  calm  spirit,  but  disturbs  it 
not. 

Undated.    Published  with  Alastor,  1816. 


II 

PAN,   ECHO,   AND   THE   SATYR 

Pan  loved   his   neighbor  Echo,  but  that 
child 
Of  Earth  and  Air  pined  for  the  Satyr 
leaping; 
The   Satyr  loved   with   wasting    madness 
wild 
The  bright  nymph  Lyda;  and  so  three 
went  weeping. 
As  Pan  loved  Echo,  Echo  loved  the  Satyr, 
The  Satyr,  Lyda;  and  so  love  consumed 
them. 
And  thus  to  each  —  which  was   a  woful 
matter  — 
To    bear    wliat    they    inflicted    Justice 
doomed  them: 


For,   inasmuch  as    each  might   hate    the 
lover. 
Each,  loving,  so  was  hated.  —  Ye  that 
love  not 
Be  warned  —  in  thought  turn  this  example 
over. 
That  when  ye  love,  the  like  return  ye 
prove  not. 

Undated.     Published  by  Mrs.  Shelley,  Post- 
humous Poems,  1824. 


m 


FRAGMENT  OF  THE  ELEGY  ON 
THE  DEATH  OF  BION 

Ye    Dorian    woods     and    waves     lament 
aloud, — 

Augment  your  tide,  0  streams,  with  fruit- 
less tears, 

For  the  beloved  Bion  is  no  more. 

Let  every  tender  herb  and  plant  and  flower, 

From    each    dejected   bud    and   drooping 
bloom, 

Shed    dews   of    liquid    sorrow,   and   with 
breath 

Of  melancholy  sweetness  on  the  wind 

Diffuse  its  languid  love;  let  roses  blush. 

Anemones  grow  paler  for  the  loss 

Their  dells  have  known;  and  thou,  O  hya- 
cinth, 

Utter  thy  legend  now  —  yet  more,  dumb 
flower. 

Than  '  ah  !  alas  ! '  —  thine   is  no  common 
grief  — 

Bion  the  [sweetest  singer]  is  no  more. 
Undated.    Published  by  Fonnan,  1876. 


FROM    BION 

FRAGMENT   OF   THE   ELEGY    ON   THE 
DEATH   OF   ADONIS 

I  MOURN  Adonis  dead  —  loveliest  Adonis  — 

Dead,  dead  Adonis  —  and  the  Loves  la- 
ment. 

Sleep  no  more,  Venus,  wrapped  in  purple 
woof. 

Wake,  violet-stolid  queen,  and  weave  the 
crown 

Of  Death  —  't  is  Misery  calls  —  for  he  is 
dead  ! 


THE  TENTH   ECLOGUE 


521 


The  lovely  one  lies  wounded  in  the 
mountains, 

His  white  thigh  struck  with  the  white 
tooth;  ho  scarce 

Yet  breathes;  and  Venus  hangs  in  agony- 
there. 

The  dark  blood  wanders  o'er  his  snowy 
limbs, 

His  eyes  beneath  their  lids  are  lustreless,- 

The  rose  has  fled  from  his  wan  lips,  and 
there 

That  kiss  is  dead,  which  Venus  gathers 
yet. 

A  deep,  deep  wound  Adonis  ... 
A  deeper  Venus  bears  upon  her  heart. 
See,  his  belovfed  dogs  are  gathering  round  — 
The  Oread  nymphs  are  weeping.  Aphrodite 
With  hair  unbound  is  wandering  through 

the  woods, 
Wildered,  ungirt,  unsandalled  —  the  thorns 

pierce 
Her  hastening  feet  and  drink  her  sacred 

blood. 
Bitterly  screaming  out  she  is  driven  on 
Through  the  long  vales;  and  her  Assyrian 

boy. 
Her  love,  her  husband  calls.     The  purple 

blood 
From  his   struck  thigh   stains   her  white 

navel  now, 
Her    bosom,  and    her   neck    before    like 


Alas  for  Cytherea  !  the  Loves  mourn  — 
The  lovely,  the  beloved  is  gone  !  —  And 

now 
Her  sacred  beauty  vanishes  away. 
For  Venus  whilst  Adonis  lived  was  fair  — 
Alas  !  her  loveliness  is  dead  with  him. 
The   oaks   and    mountains   cry,    Ai !    ai ! 

Adonis  ! 
The  springs  their  waters  change  to  tears 

and  weep  — 
The  flowers  are  withered  up  with  grief  .  .  . 

Ai !  ai !  Adonis  is  dead 

Echo  resounds  Adonis  dead. 

Who  will  weep  not  thy  dreadful  woe,  O 

Venus  ? 
Soon  as  she   saw  and  knew  the  mortal 

wound 
Of  her  Adonis  —  saw  the  life  blood  flow 
From  his  fair  thigh,  now  wasting,  wailing 

loud 


She   clasped    him,   and   cried  'Stay 

Adonis  ! 
Stay,  dearest  one,  — 

and  mix  my  lips  with  thine  ! 
Wake  yet  a  while  Adonis  —  oh,  but  once  ! 
That   I   may  kiss  thee  now  for  the   last 

time  — 
But  for  as  long  as  one  short  kiss  may  live  ! 
Oh,  let  thy  breath  flow  from  thy  dying  soul 
Even  to  my  mouth  and  heart,  that  1  may 

suck 
That 
Undated.    Published  by  Forman,  1876. 


FROM  VIRGIL 

THE   TENTH   ECLOGUE 
[V.  1-26] 

Melodious  Arethusa,  o'er  my  verse 

Shed  thou  once  more  the  spirit  of  thy 
stream. 
Who  denies  verse   to  Gallus  ?     So,  when 
thou 
Glidest  beneath  the   green  and  purple 
gleam 
Of  Syracusan  waters,  mayst  thou  flow 

Uumingled  with  the  bitter  Doric  dew  ! 
Begin,  and,  whilst  the  goats  are  browsing 
now 
The  soft  leaves,  in  our  way  let  us  pursue 
The  melancholy  loves  of  Gallus.     List  ! 
We  sing  not  to  the  dead;  the  wild  woods 
knew 
His  sufferings,  and  their  echoes  .  .  . 

Young   Naiads,         in   what    far   wood- 
lands wild 
Wandered   ye   when  unworthy  love  pos- 
sessed 
Your  Gallus  ?     Not  where  Pindus  is  up- 
piled, 
Nor  where  Parnassus'  sacred  mount,  nor 

where 
Aonian  Aganippe  expands 

The  laurels  and  the  myrtle-copses  dim. 
The  pine-encircled  mountain,  Msenalus, 
The  cold  crags  of  LycsBus,  weep  for  him; 
And   Sylvan,  crowned  with   rustic  cor- 
onals. 
Came  shaking  in  his   speed  the  budding 

wands 
And  heavy  lilies  which  he  bore ;  we  knew 
Pan  the  Arcadian. 


S2« 


TRANSLATIONS 


What    madness    is    this,    Gallus  ?      Thy 

heart's  care 
With  willing  steps  pursues  another  there. 
Undated.    Published  by  Rossetti,  1870. 


FROM  DANTE 


ADAPTED   FROM   A   SONNET   IN   THE  VITA 
NUOVA 

Forman  who  published  the  lines,  1876, 
vouches  for  them  thus  :  '  These  lines  .  .  .  are 
said  to  have  been  scratched  by  Shelley  on  a 
■window-pane  at  a  house  wherein  he  lodged 
while  staying  in  London.  I  have  them  on  the 
authority  of  a  gentleman  whose  mother  was 
the  proprietress  of  the  house.' 

What  Mary  is  when  she  a  little  smiles 
1  cannot  even  tell  or  call  to  mind, 
It  is  a  miracle  so  new,  so  rare. 


II 

SONNET 

DANTE  ALIGHIERI  tO  GUIDO  CAVALCANTI 

GuiDO,  I  would  that  Lappo,  thou,  and  I, 
Led  by  some  strong  enchantment,  might 

ascend 
A  magic  ship,  whose  charmed  sails  should 

fly 

With  winds  at  will  where'er  our  thoughts 

might  wend, 
So  that  no  change,  nor  any  evil  chance 
Should   mar   our    joyous   voyage,   but    it 

might  be 
That  even  satiety  should  still  enhance 
Between  our  hearts  their  strict  community; 
And  that  the  bounteous  wizard  then  would 

place 
Vanna  and  Bice  and  my  gentle  love. 
Companions  of  our  wandering,  and  would 

grace 
With  passionate  talk  wherever  we  might 

rove 
Our  time,  and  each  were  as  content  and 

free 
As  I  believe  that  thou  and  I  should  be. 
Undated.     Published  with  Alastor,  1816. 


Ill 


THE  FIRST  CANZONE  OF  THE 
CONVITO 


Ye  who  intelligent  the  Third  Heaven  move, 
Hear   the   discourse   which   is  within  my 

heart, 
Which  cannot  be  declared,  it  seems  so 

new. 
The   Heaven   whose  course   follows  your 

power  and  art. 

0  gentle  creatures  that  ye  are  !  me  drew, 
And  therefore  may  I  dare  to  speak  to 

you, 
Even  of  the  life  which  now  I  live,  —  and 
yet 

1  pray  that  ye  will  hear  me  when  I  cry. 
And  tell  of  mine  own  Heart  this  novelty; 

How  the  lamenting  Spirit  moans  in  it, 
And  how  a  voice  there  murmurs  against  her 
Who  came   on    the    refulgence   of    your 
sphere. 


A  sweet  Thought,  which  was  once  the  life 
within 
This  heavy  Heart,  many  a  time  and  oft 
Went  up  before  our  Father's  feet,  and 
there 
It  saw  a  glorious  Lady  throned  aloft; 
And  its  sweet  talk  of  her  my  soul  did  wia, 
So  that  I  said, '  Thither  I  too  will  fare.' 
That  Thought  is  fled,  and  one  doth 
now  appear 
Which  tyrannizes  me  with  such  fierce  stress 
That  my  heart  trembles  —  ye  may  see  it 

leap  — 
And  on  another  Lady  bids  me  keep 
Mine  eyes,  and  says:    '  Who  would  have 

blessedness 
Let  him  but  look  upon  that  Lady's  eyes; 
Let  him  not  fear  the  agony  of  sighs.' 


This  lowly  Thought,  which  once  would  talk 

with  me 
Of  a  bright  Seraph  sitting  crowned  on  high, 
Found  such  a  cruel  foe  it  died ;  iind  so 
My  Spirit  wept  —  the  grief  is  hot  even 
now  — 
And  said,  '  Alas  for  me  !  now  swift  could 
flee 


MATILDA  GATHERING   FLOWERS 


523 


That  piteous  Thought  which  did  my  life 
console  ! ' 
And  the  afflicted  one  question- 

ing 
Mine  eyes,  if  such  a  Lady  saw  they 
never, 
And  why  they  would  .  .  . 

I   said;    'Beneath   those   eyes   might 
stand  forever 
He  whom  regards  must  kill  with  .  .  . 

To  have  known  their  power  stood  me  in 

little  stead; 
Those  eyes  have  looked  on  me,  and  I  am 
dead.' 


'Thou  art  not  dead,  but  thou  hast  wan- 
dered, 
Thou    Soul   of   ours,   who   thyself    dost 
fret,' 

A  Spirit  gentle  Love  beside  me  said: 

'  For  that  fair  Lady,  whom  thou  dost  re- 
gret. 

Hath  so  transformed  the  life  which  thou 
hast  led. 

Thou   scornest   it,   so   worthless   art   thou 
made. 

And  see  how  meek,  how  pitiful,  how  staid, 

Yet  courteous,  in  her  majesty  she  is. 

And  still  call  thou  her  "  Woman"  in  thy 

thought; 
Her  whom,  if  thou  thyself  deceivest  not. 

Thou  wilt  behold  decked  with  such  loveli- 
ness. 

That  thou  wilt  cry:  "  [Love]  only  Lord,  lo 
here 

Thy  handmaiden,  do  what  thou  wilt  with 
her."  ' 


My  song,  I  fear  that  thou  wilt  find  but  few 
Who  fitly  shall  conceive  thy  reasoning. 
Of  such  hard  matter  dost  thou  enter- 
tain. 
Whence,    if     by    misadventure    chance 
should  bring 
Thee  to  base  company,  as  chance  may  do. 
Quite  unaware  of  what  thou  dost  con- 
tain, 
I  prithee  comfort  thy  sweet  self  again, 
My  last  delight;  tell  them  that  they  are 

dull. 
And  bid  them  own  that  thou  art  beautiful. 
Published  (i-iv)  by  Gamett,  1862,  with  date, 
1820 ;  V  with  Epipsychidion,  1821. 


IV 


MATILDA     GATHERING     FLOW- 
ERS 

PURGATORio,  xxviii.  1-51 

Published  by  Med  win,  The  Angler  in  Wales, 
1834,  and  Life  of  Shelley,  1 847,  and  completed 
by  Gamett,  18(52.  Medwin  describes  how  he 
obtained  the  copy  :  '  I  had  also  the  advantage 
of  reading  Dante  with  him  ;  he  lamented  that 
no  adequate  translation  existed  of  the  IJivina 
Commedia,  and  though  he  thought  highly  of 
Carey's  work,  —  with  which  he  said  he  had  for 
the  first  time  studied  the  original,  praising  the 
fidelity  of  the  version,  —  it  by  no  means  satis- 
fied him.  What  he  meant  by  an  adequate 
translation  was  one  in  terza  rima  ;  for,  in  Shel- 
ley's own  words,  he  held  it  an  essential  justice 
to  an  author  to  render  him  in  the  same  form. 
I  asked  him  if  he  had  never  attempted  this,  and, 
looking  among  his  papers,  he  showed,  and  gave 
me  to  copy,  the  following  fragment  from  the 
Purgatorio,  which  leaves  on  the  mind  an  inex- 
tinguishable regret  that  he  had  not  completed 
—  nay,  more,  that  he  did  not  employ  himself 
in  rendering  other  of  the  finest  passages.' 

And  earnest  to  explore  within  — around  — 
That  divine  wood  whose  thick  green  living 

woof 
Tempered  the  young  day  to  the  sight,  I 

wound 

Up  the  green  slope,  beneath  the  forest's 
roof. 

With  slow  soft  steps  leaving  the  mountain's 
steep; 

And  sought  those  inmost  labyrinths'  motion- 
proof 

Against    the    air,   that,   in   that    stillness 

deep 
And  solemn,  struck  upon  my  forehead  bare 
The  slow,  soft  stroke  of  a  continuous  .  .  . 

In  which  the  leaves  tremblingly 

were 
All  bent  towards  that  part  where  earliest 
The  sacred  hill  obscures  the  morning  air. 

Yet  were  they  not  so   shaken  from   the 

rest. 
But  that  the  birds,  perched  on  the  utmost 

spray, 
Incessantly  renewing  their  blithe  quest. 


524 


TRANSLATIONS 


With  perfect  joy  received  the  early  day, 
Singing  within  the  glancing  leaves,  whose 

sound 
Kept  a  low  burden  to  their  roundelay, 

Such  as   from  bough    to  bough    gathers 

around 
The  pine  forest  on  bleak  Chiassi's  shore, 
Wheu  iEolus  Sirocco  has  unbound. 

My  slow  steps  had  already  borne  me  o'er 
Such  space  within  the  antique  wood  that  I 
Perceived  not  where  I  entered  any  more. 

When,  lo  !    a  stream  whose  little  waves 

went  by, 
Bending  towards  the  left  through  grass  that 

grew 
Upon  its  bank,  impeded  suddenly 

My  going  on.     Water  of  purest  hue 
On  earth  would  appear  turbid  and  impure 
Compared  with   this,  whose  uuconcealing 
dew. 

Dark,  dark,  yet  clear,  moved  under   the 

obscure 
Eternal  shades,  whose  interwoven  looms 
No  ray  of  moon  or  sunshine  would  endure. 

I  moved  not  with  my  feet,  but  mid  the 
glooms 

Pierced  with  my  charmed  eye,  contemplat- 
ing 

The  mighty  multitude  of  fresh  May  blooms 

That  starred  that  night;  when,  even  as  a 

thing 
That  suddenlj',  for  blank  astonishment. 
Charms  every  sense,  and  makes  all  thought 

take  wing,  — 

A  solitary  woman  !  and  she  went 
Singing,  and  gathering  flower  after  flower, 
With  wliich  her  way  was  painted  and  be- 
sprent. 

*  Bright  lady,  who,  if  looks  had  ever  power 
To  bear  true  witness  of  the  heart  within. 
Dost  bask  under  the  beams  of  love,  come 
lower 

<  Towards  this  bank.  I  prithee  let  me  win 
This  much  of  thee,  to  come,  that  I  may  hear 
Thy  song.   Like  Proserpine,  in  Enna's  glen. 


*  Thou  seemest  to  my  fancy,  singing  here 
And  gathering  flowers,  as  that  fair  maiden 

when 
She  lost  the  spring,  and  Ceres  her,  more 

dear.' 

V 

UGOLINO 

INFERNO  xxxiii.  22-75 

TRANSLATED   BY    MEDWIN   AXD   COR- 
RECTED  BY    SHELLEY 

Medwin  describes  this  joint  composition: 
'  At  yhelley's  request  and  with  his  assistance, 
I  attempted  to  give  the  Ugolino.  which  ia 
valuable  to  the  admirers  of  Shelley,  on  ac- 
coimt  of  his  numerous  corrections,  which  al- 
most indeed  make  it  his  own.' 

The  piece  was  first  published  in  Medwin's 
Sketches  in  Hindoostan  with  other  poems,  1821, 
and  revised  in  the  present  form,  with  Shelley's 
part  in  italics,  in  Life  of  Shelley,  1847.  For- 
man  conjectures  that  he  ascribes  less  to  Shelley 
than  was  due.  Shelley  is  said  to  have  com- 
plained to  Mrs.  Shelley  that  Medwin  had  car- 
ried off  some  of  his  translations. 

Now  had  the  loophole  of  that  dungeon,  still 
Which  bears  the  name  of  Famine's  Tower 

from  me. 
And  where  't  is  fit  that  many  another  will 

Be  doomed  to  linger  in  captivity, 

Shown  through  its  narrow  opening  in  my 

cell 
Moon  after  moon  slow  waning,  when  a  sleep. 

That  of  the  future  burst  the  veil,  in  dream 
Visited  me.     It  was  a  slumber  deep 
And  evil  j  for  I  saw,  or  I  did  seem 

To  see  that  tyrant  Lord  his  revels  keep. 
The  leader  of  the  cruel  hunt  to  them. 
Chasing  the   wolf  and  wolf-cubs   up   the 
steep 

Ascent,  that  from  the  Pisan  is  the  screen 
Of  Lucca  ;  with  him  Gualandi  came, 
Sismondi,  and  Lanfranchi,  bloodhounds  lean. 

Trained  to  the  sport  and  eager  for  the  game, 
Wide  ranging  in  his  front  j  but  soon  were 

seen. 
Though  by  so  short  a  course,  with  spirits 

tame, 


SONNET 


525 


The  father  and  his  whelps  to  flag  at  once, 
And   then   the   sharp   fangs    gored    their 

bosoms  deep. 
Ere  morn  I  roused  myself,  and  heard  my 

sons. 

For  they  were  with  me,  moaning  in  their 

sleep. 
And  begging  bread.     Ah  for  those  darling 

ones  ! 
Right  cruel  art  thou,  if  thou  dost  not  weep 

In  thinking  of  my  soul's  sad  augurj'; 
And  if  thou  weepest  not  now,  weep  never 

more  ! 
They  were  already  waked,  as  wont  drew 

nigh 

The  allotted  hour  for  food,  and  in  that  hour 
Each   drew  a   presage    from   his    dream. 

When  I 
Heard   locked   beneath   me  of  that  horrible 

tower 

The  outlet ;  then  into  their  eyes  alone 
J  looked  to  read  myself,  without  a  sign 
Or  word.     I  wept  not — turned  within  to 
stone. 

They  wept  aloud,  and  little  Anselm  mine, 
Said,  —  't  was  my  youngest,  dearest  little 
one,  — 

*  What  ails  thee,  father  !  why  look  so  at 

thine  ? ' 

In  all  that  day,  and  all  the  following  night, 
I  wept  not,  nor  replied ;  but  when  to  shine 
Upon   the  world,  not  us,  came  forth  the 
light 

Of  the  new  sun,  and  thwart  my  prison 
thrown 

Gleamed  through  its  narrow  chink,  a  dole- 
ful sight, 

Three  faces,  each  the  reflex  of  my  own, 

Were  imaged  by  its  faint  and  ghastly  ray  ; 
Then  I,  of  either  hand  unto  the  bone. 
Gnawed,  in  my  agony;  and  thinking  they 

'T  was  done  from  hunger  pangs,  in  their 

excess. 
All  of  a  sudden  raise  themselves,  and  say, 

*  Father  I  our  woes,  so  great,  were  yet  the 

less 


Would  you  but  eat  of  us,  —  't  was  you  who 

clad 
Our  bodies  in  these  weeds  of  wretchedness. 
Despoil  them.'     Not  to  make  their  hearts 

more  sad, 

I    hushed    myself.     That    day    is    at    its 

close, — 
Another  —  still  we  were  all  mute.     Oh,  had 
The   obdurate  earth  opened  to  end    our 

woes  ! 

The  fourth  day  dawned,  and  when  the  new 

sun  shone, 
Outstretched  himself  before  me  as  it  rose 
My  Gaddo,   saying,    '  Help,   father  !  hast 

thou  none 

'For  thine  own  child  —  is  there  no  help 

from  thee  ?  ' 
He  died  —  there  at  my  feet  —  and  one  by 

one, 
I  saw  them  fall,  plainly  as  you  see  me. 

Between  the  fifth  and  sixth  day,  ere  't  was 

dawn, 
I  found  myself  blind-groping  o'er  the  three. 
Three  days  I  called  them  after  they  were 

gone. 

Famine  of  grief  can  get  the  mastery. 


SONNET 

TRANSLATED      FROM      THE     ITALIAN    OF 
CAVALCANTI 

GUIDO  CAVALCANTI  tO  DANTE  ALIGHIERI 

Published  by  Forman,  1876,  aud  dated  by 
him  1815. 

Returning  from  its  daily  quest,  my  Spirit 

Changed  thoughts  and  vile  in  thee  doth 
weep  to  find. 

It  grieves  me  that  thy  mild  and  gentle 
mind 

Those  ample  virtues  which  it  did  inlierit 

Has  lost.  Once  thou  didst  loathe  the  mul- 
titude 

Of  blind  and  madding  men ;  I  then  loved 
thee  — 

I  loved  thy  lofty  songs  and  that  sweet 
mood 

When  thou  wert  faithful  to  thyself  and  me. 


S26 


TRANSLATIONS 


I  dare  not  now  through  thy  degraded  state 
Own  the  delight   thy  strains  inspire  —  in 

vain 
I  seek  what  once  thou  wert  —  we  cannot 

meet 
As  we  were  wont.     Again,  and  yet  again, 
Fonder  my  words :  so  the  false  Spirit  shall 

fly  .      . 

And  leave  to  thee  thy  true  mtegrity. 

SCENES      FROM     THE     MAGICO 
PRODIGIOSO 

TRANSLATED      FROM     THE     SPANISH     OF 
CALDERON 

Shelley's  acquaintance  with  Spanish  began 
apparently  with  reading  Calderon  in  company 
with  Mrs.  Gisborne  in  August,  1819,  and  under 
Charles  Clairmont's  friendly  tutoring  in  Sep- 
tember of  the  same  year.  He  wrote  to  Pea- 
cock in  the  former  month  : 

Shelley  (from  Leghorn)  to  Peacock,  August 
22  (?),  1819:  'I  have  been  reading  Calderon 
in  Spanish  [with  Mrs.  Gisbome].  A  kind  of 
Shakespeare  is  this  Calderon ;  and  I  have  some 
thoughts,  if  I  find  that  I  cannot  do  anything 
better,  of  translating  some  of  his  plays ; '  and 
again  in  September :  '  Charles  Clairmont  is 
now  with  us  on  his  way  to  Vienna.  He  has 
spent  a  year  or  more  in  Spain,  where  he  has 
learned  Spanish,  and  I  make  him  read  Spanish 
all  day  long.  It  is  a  most  powerful  and  ex- 
pressive language,  and  I  have  already  learned 
sufficient  to  read  with  great  ease  their  poet 
Calderon.  I  have  read  about  twelve  of  his 
plays.  Some  of  them  certainly  deserve  to  be 
ranked  amongst  the  grandest  and  most  perfect 
productions  of  the  human  mind.  He  exceeds 
all  modem  dramatists,  with  the  exception  of 
Shakespeare,  whom  he  resembles,  however,  in 
the  depth  of  thought  and  subtlety  of  imagina- 
tion of  his  writings,  and  in  the  rare  power 
of  interweaving  delicate  and  powerful  comic 
traits  with  the  most  tragical  situations,  without 
diminishing  their  interest.  I  rate  him  far  above 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher.'  Shelley  translated 
these  scenes  in  March,  1822,  and  they  had  not 
received  his  final  correction.  They  were  pub- 
lished by  Mrs.  Shelley,  Posthumous  Poems, 
1824. 

Scene  I.  —  Enter  Cyprian,  dressed  as  a  Stu- 
dent ;  Clarin  and  MoscoN  as  poor  Scholars, 
with  books. 


In  the  sweet  solitude  of  this  calm  place, 
This  iutricate  wild  wilderness  of  trees 


And  flowers   and  undergrowth  of  odorous 

plants, 
Leave  me;  the  books  you  brought  out  of 

the  house 
To  me  are  ever  best  society. 
And  while  with  glorious  festival  and  song, 
AntiocTi  now  celebrates  the  consecration 
Of  a  proud  temple  to  great  Jupiter, 
And  bears  his  image  in  loud  jubilee 
To  its  new  shrine,  I  would  consume  what 

still 
Lives  of  the  dying  day  in  studious  thought, 
Far  from   the  throng  and  turmoil.     You, 

my  friends. 
Go,  and  enjoy  the  festival;  it  will 
Be  worth  your  pains.     You  may  return  for 

me 
When  the   sun  seeks  its  grave  among  the 

billows, 
Which  among  dim  gray  clouds  on  the  hori- 
zon. 
Dance  like  white  plumes  upon  a  hearse ;  — 

and  here 
I  shall  expect  you. 


I  cannot  bring  my  mind, 
Great  as  my  haste  to  see  the  festival 
Certainly  is,  to  leave  you.  Sir,  without 
Just  saying  some  three  or  four  thousand 

words. 
How  is  it  possible  that  on  a  day 
Of  such  festivity  you  can  be  content 
To  come  forth  to  a  solitary  country 
With   three  or  four  old  books,  and   turn 

your  back 
On  all  this  mirth  ? 

CLARIN 

My  master 's  in  the  right; 
There  is  not  anything  more  tiresome 
Than   a  procession  day,  with  troops,  and 

priests. 
And  dances,  and  all  that. 

HOSCON 

From  first  to  last, 
Clarin,  you  are  a  temporizing  flatterer; 
You  praise  not  what  you  feel  but  what  he 

does. 
Toadeater  ! 

CLARIN 

You  lie  —  under  a  mistake  — 
For  this  is  the  most  civil  sort  of  lie 


SCENES   FROM  THt  MAGICO   PRODIGIOSO 


527 


That  can  be  given  to  a  man's  face.     I  now 
Say  what  I  think. 

CYPRIAN 

Enough,  you  foolish  fellows  ! 
Puffed  up  with  your  own  doting  ignorance, 
You  always  take  the  two  sides  of  one  ques- 
tion. 
Now  go;  and  as  I  said,  return  for  me 
When  night   falls,  veiling  in  its  shadows 

wide 
This  glorious  fabric  of  the  universe. 

MOSCOW' 

How  happens  it,  although  you  can  main- 
tain 
The  folly  of  enjoying  festivals. 
That  yet  you  go  there  ? 

CLAKIN 

Nay,  the  consequence 
Is  clear.     Who  ever  did  what  he  advises 
Others  to  do  ?  — 


Would  that  my  feet  were  wings. 
So  would  I  fly  to  Livia. 

[Exit. 

CLABIN 

To  speak  truth, 
Livia  is  she  who  has  surprised  my  heart; 
But  he  is  more  than  half  way  there.  —  Soho  ! 
Livia,  I  come ;  good  sport,  Livia,  Soho  ! 

[Exit. 

CTPBIAN 

Now,  since  I  am  alone,  let  me  examine 
The  question  which  has  long  disturbed  my 

mind 
With  doubt,  since  first  I  read  in  Plinius 
The  words  of  mystic  import  and  deep  sense 
In  which  he  defines  God.     My  intellect 
Can  find  no  God  with  whom  these  marks 

and  signs 
Fitly  agree.     It  is  a  hidden  truth 
Which  I  must  fathom. 

{Ctpbian  reads;   the   Demon,  dressed   in  a 
Court  dress,  enters) 

DEMON 

Search  even  as  thon  wilt. 
But  thon  shalt  never  find  what  I  can  hide. 

ctpkian 
What  noise  is   that   among  the  boughs  ? 

Who  moves  ? 
What  art  thou  ?  — 


DEMON 

'T  is  a  foreign  gentleman. 
Even  from  this  morning  I  have  lost  my  way 
In  this  wild  place ;  and  my  poor  horse  at 

last. 
Quite  overcome,  has  stretched  himself  upon 
The  enamelled  tapestry  of  this  mossy  moun- 
tain. 
And  feeds  and  rests  at  the  same  time.     I 

was 
Upon  my  way  to  Antioch  upon  business 
Of  some  importance,  but  vrrapped  up  in 

cares 
(Who  is  exempt  from  this  inheritance  ?) 
I  parted  from  my  company,  and  lost 
My  way,  and  lost  my  servants  and  my  com- 
rades. 

CYPRIAN 

'T  is  singular  that  even  within  the  sight 
Of  the  high  towers  of  Antioch  you  could  lose 
Your  way.     Of  all  the  avenues  and  green 

paths 
Of  this  wild  wood  there  is  not  one  but  leads, 
As  to  its  centre,  to  the  walls  of  Antioch; 
Take  which  you  will  you  cannot  miss  your 

road. 


And  such  is  ignorance  !     Even  in  the  sight 
Of  knowledge,  it  can  draw  no  profit  from  it. 
But  as  it  still  is  early,  and  as  I 
Have  no  acquaintances  in  Antioch, 
Being  a  stranger  there,  I  will  even  wait 
The  few  surviving  hours  of  the  day. 
Until  the  night  shall  conquer  it.     I  see. 
Both  by  your  dress  and  by  the  books  in 

which 
Yon  find  delight  and  company,  that  you 
Are  a  great  student ;  for  my  part,  I  feel 
Much  sympathy  with  such  pursuits. 


CYPRIAN 


Studied  much  ? 


Have  you 


DEMON 

No,  —  and  yet  I  know  enough 
Not  to  be  wholly  ignorant. 


CYPRIAN 

What  science  may  you  know  ? 

DEMON 


Pray,  Sir, 


Many. 


528 


TRANSLATIONS 


Alas  ! 
Much  pains  must  we  expend  on  one  alone, 
And  even  then  attain  it  not;  but  you 
Have  the  presumption  to  assert  that  you 
Know  many  without  study. 

DEMON 

And  with  truth. 
For  in  the  country  whence  I  come  the  sci- 
ences 
Require  no  learning,  —  they  are  known. 

CYPRIAN 

Oh,  would 
I  were  of  that  bright  country  !  for  in  this 
The  more  we  study,  we  the  more  discover 
Our  ignorance. 


It  is  so  true,  that  I 
Had  so  much  arrogance  as  to  oppose 
The  chair  of  the  most  higli  Professorship, 
And  obtained  many  votes,  and,  though  I 

lost. 
The  attempt  was  still  more  glorious  than 

the  failure 
Could  be  dishonorable.    If  you  believe  not. 
Let  us  refer  it  to  dispute  respecting 
That  wliich  you  know  the    best,  and   al- 
though I 
Know  not   the  opinion  you  maintain,  and 

though 
It  be  the  true  one,  I  will  take  the  contrary. 

CYPRIAN 

The  offer  gives  me  pleasure.     I  am  now 

Debating  with  myself  upon  a  passage 

Of  Plinius,  and  my  mind  is  racked  with 

doubt 
To  understand  and  know  who  is  the  God 
Of  whom  he  speaks. 

DEMON 

It  is  a  passage,  if 
I  recollect  it  right,  couched  in  these  words: 
'Grod   is  one  supreme  goodness,  one  pure 

essence, 
One  substance,  and  one  sense,  all  sight,  all 

hands.' 


'Tifl  true. 


DEMON 

What  difSficulty  find  you  here  ? 


I  do  not  recognize  among  the  Gods 
The  God  defined  by  Pliuius;  if  he  must 
Be  supreme  goodness,  even  Jupiter 
Is  not  supremely  good ;  because  we  see 
His  deeds  are  evil,  and  his  attributes 
Tainted  with  mortal  weakness.     In  what 

manner 
Can  supreme  goodness  be  consistent  with 
The  passions  of  humanity  ? 

DEMON 

The  wisdom 
Of  the  old  world  masked  with  the  names 

of  Gods 
The  attributes  of  Nature  and  of  Man; 
A  sort  of  popular  philosophy. 

CYPRIAN 

This  reply  will  not  satisfy  me,  for 
Such  awe  is  due  to  the  high  name  of  God 
That  ill  should  never  be  imputed.     Then, 
Examining  the  question  with  more  care, 
It  follows  that  the  Gods  would  always  will 
That  which  is  best,  were  they  supremely 

good. 
How  then  docs  one  will  one  thing,  one  an- 
other ? 
And  that  you  may  not  say  that  I  allege 
Poetical  or  philosophic  learning. 
Consider  the  ambiguous  responses 
Of  their  oracular  statues;  from  two  shrines 
Two  armies  shall  obtain  the  assurance  of 
One  victory.     Is  it  not  indisputable 
That  two  contending  wills  can  never  lead 
To  the  same  end  ?     And,  being  opposite. 
If  one  be  good  is  not  the  other  evil  ? 
Evil  in  God  is  inconceivable; 
But   supreme   goodness  fails  among    the 

Gods 
Without  their  union. 


I  deny  your  major. 
These  responses  are  means  towards  some 

end 
Unfathomed  by  our  intellectual  beam. 
They  are  the  work  of  providence,  and  more 
The  battle's  loss  may  profit  those  who  lose 
Than  victory  advantage  those  who  win. 


That  I  admit;  and  yet  that  God  should  not 
(Falsehood  is  incompatible  with  deity) 
Assure  the  victory;  it  would  be  enough 


SCENES   FROM   THE  MAGICO   PRODIGIOSO 


529 


To  have  permitted  the  defeat.     If  God 
Be  all  sight,  —  God,  who  bad  beheld  the 

truth, 
Would  not  have  given  assurance  of  an  end 
Never  to  be  accomplished;  thus,  although 
The  Deity  may  according  to  his  attributes 
Be  well  distinguished  into  persons,  yet 
Even  in  the  minutest  circumstance 
His  essence  must  be  one. 

DEMON 

To  attain  the  end 
The  affections  of  the  actors  in  the  scene 
Must  have  been  thus  influenced  by  his  voice. 


But  for  a  purpose  thus  subordinate 

He  might  have  employed  Genii,  good  or 

evil,  — 
A  sort  of  spirits  called  so  by  the  learned, 
Who  roam  about  inspiring  good  or  evil, 
And  from  whose  influence  and  existence  we 
May  well  infer  our  immortality. 
Thus  God  might  easily,  without  descent 
To  a  gross  falsehood  in  his  proper  person, 
Have  moved  the  affections  by  this  media- 
tion 
To  the  just  point. 

DEMOK 

These  trifling  contradictions 
Do  not  suffice  to  impugn  the  unity 
Of  the  high  Gods;  in  tilings  of  great  im- 
portance 
They  still  appear  uuanimotts;  consider 
That  glorious  fabric,  man,  —  his  workman- 
ship 
Is  stamped  with  one  conception. 


Who  made  man 
Must  have,  raethinks,  the  advantage  of  the 

others. 
If  they  are  equal,  might  they  not  have  risen 
In  opposition  to  the  work,  and  being 
All  hands,  according  to  our  author  here, 
Have   still   destroyed   even   as   the   other 

made  ? 
If  equal  in  their  power,  unequal  only 
In  opportunity,  which  of  the  two 
Will  remain  conqueror  ? 

DEMON 

On  impossible 
And  false  hypothesis  there  can  be  built 


No  argument.     Say,  what  do  you  infer 
From  this  ? 


That  there  must  be  a  mighty  God 
Of  supreme  goodness  and  of  highest  grace. 
All  sight,  all  hands,  all  truth,  infallible. 
Without  an  equal  and  without  a  rival. 
The  cause  of  all  things  and  the  effect  of 

nothing. 
One  power,  one  will,  one  substance,  and 

one  essence. 
And  in  whatever  persons,  one  or  two, 
His  attributes  may  be  distinguished,  one 
Sovereign  power,  one  solitary  essence, 
One  cause  of  all  cause. 

(They  rise) 


So  clear  a  consequence  ? 


My  victory  ? 


How  can  I  impugn 


Do  you  regret 


DEMON 

Who  but  regrets  a  check 
In  rivalry  of  wit  ?     I  could  reply 
And  urge  new  difficulties,  but  will  now 
Depart,  for  I  hear  steps  of  men  approach- 

And  it  is  time  that  I  should  now  pursue 
My  journey  to  the  city. 


CYPRIAN 


Go  in  peace ! 


Remain  in  peace  !  —  Since  thus  it  profits 

him 
To  study,  I  will  wrap  his  senses  up 
In  sweet  oblivion  of  all  thought  but  of 
A  piece  of  excellent  beauty;  and,  as  I 
Have  power  given  me  to  wage  enmity 
Against  Justina's  soul,  I  will  extract 
From  one  effect  two  vengeances. 

l^Aside  and  exit. 

CTPBIAN 

I  never 
Met  a  more  learned  person.     Let  me  now 
Revolve    this    doubt    again  with    careful 
mind. 

\_He  reads. 


53° 


TRANSLATIONS 


FiiOKO  and  Lelio  enter 

LELIO 

Here  stop.     These  toppling  rocks  and  tan- 
gled boughs, 
Impenetrable  by  the  noonday  beam, 
Shall  be  sole  witnesses  of  what  we  — 

FliORO 

Draw  I 
If  there  were  words,  here  is  the  place  for 
deeds. 

LELIO 

Thou   needest   not    instruct    me;    well    I 

know 
That  in  the  field  the  silent  tongue  of  steel 
Speaks  thus,  — 

{Theyfight 

CYPRLA^N 

Ha  !  what  is  this  ?  Lelio,  —  Floro,  — 
Be  it  enough  that  Cyprian  stands  between 

you. 
Although  unarmed. 

LELIO 

Whence  coraest  thou  to  stand 
Between  me  and  my  vengeance  ? 


FLOKO 


From  what  rocks 


And  desert  cells  ? 

Enter  MoscoN  and  Clakin 

MOSCON 

Run  !  run  !  for  where  we  left 
My  master,  I  now  hear  the  clash  of  swords. 

CLAKIN 

I  never  run   to   approach  things  of  this 

sort, 
But  only  to  avoid  them.     Sir !  Cyprian  I 

sir  I 

CYPRIAN 

Be  silent,  fellows  I     What !  two  friends 

who  are 
In  blood  and  fame  the  eyes  and  hope  of 

Antioch, 
One  of  the  noble  race  of  the  Colalti, 
The  other  son  o'  the  Governor,  adventure 
And  cast  away,  on  some  slight  cause  no 

doubt. 
Two  lives,  the  honor  of  their  country  ? 


Cyprian ! 
Although  my  high  respect  towards  your 

person 
Holds  now  my  sword  suspended,  thou  canst 

not 
Restore  it  to  the  slumber  of  the  scabbard: 
Thou  kiiowest  more  of  science  than  the  duel; 
For  when  two  men  of  honor  take  the  field. 
No   counsel   nor  respect   can  make  them 

friends 
But  one  must  die  in  the  dispute. 

FLORO 

I  pray 
That  you  depart  hence  with  your  people, 

and 
Leave  us  to  finish  what  we  have  begun 
Without  advantage. 

CTPRIAN 

Though  you  may  imagine 
That  I  know  little  of  the  laws  of  duel, 
Which  vanity  and  valor  instituted, 
You  are  in  error.     By  my  birth  I  am 
Held  no  less  than  yourselves  to  know  the 

limits 
Of  honor  and  of  infamy,  nor  has  study 
Quenched  the  free  spirit  which  first  ordered 

them; 
And  thus  to  me,  as  one  well  experienced 
In  the  false  quicksands  of  the  sea  of  honor. 
You  may  refer  the  merits  of  the  case; 
And  if  I  should  perceive  in  your  relation 
That  either  has  the  right  to  satisfaction 
From  the  other,  I   give  you  my  word  of 

honor 
To  leave  you. 

LELIO 

Under  this  condition  then 
I  will  relate  the  cause,  and  you  will  cede 
And  must  confess  the  impossibility 
Of  compromise;  for  the  same  lady  is 
Beloved  by  Floro  and  myself. 

FLORO 

It  seems 
Much  to  me  that  the  light  of  day  should 

look 
Upon  that  idol  of  my  heart  —  but  he  — 
Leave  us  to  fight,  according  to  thy  word. 

CYPRIAN 

Permit  one  question  furtlier:  is  the  lady 
Impossible  to  hope  or  not  ? 


SCENES   FROM   THE   MAGICO   PRODIGIOSO 


531 


JLELIO 

She  is 
So  excellent  that  if  the  light  of  day 
Should  excite  Floro's  jealousy,  it  were 
Without  just  cause,  for  even  the  light  of 

day 
Trembles  to  gaze  on  her. 


Part,  marry  her  ? 


CYPEIAN 

Would  you  for  your 

FLORO 

Such  is  my  confidence. 


And  you  ? 

LELIO 

Oh  !  would  that  I  could  lift  my  hope 
So  high,  for  though  she  is  extremely  poor. 
Her  virtue  is  her  dowry. 


And  if  you  both 
Would  marry  her,  is  it  not  weak  and  vain, 
Culpable  and  unworthy,  thus  beforehand 
To   slur   her   honor  ?      What   would    the 

world  say 
If  one  should  slay  the  other,  and  if  she 
Should  afterwards  espouse  the  murderer  ? 

[The  rivals  agree  to  refer  their  quarrel  to  Cy- 
prian ;  who  in  consequence  visits  Justina, 
and  becomes  enamoured  of  her :  she  disdains 
him,  and  he  retires  to  a  solitary  seashore. 


SCENE  II 


O  memory  !  permit  it  not 

That  the  tyrant  of  my  thought 

Be  another  soul  that  still 

Holds  dominion  o'er  the  will, 

That  would  refuse,  but  can  no  more, 

To  bend,  to  tremble,  and  adore. 

Vain  idolatry  !  —  I  saw, 

And  gazing,  became  blind  with  error; 

Weak  ambition,  which  the  awe 

Of  her  presence  bound  to  terror  ! 

So  beautiful  she  was  —  and  I, 

Between  my  love  and  jealousy, 

Am  so  convulsed  with  hope  and  fear. 

Unworthy  as  it  may  appear. 

So  bitter  is  the  life  I  live, 

That,  hear  me,  Hell !     I  now  would  give 


To  thy  most  detested  spirit 

My  soul,  forever  to  inherit. 

To  suffer  punishment  and  pine, 

So  this  woman  may  be  mine. 

Hear'st  thou.  Hell  !  dost  thou  reject  it  ? 

My  soul  is  offered  ! 

DEMOK  (unseen) 

I  accept  it. 
[Tempest,  with  thunder  and  lightning. 


What  is  this  ?  ye  heavens  forever  pure. 
At  once  intensely  radiant  and  obscure  ! 
Athwart  the  ethereal  halls 
The   lightning's  arrow  and  the  thunder- 
balls 
The  day  affright, 
As  from  the  horizon  round 
Burst  with  earthquake  sound 
In  mighty  torrents  the  electric  fountains; 
Clouds  quench  the  sun,  and  thunder  smoke 
Strangles  the  air,  and  fire  eclipses  heaven. 
Philosophy,  thou  canst  not  even 
Compel  their  causes  underneath  thy  yoke; 
From  yonder  clouds  even  to  the  waveS 
below 
The  fragments  of  a  single  ruin  choke 

Imagination's  flight; 
For,  on  flakes  of  surge,  like  feathers  light, 
The  ashes  of  the  desolation,  cast 

Upon  the  gloomy  blast. 
Tell  of  the  footsteps  of  the  storm; 
And  nearer,  see,  the  melancholy  form 
Of  a  great  ship,  the  outcast  of  the  sea, 

Drives  miserably  ! 
And  it  must  fly  the  pity  of  the  port, 
Or  perish,  and  its  last  and  sole  resort 
Is  its  own  raging  enemy. 
The  terror  of  the  thrilling  cry 
Was  a  fatal  prophecy 
Of  coming  death,  who  hovers  now 
Upon  that  shattered  prow. 
That  they  who  die  not  may  be  dying  still. 
And  not  alone  the  insane  elements 
Are  populous  with  wide  portents, 
But  that  sad  ship  is  as  a  miracle 

Of  sudden  ruin,  for  it  drives  so  fast 
It  seems  as  if  it  had  arrayed  its  form 
With  the  headlong  storm. 
It  strikes  —  I  almost  feel  the  shock  — 
It  stumbles  on  a  jagged  rock,  — 

Sparkles  of  blood  on  the  white  foam  are 
cast. 

[A  Tempest 


S3« 


TRANSLATIONS 


All  exclaim  {icithin) 
We  are  all  lost  ! 

DEMON  (within) 
Now  from  this  plank  will  I 
Pass  to  the  land  and  thus  fulfil  my  scheme. 


As  in  contempt  of  the  elemental  rage 
A  man  comes  forth  in  safety,  while  the 

ship's 
Great  form  is  in  a  watery  eclipse 
Obliterated  from  the  Ocean's  page, 
And  round  its  wreck  the  huge  sea-monsters 

sit, 
A  horrid  conclave,  and  the  whistling  wave 
Is  heaped  over  its  carcass,  like  a  grave. 

The  Demon  enters,  as  escaped  from  the  sea 

DEMON  (aside) 
It  was  essential  to  my  purposes 
To  wake  a  tumult  on  the  sapphire  ocean, 
That   in  this   unknown   form   I   might  at 

length 
Wipe  out  the  blot  of  the  discomfiture 
Sustained  upon  the  mountain,  and  assail 
With  a  new  war  the  soul  of  Cyprian, 
Forging  the  instruments  of  his  destruction 
Even  from    his    love    and    from   his  wis- 
dom. —  O 
Belovfed  earth,  dear  Mother,  in  thy  bosom 
I  seek  a  refuge  from  the  monster  who 
Precipitates  itself  upon  me. 

CYPKIAN 

Friend, 
Collect  thyself;  and  be  the  memory 
Of  thy  late  suffering,  and  thy  greatest  sor- 
row 
But  as  a  shadow  of  the  past,  —  for  nothing 
Beneath  the  circle  of  the  moon  but  flows 
And  changes,  and  can  never  know  repose. 

DEMON 

And  who  art  thou,  before  whose  feet  my 

fate 
Has  prostrated  me  ? 

CYPKIAN 

One  who,  moved  with  pity, 
Would  soothe  its  stings. 

DEMON 

Oh  !  that  can  never  be  ! 
No  solace  can  my  lasting  sorrows  find. 


Wherefore  ? 


Because  my  happiness  is  lost. 
Yet  I  lament  what  has  long  ceased  to  be 
The  object  of  desire  or  memory. 
And  my  life  is  not  life. 


Now,  since  the  fury 
Of  this  earthquaking  hurricane  is  still, 
And  the  crystalline  heaven  has  reassumed 
Its  windless  calm  so  quickly  that  it  seems 
As  if  its  heavy  wrath  had  been  awakened 
Only  to  overwhelm  that  vessel,  —  speak, 
Who  art  thou,  and  whence  comest  thou  ? 

DEMON 

Far  more 
My  coming  hither  cost  than  thou  hast  seen 
Or  I  can  tell.     Among  my  misadventures 
This  shipwreck  is   the   least.     Wilt  thou 
hear  ? 

CYPRIAN 

Speak. 

DEMON 

Since  thou  desirest,  I  will  then  imveil 

Myself  to  thee;  for  in  myself  I  am 

A  world  of  happiness  and  misery; 

This  I  have  lost,  and  that  I  must  lament 

Forever.     In  my  attributes  I  stood 

So  high  and  so  heroically  great, 

In  lineage  so  supreme,  and  with  a  genius 

Which  penetrated  with  a  glance  the  world 

Beneath   my   feet,  that,  won  by  my  high 

merit, 
A  king —  whom   I  may  call  the  King  of 

kings. 
Because  all  others  tremble  in  their  pride 
Before  the  terrors  of  his  countenance, 
In   his   high  palace  roofed  with  brightest 

gems 
Of   living   light — call   them  the  stars  of 

Heaven  — 
Named  me  his  counsellor.     But  the  high 

praise 
Stung  me  with  pride  and  envy,  and  I  rose 
In  mighty  competition  to  ascend 
His  seat,  and  place  my  foot  triumphantly 
Upon  his  subject   thrones.      Chastised,   I 

know 
Tlie  depth  to  which  ambition  falls;  too  mad 
Was  the  attempt,  and  yet  more  mad  were 

now 


SCENES   FROM   THE  MAGICO   PRODIGIOSO 


533 


Repentance  of  the  irrevocable  deed. 
Therefore  I  chose  this  ruin,  with  the  glory 
Of  not  to  be  subdued,  before  the  shame 
Of  reconciling  me  with  him  who  reigna 
By  coward  cession.     Nor  was  I  alone, 
Nor  am  I  now,  nor  shall  I  be  alone; 
And  there  was  hope,  and  there  may  still  be 

hope. 
For  many  suffrages  among  his  vassals 
Hailed  me  their  lord  and  king,  and  many 

still 
Are  mine,  and  many  more  perchance  shall 

be. 
Thus  vanquished,  though  in  fact  victorious, 
I  left  his  seat  of  empire,  from  mine  eye 
Shooting   forth   poisonous  lightning,  while 

my  words 
With  inauspicious  thunderings  shook  Hea- 
ven, 
Proclaiming  vengeance  public  as  my  wrong. 
And  imprecating  on  his  prostrate  slaves 
Rapine,  and  death,  and   outrage.     Then  I 

sailed 
Over  the  mighty  fabric  of  the  world,  — 
A  pirate  ambushed  in  its  pathless  sands, 
A  lynx  crouched  watchfully  among  its  caves 
And  craggy  shores;  and  I  have  wandered 

over 
The  expanse  of  these  wide  wildernesses 
In  this  great  ship,  whose  bulk  is  now  dis- 
solved 
In   the   light  breathings   of  th^   invisible 

wind. 
And   which  the   sea  has  made  a  dustless 

ruin. 
Seeking  ever  a  mountain,  through  whose 

forests 
I  seek  a  man,  whom  I  must  now  compel 
To  keep  his  word  with  me.     I   came  ar- 
rayed 
In  tempest,  and,  although  my  power  could 

well 
Bridle  the  forest  winds  in  their  career. 
For  other  causes  I  forbore  to  soothe 
Their  fury  to  Favonian  gentleness; 
I  could  and  would  not;  (thus  I  wake  in 
him  [Aside. 

A  love  of  magic  art).     Let  not  this  tem- 
pest, 
Nor  the  succeeding  calm  excite  thy  wonder; 
For  by  my  art  the  sun  would  turn  as  pale 
As  his  weak  sister  with  unwonted  fear; 
And  in  my  wisdom  are  the  orbs  of  Hea- 
ven 
Written  as  in  a  record ;  I  have  pierced 


The    flaming    circles    of    their   wondrous 

spheres 
And  know   them   as  thou  knowest  every 

corner 
Of  this  dim  spot.     Let  it  not  seem  to  thee 
That  I  boast  vainly;  wouldst  thou  that  I 

work 
A  charm  over  this  waste  and  savage  wood, 
This  Babylon  of  crags  and  aged  trees, 
Filling  its  leafy  coverts  with  a  horror 
Thrilling  and  strange  ?     I  am  the  friend- 
less guest 
Of  these  wild  oaks  and  pines;  and  as  from 

thee 
I  Lave  received  the  hospitality 
Of  this  rude  place,  I  offer  thee  the  fruit 
Of  years  of  toil  in  recompense;  whate'er 
Thy    wildest     dream     presented    to    thy 

thought 
As  object  of  desire,  that  shall  be  thine. 

And  thenceforth  shall  so  firm  an  amity 
'Twixt  thee  and  me  be,  that  neither  for- 
tune, 
The    monstrous    phantom   which    pursues 

success. 
That  careful  miser,  that  free  prodigal. 
Who  ever  alternates  with  changeful  hand 
Evil   and  good,  reproach  and   fame;  nor 

Time, 
That  lodestar  of  the  ages,  to  whose  beam 
The  wingfed  years  speed  o'er  the  intervals 
Of  their  unequal  revolutions;  nor 
Heaven  itself,  whose  beautiful  bright  stars 
Rule  and  adorn  the  world,  can  ever  make 
The  least  division  between  thee  and  me. 
Since  now  I  find  a  refuge  in  thy  favor. 


Scene  III.  —  The  Demon  tempts  Justina,  who 
is  a  Christian. 


Abyss  of  Hell !  I  call  on  thee, 

Thou  wild  misrule  of  thine  own  anarchy  1 

From  thy  prison-house  set  free 

The  spirits  of  voluptuous  death 

That  with  their  mightj"^  breath 

They    may    destroy    a    world    of    virgin 

thoughts ; 
Let  her  chaste  mind  with  fancies  thick  as 

motes 
Be  peopled  from  thy  shadowy  deep, 
Till  her  guiltless  fantasy 
Full  to  overflowing  be  ! 


534 


TRANSLATIONS 


And  with  sweetest  harmony, 

Let  birds,  and  tiowers,  and  leaves,  and  all 
things  move 
To  love,  only  to  love. 

Let  nothing  meet  her  eyes 

But  signs  of  Love's  soft  victories; 

Let  nothing  meet  her  ear 

But  sounds  of  Love's  sweet  sorrow, 

So  that  from  faith  no  succor  she  may  bor- 
row. 

But,  guided  by  my  spirit  blind 

And  in  a  magic  snare  entwined, 
She  may  now  seek  Cyprian. 

Begin,  while  I  in  silence  bind 

My  voice,  when  thy  sweet  song  thou  hast 
began. 

A  VOICE  (within) 
What  is  the  glory  far  above 
AU  else  in  human  life  ? 

ALL 

Love  I  love  I 

[  While  these  words  are  sung,  the  Demon  goes  out 
at  one  door,  and  Jdstina  enters  at  another. 

THE   FIRST   VOICE 

There  is  no  form  in  which  the  fire 
Of  love  its  traces  has  impressed  not. 

Man  lives  far  more  in  love's  desire 
Than  by  life's  breath,  soon  possessed 
not. 

If  all  that  lives  must  love  or  die, 

All  shapes  on  earth,  or  sea,  or  sky. 

With  one  consent  to  Heaven  cry 

That  the  glory  far  above 

All  else  in  life  is  — 


Love  !  O,  love  ! 

JU8TINA 

Thou  melancholy  thought  which  art 
So  flattering  and  so  sweet,  to  thee 
When  did  I  give  the  liberty 

Thus  to  afflict  my  heart  ? 

What  is  the  cause  of  this  new  power 
Which  doth  my  fevered  being  move, 

Momently  raging  more  and  more  ? 
What  subtle  pain  is  kindled  now 
Which  from  ray  heart  doth  overflow 

Into  my  senses  ?  — 


Love,  0,  love ! 


'T  is  that  enamoured  nightingale 

Who  gives  me  the  reply; 
He  ever  tells  the  same  soft  tale 

Of  passion  and  of  constancy 
To  his  mate,  who,  rapt  and  fond, 
Listening  sits,  a  bough  beyond. 

Be  silent,  Nightingale  —  no  more 
Make  me  think,  in  hearing  thee 
Thus  tenderly  thy  love  deplore, 

If  a  bird  can  feel  his  so, 
■  What  a  man  would  feel  for  me. 
And,  voluptuous  Vine,  O  thou 
Who  seekest  most  when  least  pursuing,  — 
To  the  trunk  thou  interlacest 
Art  the  verdure  which  embracest. 
And  the  weight  which  is  its  ruin,  — 
No  more,  with  green  embraces,  Vine, 

Make  me  think  on  what  thou  lovest,  — 
For  whilst  thus  thy  boughs  entwine, 

I    fear    lest    thou   shouldst    teach    me, 
sophist. 
How  arms  might  be  entangled  too. 

Light-enchanted  Sunflower,  thou 
Who  gazest  ever  true  and  tender 
On  the  sun's  revolving  splendor  ! 
Follow  not  his  faithless  glance 
With  thy  faded  countenance, 
Nor  teach  my  beating  heart  to  fear, 
If  leaves  can  mourn  without  a  tear, 
How  eyes  must  weep  1     O  Nightingale, 
Cease  from  thy  enamoured  tale,  — 
Leafy  Vine,  unwreathe  thy  bower. 
Restless  Sunflower,  cease  to  move,  — 
Or  tell  me  all,  what  poisonous  power 
Ye  use  against  me  — 


Love  I  love  I  love  I 


It  cannot  be  !  —  Whom  have  I  ever  loved  ? 
Trophies  of  my  oblivion  and  disdain, 
Floro  and  Lelio  did  I  not  reject  ? 
And  Cyprian  ?  — 

{She  becomes  troubled  at  the  name  of  Cyprian^ 

Did  I  not  requite  him 
With  such  severity  that  he  has  fled 
Where  none  has  ever  heard  of  him  again? — 
Alas  !  I  now  begin  to  fear  that  this 
May  be  the  occasion  whence  desire  grows 
bold, 


SCENES   FROM   THE  MAGICO   PRODIGIOSO 


535 


As  if  there  were  no  danger.     From  the 

moment 
That   I  pronounced  to  my  own  listening 

heart 
Cyprian  is  absent,  —  oh,  me  miserable  1 
I  know  not  what  I  feel  ! 

[More  calmly. 

It  must  be  pity 

To  think  that  such  a  man  whom  all  the 

world 
Admired  should  be  forgot  by  all  the  world, 
Aud  I  the  cause. 

[She  again  becomes  troubled. 
And  yet  if  it  were  pity, 
Floro  and  Lelio  might  have  equal  share, 
For  they  are  both  imprisoned  for  my  sake. 

[Calmly. 
Alas  !  what  reasonings  are  these  ?  it  is 
Enough  I  pity  him,  and  that,  in  vain, 
Without  this  ceremonious  subtlety. 
And,  woe  is  me  !   I  know  not  where  to  find 

him  now. 
Even  should  1  seek  him  through  this  wide 
world. 

Enter  Demok 

DEMON 

Follow,  and  I  will  lead  thee  where  he  is. 

JUSTINA 

And  who  art  thou  who  hast  found  entrance 

hither 
Into  my  chamber  through  the  doors   and 

locks  ? 
Art  thou  a  monstrous   shadow  which  my 

madness 
Has  formed  in  the  idle  air  ? 

DEMON 

No.     I  am  one 
Called  by  the  thought  which  tyrannizes  thee 
From  his  eternal  dwelling;  who  this  day 
Is  pledged  to  bear  thee  unto  Cyprian. 

JUSTINA 

So  shall  thy  promise  fail.     This  agony 
Of  passion  which  afflicts  my  heart  and  soul 
May  sweep  imagination  in  its  storm; 
The  will  is  firm. 


Already  half  is  done 
In  the  imagination  of  an  act. 
The  sin  incurred,  the  pleasure  then  remains; 
Let  not  the  will  stop  half-way  on  the  road. 


JUSTINA 

I  will  not  be  discouraged,  nor  despair. 
Although  I  thought  it,  and  although  'tis 

true 
That  thought  is  but  a  prelude  to  the  deed. 
Thought  is  not  in  my  power,  but  action  is. 
I  wUl  not  move  my  foot  to  follow  thee. 

DEMON 

But  a  far  mightier  wisdom  than  thine  own 
Exerts  itself  within  thee,  with  such  power 
Compelling  thee  to  that  which  it  inclines 
That  it  shall  force  thy  step;  how  wilt  thou 

then 
Resist,  Justina  ? 

JUSTINA 

By  my  free-will. 

DEMON 

Must  force  thy  will. 

JUSTINA 

It  is  invincible; 
It  were  not  free  if  thou  hadst  power  upon  it- 
[He  draws,  but  cannot  move  her. 

DEMON 

Come,  where  a  pleasure  waits  thee. 


Too  dear. 


It  were  bought 


DEMON 

'T  will  soothe  thy  heart  to  softest  peace. 

JUSTINA 

'T  is  dread  captivity. 

DEMON 

'T  is  joy,  't  is  glory. 

JUSTINA 

'T  is  shame,  't  is  torment,  't  is  despair. 

DEMON 

But  how 
Canst  thou  defend  thyself  from  that  or  me, 
If  my  power  drags  thee  onward  ? 


Consists  in  God. 


My  defence 


[He  vainly  endeavors  to  force  her,  and  at  last  re« 
leases  her. 


536 


TRANSLATIONS 


Woman,  thou  hast  suhdued  me 
Only  by  not  owning  thyself  subdued. 
But  since  thou  thus  findest  defence  in  God, 
I  will  assume  a  feigned  form,  and  thus 
Make  thee  a  victim  of  my  baffled  rage. 
For  I  will  mask  a  spirit  in  thy  form 
Who  will  betray  tby  name  to  infamy, 
And  doubly  shall  I  triumph  in  thy  loss. 
First   by   dishonoring  thee,   and  then  by 

turning 
False  pleasure  to  true  ignominy. 

[Exit. 


Appeal   to  Heaven  against  thee;  so  that 

Heaven 
May  scatter  thy  delusions,  and  the  blot 
Upon  my  fame  vanish  in  idle  thought. 
Even  as  flame  dies  in  the  envious  air. 
And  as  the  floweret  wanes  at  morning  frost. 
And  thou  shouldst  never  —     But,  alas  !  to 

wliom 
Do  I  still  speak  ?  —  Did  not  a  man  but 

now 
Stand  here  before  me  ?  —  No,  I  am  alone. 
And  yet  I  saw  him.     Is  he  gone  so  quickly  ? 
Or  can  the  heated  mind  engender  shapes 
From  its  own  fear  ?      Some  terrible  and 

strange 
Peril  is  near.     Lisander  !  father  !  lord  1 
Livia !  — 

Enter  Lisandek  and  Livia 

IJSAKDEB 

Oh,  my  daughter  I     What  ? 


What? 

JTJSTINA 

Saw  you 
A  man  go  forth  from  my  apartment  now  ? — 
I  scarce  contain  myself  I 


JUSTIN  A 

Have  yoQ  not  seen  him  ? 


I  saw  him. 


A  man  here  f 


No,  Lady. 


*Tis  impossible;  the  doors 
Which    led  to  this    apartment   were   all 
locked. 

LTVIA  (aside) 
1  dare  say  it  was  Moscon  whom  she  saw, 
For  he  was  locked  up  in  my  room. 

LISANDEK 

It  must 
Have  been  some  image  of  thy  fantasy. 
Such  melancholy  as  thou  feedest  is 
Skilful  in  forming  such  in  the  vain  air 
Out  of  the  motes  and  atoms  of  the  day. 

LIVIA 

My  master 's  in  the  right. 

JUSTINA 

Oh,  would  it  were 
Delusion;  but  I  fear  some  greater  ill. 
I  feel  as  if  out  of  my  bleeding  bosom 
My  heart  was  torn  in  fragments;  ay, 
Some  mortal  spell  is  wrought  against  my 

frame ; 
So  potent  was  the  charm  that,  had  not  Grod 
Shielded  my  humble  innocence  from  wrong, 
I  should  have  sought  my  sorrow  and  my 

shame 
With  willing    steps.  —  Livia,  quick,  bring 

my  cloak, 
For  I  must  seek  refuge  from  these  extremes 
Even  in  the  temple  of  the  highest  God 
Where  secretly  the  faithful  worship. 

LIVIA 

Here. 

JtiSTiNA  (putting  on  her  cloak) 

In  this,  as  in  a  shroud  of  snow,  may  I 
Quench  the  consuming  fire  in  which  I  bam, 
Wasting  away  I 

LISANDER 

And  I  will  go  with  thee. 

LIVIA 

When  I  once  see  them  safe  out  of  the  house 
I  shall  breathe  freely. 


JUSTINA 


So  do  I  confide 


In  thy  just  favor,  Heaven  ! 

LISANDER 


Let  us  go. 


SCENES   FROM   THE  FAUST  OF  GOETHE 


537 


JCSTINA 

Thine  is  the  cause,  great  God  !  turn  for  my 

sake, 
And  for  thine  own,  mercifully  to  me  I 

STANZAS  FROM  CALDERON'S 
CISMA  DE  INGLATERRA 

TRANSLATED  BY  MEDWIN  AND  COR- 
RECTED BY  SHELLEY 

Medwin  published  these  stanzas,  with  Shel- 
ley's corrections  in  italics,  in  his  Life  of  Shelley, 
1847,  with  the  following  note :  '  But  we  also 
read  a  tragedy  of  Calderon's  which,  though  it 
cannot  compete  with  Shakespeare's  Henry  the 
VIII.  contains  more  poetry  —  the  Cisma 
d^Inglaterra.  Shelley  was  much  struck  with 
the  characteristic  Fool  who  plays  a  part  in  it, 
and  deals  in  fables,  but  more  so  with  the 
octave  stanzas  (a  strange  metre  in  a  drama,  to 
choose)  spoken  by  Carlos,  enamorado  di  Anna 
Bolena,  whom  he  had  met  at  Paris,  during  her 
father's  embassy.  So  much  did  Shelley  admire 
these  stanzas  that  he  copied  them  out  into  one 
of  his  letters  to  Mrs.  Gisbome,  of  the  two  last 
of  which  I  append  a  translation  marking  in 
italics  the  lines  corrected  by  Shelley.'  He  had 
previously  published  these  stanzas  with  nine 
othere  in  Sketches  in  Hindoostan,  with  Other 
Poems,  1821.  Forman  conjectures  that  Shel- 
ley cooperated  with  Medwin  in  the  other 
stanzas,  where  no  credit  has  been  given. 

Shelley's  letter  to  Mrs.  Gisbome  was  of  the 
date  November  16,  1819  :  '  I  have  been  reading 
Calderon  tvithout  you.  I  have  read  the  Cisma 
de  Inglaterra,  the  Cabellos  de  Absalom,  and 
three  or  four  others.  These  pieces,  inferior  to 
those  we  read,  at  least  to  the  Principe  Con- 
stante,  in  the  splendor  of  particular  passages, 
are  perhaps  superior  in  their  satisfying  com- 
pleteness. ...  I  transcribe  you  a  passage  from 
the  Cisma  de  Inglaterra  —  spoken  by  "  Carlos, 
Embaxador  de  Francia,  enamorado  de  Ana 
Bolena."  Is  there  anything  in  Petrarch  finer 
than  the  second  stanza  ?  ' 


Hast  thou  not  seen,  ofiBcious  with  delight, 
Move  through   the   illumined  air  about 
the  flower 
The   Bee,  that   fears  to  drink  its  purple 
light, 
Lest  danger  lurk  within    that    Rose's 
bower  ? 
Hast  thou  not  marked  the  moth's  enam- 
oured flight 
About  the  Taper's  flame  at  evening  hoar, 


Till  kindle  in  that  monumental  fre 

His  sunflower  wings  their  ovm  funereal  pyre  f 


My  heart,  its  wishes  trembling  to  unfold, 
Thus  round  the  Rose  and  Taper  hover- 
ing came, 
And  Passion^s  slave,  Distrust,  in  ashes  cold, 
Smothered  awhile,  but  could  not  quench  the 
flame. 
Till   Love,  that  grows  by  disappointment 
bold, 
And  Opportunity,  had  conquered  Shame, 
And  like  the  Bee  and  Moth,  in  act  to  close, 
/  burned  my  loings,  and  settled  on  the  Rose.* 


SCENES  FROM  THE  FAUST  OF 
GOETHE 

These  scenes  were  translated  in  the  spring 
of  1822,  and  published,  in  part,  by  Hunt,  The 
Liberal,  1822,  and  entire  by  Mrs.  Shelley, 
Posthumous  Poems,  1824.  The  admiration  of 
Shelley  for  Faust,  and  his  feeling  with  regard 
to  the  translation,  are  fully  shown  in  two  let- 
ters to  Mr.  Gisborne,  one  in  January,  1822 : 
'  We  have  just  got  the  etchings  of  Faust,  the 
painter  is  worthy  of  Goethe.  The  meeting  of 
him  and  Margaret  is  wonderful.  It  makes  all 
the  pulses  of  my  head  beat  —  those  of  ray 
heart  have  been  quiet  long  ago.  The  transla- 
tions, both  these  and  in  Blackwood,  are  miser- 
able. Ask  Coleridge  if  their  stupid  misintel-' 
ligence  of  the  deep  wisdom  and  harmony  of 
the  author  does  not  spur  him  to  action ; '  the 
second,  April  10,  1822 :  '  I  have  been  reading 
over  and  over  again  Faust,  and  always  with 
sensations  which  no  other  composition  excites. 
It  deepens  the  gloom  and  augments  the  rapid- 
ity of  ideas,  and  would  therefore  seem  to  me 
an  unfit  study  for  any  person  who  is  a  prey  to 
the  reproaches  of  memory,  and  the  delusions 
of  an  imagination  not  to  be  restrained.  And 
yet  the  pleasure  of  sympathizing  with  emotions 
known  only  to  few,  although  they  derive  their 
sole  charm  from  despair,  and  the  scorn  of  the 
narrow  good  we  can  attain  in  our  present  state, 
seems  more  than  to  ease  the  pain  which  be- 
longs to  them.  .  .  . 

'  Have  you  read  Calderon's  Magico  Prodigi- 
oso  ?  I  find  a  striking  similarity  between 
Faust  and  this  drama,  and  if  I  were  to  ac- 
knowledge Coleridge's  distinction,  should  say 
Goethe  was  the  greatest  philosopher,  and  Cal- 
deron the  greatest  poet.  Cyprian  evidently 
furnished  the  germ  of  Faust,  as  Faust  may 
furnish  the  germ  of  other  poems ;  although  it 
is  as  different  from  it  in  structure  and  plan  as 


538 


TRANSLATIONS 


the  acorn  from  the  oak.  I  have  —  imagine  my 
presumption  —  translated  several  scenes  from 
both,  as  the  basis  of  a  paper  for  our  journal. 
I  am  well  content  with  those  from  Calderon, 
which  in  fact  gave  me  verv  little  trouble  ;  but 
those  from  Faust  —  I  feel  how  imperfect  a  re- 
presentation, even  with  all  the  license  I  assume 
to  figure  to  myself  how  Goethe  would  have 
written  in  English,  my  words  convey.  No  one 
but  Coleridge  is  capable  of  this  work. 

'We  have  seen  here  a  translation  of  some 
scenes,  and  indeed  the  most  remarkable  ones, 
accompanying  those  astonishing  etchings  which 
have  been  published  in  England  from  a  German 
master.  It  is  not  bad  —  and  faithful  enough 
—  but  how  weak !  how  incomjjetent  to  repre- 
sent Faust  !  I  have  only  attempted  the  scenes 
omitted  in  this  translation,  and  would  send  you 
that  of  the  Walpurgisnacht,  if  I  thought  Oilier 
would  p'ace  the  postage  to  my  account.  What 
etchings  those  are  !  I  am  never  satiated  with 
looking  at  them ;  and,  I  fear,  it  is  the  only 
sort  of  translation  of  which  Faust  is  suscepti- 
ble. I  never  perfectly  understood  the  Hartz 
Mountain  scene,  until  I  saw  the  etching ;  and 
then,  Margaret  in  the  summer-house  with 
Faust !  The  artist  makes  one  envy  his  happi- 
ness that  he  can  sketch  such  things  with  calm- 
ness, which  I  only  dared  look  upon  once,  and 
which  made  my  brain  swim  round  only  to  touch 
the  leaf  on  the  opposite  side  of  which  I  knew 
that  it  was  figured.  Whether  it  is  that  the 
£rtist  has  surpassed  Faust,  or  that  the  pencil 
surpasses  language  in  some  subjects,  I  know 
not,  or  that  I  am  more  affected  by  a  visible 
image,  but  the  etching  certainly  excited  me 
far  more  than  the  poem  it  illustrated.  Do  you 
remember  the  fifty-fourth  letter  of  the  first 
part  of  the  Nouoelle  Ullolse  f  Goethe,  in  a 
subsequent  scene,  evidently  had  that  letter  in 
his  mind,  and  this  etching  is  an  idealism  of  it. 
So  much  for  the  world  of  shadows ! ' 


Scene  I.  —  Prologue  in  Heaven. 

TTie  Lord  and  the  Host  of  Heaven.    Enter  three 
Archangels. 

BAPHAEL 

The  sun  makes  music  as  of  old 

Amid  the  rival  spheres  of  Heaven, 
On  its  predestined  circle  rolled 

With  thunder  speed ;  the  Aneels  even 
Draw  strength  from  gazing  on  its  glance, 

Though     none     its     meaning     fathom 
_,         may; 
The  world's  unwithered  countenance 

1b  bright  as  at  creation's  day. 


And  swift  and  swift,  with  rapid  lightness, 

The  adorned  Earth  spins  silently, 
Alternating  Elysian  brightness 

With  deep  and  dreadful  night;  the  sea 
Foams  in  broad  billows  from  the  deep 

Up  to  the  rocks,  and  rocks  and  ocean, 
Onward,  with  spheres  which  never  sleep. 

Are  hurried  in  eternal  motion. 


And  tempests  in  contention  roar 

From  land  to  sea,  from  sea  to  land; 
And,  raging,  weave  a  chain  of  power. 

Which  girds  the  earth,  as  with  a  band. 
A  flashing  desolation  there 

Flames  before  the  thunder's  way; 
But  thy  servants.  Lord,  revere 

The  gentle  changes  of  thy  day. 

CHOKUS  OF  THE  THREE 

The  Angels  draw  strength  from  thy  glance, 
Though  no  one  comprehend  thee  may; 

Thy  world's  unwithered  countenance 
Is  bright  as  on  creation's  day. 

Enter  Mephistopheles 

MEPHISTOPHEIiB  S 

As    thou,    O    Lord,  once   more  art  kind 

enough 
To  interest  thyself  in  our  affairs, 
And  ask,  '  How  goes  it  with  you  there  be- 
low ?  ' 
And  as  indulgently  at  other  times 
Thou  tookest  not  my  visits  in  ill  part. 
Thou  seest  me  here  once  more  among  thy 

household. 
Though  I  should  scandalize  this  company. 
You  will  excuse  me  if  I  do  not  talk 
In  the  high  style  which  they  think  fashion- 
able; 
My  pathos  certainly  would  make  you  laugh 

too, 
Had  you  not  long  since  given  over  laugh- 
ing. 
Nothing  know  I  to  say  of  suns  and  worlds; 
I  observe  only  how  men  plague  themselves. 
The  little  god  o'  the  world  keeps  the  same 

stamp, 
As  wonderful  as  on  creation's  day. 
A  little  better  would  he  live,  hadst  thou 
Not    given    him   a  glimpse   of   Heaven's 

light. 
Which  be  calls  reason,  and  employs  it  only 


SCENES   FROM  THE  FAUST  OF  GOETHE 


539 


To  live  more  bccastlily  than  any  beast. 

With  reverence  to  your  Lordship  be  it 
spoken, 

He 's  like  one  of  those  long-legged  grass- 
hoppers, 

Who  flits  and  jumps  about,  and  sings  for- 
ever 

The  same  old  song  i'  the  grass.  There  let 
him  lie, 

Burying  his  nose  in  every  heap  of  dung. 

THE    LORD 

Have  you  no  more  to  say  ?     Do  you  come 

here 
Always  to  scold,  and  cavil,  and  complain  ? 
Seems  nothing  ever  right  to  you  on  earth  ? 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

No,   Lord  !     I  find  all  there,  as  ever,  bad 

at  best. 
Even  I  am  sorry  for  man's  days  of  sorrow; 
I  could  myself  almost  give  up  the  pleasure 
Of  plaguing  the  poor  things. 

THE   LORD 

Knowest  thou  Faust  ? 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

The  Doctor? 

THE   LORD 

Ay;  my  servant  Faust.  , 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

In  truth 
He  serves  yon  in  a  fashion  quite  his  own; 
And  the  fool's  meat  and  drink  are  not  of 

earth. 
His  aspirations  bear  him  on  so  far 
That  he  is  half  aware  of  his  own  folly, 
For  he  demands  from  Heaven  its  fairest 

star. 
And  from   the  earth   the    highest  joy   it 

bears, 
Yet  all  things  far,  and  all  things  near,  are 

vain 
To  calm  the  deep  emotions  of  his  breast. 

THB   LOBD 

Though  he  now  serves  me  in  a  cloud  of 
error, 

I  will  soon  lead  him  forth  to  the  clear  day. 

When  trees  look  green,  full  well  the  gar- 
dener knows 

That  fruits  and  blooms  will  deck  the  com- 
ing year. 


MEPHISTOPHELES 

What  will  you   bet  ?  —  now  I  am  sure  of 

winning  — 
Only,  observe  you  give  me  full  permission 
To  lead  him  softly  on  my  path. 

THE  LORD 

As  long 
As  he  shall  live  upon  the  earth,  so  long 
Is  nothing  unto  thee  forbidden.     Man 
Must  err  till  he  has  ceased  to  struggle. 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

Thanks. 
And  that  is  all  I  ask;  for  willingly 
I  never  make  acquaintance  with  the  dead. 
The  full  fresh  cheeks  of  youth  are  food  for 

me, 
And  if  a  corpse  knocks,  I  am  not  at  home. 
For  I  am  like  a  cat  —  I  like  to  play 
A  little  with  the  mouse  before  I  eat  it. 

THE  LORD 

Well,  well !  it  is  permitted  thee.  Draw 
thou 

His  spirit  from  its  springs ;  as  thou  find'st 
power. 

Seize  him  and  lead  him  on  thy  downward 
path ; 

And  stand  ashamed  when  failure  teaches 
thee 

That  a  good  man,  even  in  his  darkest  long- 
ings, 

Is  well  aware  of  the  right  way. 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

^V^ell  and  good. 
I  am  not  in  much  doubt  about  my  bet. 
And  if  I  lose,  then  't  is  your  turn  to  crow; 
Enjoy  your  triumph  then  with  a  full  breast. 
Ay;  dust  shall  he  devour,  and  that  with 

pleasure. 
Like  my  old  paramour,  the  famous  Snake. 

THE   LORD 

Pray  come  here  when  it  suits  you;  for  I 

never 
Had  much  dislike  for  people  of  your  sort. 
And,  among  all  the  Spirits  who  rebelled. 
The  knave  was  ever  the  least  tedious  to 

me. 
The  active  spirit  of  man  soon  sleeps,  and 

soon 
He  seeks  unbroken  quiet;  therefore  I 
Have  given  him  the  Devil  for  a  compan' 

ion, 


540 


TRANSLATIONS 


Who  may  provoke   him  to  some  sort  of 

work, 
And  must  create  forever.  —  But  ye,  pure 
Children  of  God,  enjoy  eternal  beauty. 
Let  that  which  ever  operates  and  lives 
Clasp  you  within  the  limits  of  its  love; 
And    seize    with    sweet    and    melancholy 

thoughts 
The  floating  phantoms  of  its  loveliness. 

[Heaven  closes;  the  Archangels  exeunt. 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

From  time  to  time  I  visit  the  old  fellow, 
And  I  take  care  to  keep  on  good  terms 

with  him. 
Civil  enough  is  this  same  God  Almighty, 
To  talk  so  freely  with  the  Devil  himself. 


SCENE   II 

MAY-DAY   NIGHT 

Scene  —  The  Hartz  Mountain,  a  desolate 
Country 

FAUST,   MEPHISTOPHELES 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

Would  you  not  like  a  broomstick  ?    As  for 

me 
I  wish  I  had  a  good  stout  ram  to  ride; 
For  we   are  still  far  from  the  appointed 

place. 


This  knotted  staff  is  help  enough  for  me, 
Whilst  I  feel  fresh  upon  my  legs.     What 

good 
Is  there  in  making  short  a  pleasant  way  ? 
To  creep  along  the  labyrinths  of  the  vales, 
And  climb  those  rocks,  where   ever-bab- 
bling springs 
Precipitate  themselves  in  waterfalls. 
Is  the  true  sport  that  seasons  such  a  path. 
Already  Spring  kindles  the  birchen  spray. 
And  the  hoar  pines  already  feel  her  breath. 
Shall  she  not  work  also  within  our  limbs  ? 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

Nothing  of  such  an  influence  do  I  feel. 

My  body  is  all  wintry,  and  I  wish 

The  flowers  upon  our  path  were  frost  and 

snow. 
But  see  how  melancholy  rises  now. 
Dimly  uplifting  her  belated  beam, 


The   blank  unwelcome  round  of  the   red 

moon. 
And  gives  so  bad  a  light  that  every  step 
One   stumbles   'gainst    some   crag.     With 

your  permission, 
I  '11  call  an  Ignis-fatuus  to  our  aid. 
I  see  one  yonder  burning  jollily. 
Halloo,  my  friend  !  may  I  request  that  you 
Would  favor  us  with  your  bright  company  ? 
Why  should  you  blaze  away  there  to  no 

purpose  ? 
Pray  be  so  good  as  light  us  up  this  way. 

IGNIS-FATUTJS 

With  reverence  be  it  spoken,  I  will  try 
To  overcome  the  lightness  of  my  nature; 
Our  course,  you  know,  is  generally  zigzag. 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

Ha,  ha  I  your  worship  thinks  you  have  to 

deal 
With  men.     Go  straight  on,  in  the  Devil's 

name. 
Or  I  shall  puff  your  flickering  life  out. 

IGNIS-FATUUS 

Well, 
I  see  you  are  the  master  of  the  house ; 
I  will  accommodate  myself  to  you. 
Only  consider  that  to-night  this  mountain 
Is  all  enchanted,  and  if  Jack-a-lantern 
Shows  you  his  way,  though  you  should  miss 

your  own. 
You  ought  not  to  be  too  exact  with  him. 

FAUST,  MEPHISTOPHELES,  anc?  IGNIS-FATUUS,  IR 

alternate  Chorus 
The  limits  of  the  sphere  of  dream. 
The   bounds  of    true   and   false,  are 
passed. 
Lead  us  on,  thou  wandering  Gleam, 
Lead  us  onward,  far  and  fast, 
To  the  wide,  the  desert  waste. 

But  see,  how  swift  advance  and  shift 

Trees  behind  trees,  row  by  row; 
How,  clift  by  clift,  rocks  bend  and  lift 

Their  frowning  foreheads  as  we  go. 

The  giant-snouted  crags,  ho  !  ho ! 

How  they  snort,  and  how  they  blow  1 

Through  the  mossy  sods  and  stones. 
Stream  and  streamlet  hurry  down  — 

A  rushing  throng  !    A  sound  of  song 
Beneath  the  vault  of  Heaven  is  blown  I 


SCENES   FROM  THE  FAUST   OF   GOETHE 


541 


Sweet  notes  of  love,  the  speaking  tones 
Of  this  bright  day,  sent  down  to  say 

That  Paradise  on  Earth  is  known, 
Resound  around,  beneath,  above. 
All  we  hope  and  all  we  love 
Finds  a  voice  in  this  blithe  strain, 

Which  wakens  hill  and  wood  and  rill. 
And  vibrates  far  o'er  field  and  vale, 
And  which  Echo,  like  the  tale 
Of  old  times,  repeats  again. 

To-whoo  !  to-whoo  !  near,  nearer  now 
The  sound  of  song,  the  rushing  throng  ! 
Are  the  screech,  the  lapwing,  and   the 

jay, 

All  awake  as  if  't  were  day  ? 

See,  with  long  legs  and  belly  wide, 

A  salamander  in  the  brake  ! 

Every  root  is  like  a  snake, 
And  along  the  loose  hillside. 
With    strange   contortions  through  the 

night. 
Curls,  to  seize  or  to  affright; 
And,  animated,  strong,  and  many, 
They  dart  forth  polypus-antennae. 
To  blister  with  their  poison  spume 
The    wanderer.    Through  the   dazzling 

gloom 
The  many-colored  mice,  that  thread 
The  dewy  turf  beneath  our  tread. 
In  troops  each  other's  motions  cross. 
Through  the  heath  and  through  the  moss; 
And,  in  legions  intertangled, 

The  fireflies  flit,  and  swarm,  and  throng, 
Till  all  the  mountain  depths  are  spangled. 

Tell  me,  shall  we  go  or  stay  ? 
Shall  we  onward  ?  Come  along  I 
Everything  around  is  swept 

Forward,  onward,  far  away  ! 
Trees  and  masses  intercept 
The  sight,  and  wisps  on  every  side 
Are  puffed  up  and  multiplied. 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

Now  vigorously  seize  my  skirt,  and  gain 

This  pinnacle  of  isolated  crag. 

One  may  observe  with  wonder  from  this 

point. 
How  Mammon  glows  among  the  mountains. 

FAUST 

Ay- 

And  strangely  through  the  solid  depth  be- 
low 


A  melancholy  light,  like  the  red  dawn, 

Shoots  from  the  lowest  gorge  of  the  abyss 

Of  mountains,  lightning  hitherward;  there 
rise 

Pillars  of  smoke,  here  clouds  float  gently  by; 

Here  the  light  burns  soft  as  the  enkindled 
air. 

Or  the  illumined  dust  of  golden  flowers; 

And  now  it  glides  like  tender  colors  spread- 
ing; 

And  now  bursts  forth  in  fountains  from  the 
earth ; 

And  now  it  winds,  one  torrent  of  broad 
light. 

Through  the  far  valley,  with  a  hundred 
veins; 

And  now  once  more  within  that  narrow 
corner 

Masses  itself  into  intensest  splendor. 

And  near  us,  see,  sparks  spring  out  of  the 
ground. 

Like  golden  sand  scattered  upon  the  dark- 
ness ; 

The  pinnacles  of  that  black  wall  of  moun- 
tains 

That  hems  us  in  are  kindled. 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

Rare,  in  faith  ! 

Does  not  Sir  Mammon  gloriously  illumi- 
nate 

His  palace  for  this  festival  —  it  is 

A  pleasure  which  you  had  not  known  be- 
fore. 

I  spy  the  boisterous  guests  already. 


How 
The  children  of  the  wind  rage  in  the  air  ! 
With  what  fierce  strokes  they  fall  upon  my 
neck  ! 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

Cling  tightly  to  the  old  ribs  of  the  crag. 
Beware  !  for  if  with  them  thou  warrest 
In  their  fierce  flight  towards  the  wil- 
derness. 
Their  breath  will  sweep  thee  into  dust,  and 
drag 
Thy  body  to  a  grave  in  the  abyss. 
.A  cloud  thickens  the  night. 
Hark  !  how  the  tempest  crashes  through 
the  forest ! 

The  owls  fly  out  in  strange  affright; 
The  columns  of  the  evergreen  palaces 


542 


TRANSLATIONS 


Are  split  and  shattered ; 

The    roots    creak,   and    stretch,   and 

groan ; 
And  ruinously  overthrown, 
The  trunks  ai-e  crushed  and  shattered 
By  the  fierce  blast's  unconquerable  stress. 
Over  each  other  crack  and  crash  they  all 
In  terrible  and  intertangled  fall ; 
And  through  the  ruins  of  the  shaken  moun- 
tain 
The  airs  hiss  and  howl. 
It  is  not  the  voice  of  the  fountain, 
Nor  the  wolf  in  his  midnight  prowl. 
Dost  thou  not  hear  ? 

Strange  accents  are  ringing 
Aloft,  afar,  anear; 

The  witches  are  singing  ! 
The  torrent  of  a  raging  wizard  song 
Streams  the  whole  mountain  along. 

CHORUS   OF   WITCHES 

The  stubble  is  yellow,  the  corn  is  green, 

Now  to  the  Brocken  the  witches  go; 
The  mighty  multitude  here  may  be  seen 

Gathering,  wizard  and  witch,  below. 
Sir  Urian  is  sitting  aloft  in  the  air; 

Hey  over  stock  !  and  hey  over  stone  ! 

'Twixt  witches  and  incubi,  what  shall  be 
done? 
Tell  it  who  dare  !  tell  it  who  dare  ! 

A  VOICE 

Upon   a  sow-swine,    whose   farrows  were 
nine. 
Old  Baubo  rideth  alone. 

CHORUS 

Honor  her,  to  whom  honor  is  due, 
Old  mother  Baubo,  honor  to  you  ! 
An  able  sow,  with  old  Baubo  upon  her. 
Is  worthy  of  glory,  and  worthy  of  honor  ! 
The  legion  of  witches  is  coming  behind, 
Darkening  the  night,  and  outspeeding  the 
wind  — 

A  VOICE 

Which  way  comest  thou  I 

A  VOICE. 

Over  Ilsenstein; 
The  owl  was  awake  in  the   white  moon- 
shine; 
I  saw  her  at  rest  in  her  downy  nest. 
And  she  stared  at  me  with  her  broad,  bright 
eyne. 


VOICES 

And  you  may  now  as  well  take  your  course 

on  to  Hell, 
Since  you  ride  by  so  fast  on  the  headlong 

blast. 

A  VOICE 

She  dropped  poison  upon  me  as  I  passed. 
Here  are  the  wounds  — 

CHORUS  OF  WITCHES 

Come  away  !  come  along  f 
The  way  is  wide,  the  way  is  long, 
But  what  is  that  for  a  Bedlam  throng  ? 
Stick  with  the  prong,  and  scratch  with  the 

broom. 
The   child  in  the  cradle  lies  strangled   at 

home. 
And  the  mother  is  clapping  her  hands.  — 

SEMICHORUS  I  OF  WIZARDS 

We  glide  in 
Like   snails   when  the   women    are    all 
away; 
And  from  a  house  once  given  over  to  sin 
Woman  has  a  thousand  steps  to  stray. 

SEMICHORUS  n 

A  thousand  steps  must  a  woman  take, 
Where   a   man   but   a   single    spring   will 
make. 

VOICES  ABOVE 

Come  with  ns,  come  with  us,  from  Felsen- 
see. 

VOICES  BELOW 

With  what  joy  would  we  fly  through  the 

upper  sky  ! 
We    are    washed,  we  are   'noiuted,   stark 

naked  are  we; 
But  our  toil  and  our  pain  are  forever  in 

vain. 

BOTH  CHORUSES 

The  wind  is  still,  the  stars  are  fled, 
The  melancholy  moon  is  dead; 
The  magic  notes,  like  spark  on  spark, 
Drizzle,  whistling  through  the  dark. 
Come  away  ! 

VOICES  BELOW 

Stay,  oh,  stay  1 

VOICES  ABOVE 

Out  of  the  crannies  of  the  rocks, 
Who  calls  ? 


SCENES   FROM  THE  FAUST  OF  GOETHE 


543 


VOICES  BELOW 

Oh,  let  me  join  your  flocks  ! 
I  three  hundred  years  have  striven 
To  catch  your  skirt  and  mount  to  Hea- 
ven,— 
And  still  in  vain.     Oh,  might  I  be 
With  company  akin  to  me  I 

BOTH  CHORUSES 

Some  on  a  ram  and  some  on  a  prong. 
On  poles  and  on  broomsticks  we  flutter 

along; 
Forlorn  is  the  wight  who  can  i-ise  not  to- 
night. 

A  HALF-WITCH  BELOW 

I  have  been  tripping  this  many  an  hour:, 
Are  the  others  already  so  far  before  ? 
No  quiet  at  home,  and  no  peace  abroad  ! 
And  less  methinks  is  found  by  the  road. 

CHORUS  OF  WITCHES 

Come  onward,  away  !  aroint  thee,  aroint  ! 
A    witch    to    be    strong    must    anoint  — 

anoint  — 
Then  every  trough  will  be  boat  enough ; 
With  a  rag  for  a  sail  we  can  sweep  through 

the  sky,  — 
Who  flies  not  to-night,  when  means  he  to 

fly? 

BOTH  CHORUSES 

We  cling  to  the  skirt,  and  we  strike  on  the 

ground ; 
Witch-legions  thicken  around  and  around; 
Wizard-swarms  cover  the  heath  all  over. 

[They  descend. 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

What  thronging,  dashing,  raging,  rustling; 
What  whispering,  babbling,   hissing,   bus- 

tling; 

What  glimmering,  spurting,  stinking,  burn- 
ing, 

As  Heaven  and  Earth  were  overturning. 

There  is  a  true  witch  element  about  us; 

Take  hold  on  me,  or  we  shall  be  divided :  — 

Where  are  you  ? 

FAUST  {from  a  distance) 
Here  ! 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

What ! 
I  must  exert  my  authority  in  the  house. 
Place  for  young  Voland  1  pray  make  way, 
good  people. 


Take   hold   on  me,  doctor,  and  with  one 

Step 
Let  us  escape  from  this  unpleasant  crowd. 
They  are  too  mad  for  people  of  my  sort. 
Just  there  shines  a  peculiar  kind  of  light; 
Something  attracts   me    in  those   bashes. 

Come 
This  way;  we  shall  slip  down  there  in  a 

minute. 

FAUST 

Spirit  of  Contradiction  !     Well,  lead  on  — 
'T  were  a  wise  feat  indeed  to  wander  out 
Into  the  Brocken  upon  May-day  night, 
And  then  to  isolate  one's  self  in  scorn, 
Disgusted  with  the  humors  of  the  time. 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

See  yonder,  round  a  many-colored  flame 
A  merry  club  is  huddled  altogether: 
Even  with  such  little  people  as  sit  there 
One  would  not  be  alone. 

PAUST 

Would  that  I  were 
Up  yonder  in  the  glow  and  whirling  smoke, 
Where  the  blind  million  rush  impetuously 
To  meet  the  evil  ones;  there  might  I  solve 
Many  a  riddle  that  torments  me  I 


MEPHlST  OPHELES 


Yet 


Many  a  riddle  there  is  tied  anew 
Inextricably.     Let  the  great  world  rage  ! 
We  will  stay  here  safe  in  the  quiet  dwell- 
ings. 
'T  is  an  old  custom.     Men  have  ever  built 
Their  own  small  world  in  the  great  world 

of  all. 
I  see  young  witches  naked  there,  and  old 

ones 
Wisely  attired  with  greater  decency. 
Be  guided  now  by  me,  and  you  shall  buy 
A    pound    of    pleasure   with   a    dram   of 

trouble. 
I  hear  them  tune  their  instruments  —  one 

must 
Get  used  to  this  damned  scraping.     Come, 

I  '11  lead  you 
Among  them ;  and  what  there  you  do  and 

see, 
As  a  fresh  compact  'twixt  us  two  shall  be. 
How  say  you  now?    this   space   is  wide 

enough  — 
Look  forth,  you  cannot  see  the  end  of  it,  -^ 


544 


TRANSLATIONS 


An  hundred  bonfires  burn  in  rows,  and  they 

Who  throng  around  them  seem  innumer- 
able: 

Dancing  and  drinking,  jabbering,  making 
love. 

And  cooking,  are  at  work.  Now  tell  me, 
friend. 

What  is  there  better  in  the  world  than  this  ? 

FACST 

In  introducing  us,  do  you  assume 
The  character  of  wizard  or  of  devil  ? 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

In  truth,  I  generally  go  about 
In  strict  incognito;  and  yet  one  likes 
To  wear  one's  orders  upon  gala  days. 
I  have  no  ribbon  at  my  knee;  but  here 
At  home,  the  cloven  foot  is  honorable. 
See   you   that    snail   there  ?  —  she   comes 

creeping  up. 
And  with  her  feeling  eyes  hath  smelt  out 

something. 
I  could  not,  if  I  would,  mask  myself  here. 
Come   now,  we  '11  go   about  from  fire  to 

fire: 
I  '11  be  the  pimp,  and  you  shall  be  the  lover. 

(To  some  Old  Women,  who  are  sitting  round  a 
heap  of  glimmering  coals) 

Old  gentlewomen,   what  do  you    do   out 

here  ? 
You  ought  to  be  with  the  young  rioters 
Right  in  the  thickest  of  the  revelry  — 
But  every  one  is  best  content  at  home. 

GENERAL 

Who  dare  confide  in  right  or  a  just  claim  ? 
So  much  as  I  had  done  for  them  !  and 
now  — 
With  women  and  the  people  't  is  the  same. 
Youth  will  stand  foremost  ever,  —  age 
may  go 
To  the  dark  grave  unhonored. 

HnasTER 

Nowadays 
People  assert  their  rights;  they  go  too 
far; 
But  as  for  me,  the  good  old  times  I  praise; 
Then  we  were  all  in  all,  't  was  some- 
thing worth 
One's  while  to  be  in  place  and  wear  a 
star; 
That  was  indeed  the  golden  age  on 
earth. 


PARVENU 

We  too  are  active,  and  we  did  and  do 
What  we  ought  not,  perhaps ;  and  yet  we 

now 
Will  seize,  whilst  all  things  are  whirled 

round  and  round, 
A  spoke  of  Fortune's  wheel,  and  keep  our 

ground. 

AUTHOR 

Who  now  can  taste  a  treatise  of  deep  sense 
And  ponderous  volume  ?  't  is  impertinence 
To  write  what  none  will  read,  therefore 

Willi 
To  please  the  young  and  thoughtless  people 

try. 

MEPHISTOPHELES  (wko  at  once  appears  to  have 
grown  very  old) 

I  find  the  people  ripe  for  the  last  day. 
Since  I  last  came  up  to  the  wizard  moun- 
tain; 
And  as  my  little  cask  runs  turbid  now, 
So  is  the  world  drained  to  the  dregs. 

FEDLAB-WITCH 

Look  here, 
Gentlemen;  do  not  hurry  on  so  fast 
And  lose  the  chance  of  a  good  pennyworth. 
I  have  a  pack  full  of  the  choicest  wares 
Of  every  sort,  and  yet  in  all  my  bundle 
Is  nothing  like  what  may  be  found  on  earth ; 
Nothing  that  in  a  moment  will  make  rich 
Men   and   the    world  with   fine   malicious 

mischief. 
There  is  no  dagger  drunk  with  blood;  no 

bowl 
From    which    consuming    poison  may  be 

drained 
By  innocent  and  healthy  lips;  no  jewel. 
The  price  of  an  abandoned  maiden's  shame; 
No  sword  which  cuts  the  bond  it  cannot 

loose. 
Op  stabs  the  wearer's  enemy  in  the  back; 
No  — 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

Gossip,  you  know  little  of  these  times. 
What  has  been,  has  been;  what  is  done,  is 

past. 
They  shape  themselves  into  the  innovations 
They  breed,  and  innovation  drags  us  with 

it. 
The  torrent  of  the  crowd  sweeps  over  us: 
You  think  to  impel,  and  are  yourself  im* 

pelled. 


SCENES   FROM   THE  FAUST  OF  GOETHE 


54S 


FAUST 

Who  is  that  yonder  ? 


LiUth. 


M£PHISTOPHELBS 

Mark  her  well.    It  is 


Who? 


MEPHISTOPHBLES 

Lilith,  the  first  wife  of  Adam. 
Beware  of  her  fair  hair,  for  she  excels 
All  women  in  the  magic  of  her  locks; 
And  when  she  winds  them  round  a  young 

man's  neck, 
She  will  not  ever  set  him  free  again. 


There  sit  a  girl  and  an  old  woman  —  they 
Seem  to  be  tired  with  pleasure  and  with 
play. 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

There  is  no  rest  to-night  for  any  one: 
When  one  dance  ends  another  is  begun; 
Come,  let  us  to  it.     We  shall  have   rare 
fun. 

(Fatjst  dances  and  sings  rvith  a  Girl,  and 
Mephistophelks  with  an  old  Woman) 


I  had  once  a  lovely  dream 
In  which  I  saw  an  apple-tree, 

Where  two  fair  apples  with  their  gleam 
To  climb  and  taste  attracted  me. 


She  with  apples  you  desired 
From  Paradise  came  long  ago; 

With  joy  I  feel  that,  if  required, 
Such  still  within  my  garden  grow. 


PROCTO-PHANTASMIST 

What  is  this  cursed  multitude  about  ? 

Have  we  not  long  since  proved  to  demon- 
stration 

That  ghosts  move  not  on  ordinary  feet  ? 

But  tljese  are  dancing  just  like  men  and 
women. 

THE   GIRL 

What  does  he  want  then  at  our  ball  ? 


Oh!  he 
I?  far  above  us  all  in  his  conceit: 
Whilst  we  enjoy,  he  reasons  of  enjoyment ; 
And   any   step   which    in    our    dance   we 

tread. 
If  it  be  left  out  of  his  reckoning, 
Is  not  to  be  considered  as  a  step. 
There  are  few  things  that  scandalize  him 

not: 
And  when  you  whirl  round  in  the  circle 

now, 
As  he  went  round  the  wheel  in  his   old 

mill, 
He  says  that  you  go  wrong  in  all  respects, 
Especially  if  you  congratulate  him 
Upon  the  strength  of  the  resemblance. 

PBOCTO-PHANTASMIST 

Fly! 
Vanish  !     Unheard  of  impudence  !     Whatj 

still  there  ! 
In  this  enlightened  age,  too,  since  you  have 

been 
Proved  not  to  exist !  —  But  this  infernal 

brood 
Will  hear  no  reason  and  endure  no  rule. 
Are    we    so   wise,   and   is    the  pond  still 

haunted  ? 
How  long  have  I  been  sweeping  out  this 

rubbish 
Of  superstition,  and  the  world  will  not 
Come  clean  with  all  my  pains  !  —  it  is  a 

case 
Unheard  of  I 

THE  omi, 
Then  leave  off  teasing  us  so. 

PROCTO-PHAITTASMIST 

I  tell  you,  spirits,  to  your  faces  now, 
That  I  should  not  regret  this  despotism 
Of  spirits,  but  that  mine  can  wield  it  not. 
To-night  I  shall  make  poor  work  of  it, 
Yet  I  will  take  a  round  with  you,  and 

hope 
Before  my  last  step  in  the  living  dance 
To  beat  the  poet  and  the  devil  together. 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

At  last  he  will  sit  down  in  some  foul  pud- 
dle; 
That  in  his  way  of  solacing  himself; 
Until  some  leech,  diverted  with  his  gravity, 
Cures  him  of  spirits  and  the  spirit  together 


546 


JUVENIUA 


[To  Faust,  who  has  seceded Jrom  the  dance. 
Why  do  you  let  that  fair  girl  pass  from 

you, 
Who  sung  so  sweetly  to  you  in  the  dance  ? 


A  red  mouse  in  the  middle  of  her  singing 
Sprung  from  her  mouth. 

MKPHISTOPHBIiKS 

That  was  all  right,  my  friend: 
Be   it   enough    that    the   mouse   was   not 

gray- 
Do  not  disturb  your  hour  of  happiness 
With  close  consideration  of  such  trifles. 


Then  saw  I  — 

MEPHISTO  PH£L£S 

What? 

FAU8T 

Seest  thou  not  a  pale, 
Fair  girl,  standing  alone,  far,  far  away  ? 
She  drags  herself  now  forward  with  .slow 

steps, 
And  seems  as  if  she  moved  with  shackled 

feet. 
I  cannot  overcome  the  thought  that  she 
Is  like  poor  Margaret. 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

Let  It  be  —  pass  on  — 
No  good  can  come  of  it  —  it  is  not  well 
To  meet  it  —  it  is  an  enchanted  phantom, 
A  lifeless  idol;  with  its  numbing  look. 
It  freezes  up  the  blood  of  man;  and  they 
Who  meet  its  ghastly  stare  are  turned  to 

stone. 
Like  those  who  saw  Medusa. 


FAUST 

Oh,  too  true  ! 
Her  eyes  are  like  the  eyes  of  a  fresh  corpse 
Which  no  belovfed  hand  has  closed,  alas  ! 
That  is  the  breast  which  Margaret  yielded 

to  me  — 
Those   are  the  lovely  limbs  which  I  en- 

joyed  ! 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

It  is  all  magic,  poor  deluded  fool ! 

She  looks  to  every  one  like  his  first  love. 

FAUST 

Oh,  what  delight !  what  woe  !  I  cannot 
turn 

My  looks  from  her  sweet  piteous  counte- 
nance. 

How  strangely  does  a  single  blood-red  line. 

Not  broader  than  the  sharp  edge  of  a 
knife. 

Adorn  her  lovely  neck  ! 

MEPHISTOPHELES 

Ay,  she  can  carry 

Her  head  under  her  arm  upon  occasion; 
Perseus  has  cut  it  off  for  her.     These  plea^ 

sures 
End  in  delusion.  — Gain  this  rising  grroundf 
It  is  as  airy  here  as  in  a  .  .  . 
And  if  I  am  not  mightily  deceived, 
I  see  a  theatre.  —  What  may  this  mean  ? 

ATTENDANT 

Quite  a  new  piece,  the  last  of  seven,  for 

'tis 
The  custom  now  to  represent  that  number. 
'T  is  written  by  a  Dilettante,  and 
The  actors  who  perform  nre  Dilettanti; 
Excuse  me,  gentlemen;  but  I  must  vanish. 
I  am  a  Dilettante  curtain-lifter. 


JUVENILIA 


The  Juvenilia  were  published  in  part  by 
Shelley,  but  mainly  by  Medwin,  Rossetti,  and 
Dowden.    In  this  division  all  verse  earlier  than 


Queen  Mab  is  included,  except  what  is  placed 
wnfler  Doubtful,  Lost,  and  Unpublished 
Poems. 


VERSES  ON  A  CAT 

Published  by  Hopg,  Life  of  Shelley,  1858, 
and  dated,  1800.  Miss  Helen  Shelley  furnished 
the  verses  to  Mrs.  Hog^,  with  the  followinpr 
note :  '  I  have  just  found  the  lines  which  I 
mentioned ;  a  child's  effusion  about  some  cat, 


which  evidently  had  a  story,  but  it  must  have 
been  before  I  can  remember.  It  is  in  Eliza- 
beth's handwriting,  copied  probably  later  than 
the  composition  of  the  lines,  though  the  hand- 
writing is  unformed.  It  seems  to  be  a  tabby 
cat,  for  it  has  an  indistinct  brownish-gray  coat 
[there  was  a  painting'  of  a  cat  on  tlie  copy]. 


EPITAPHIUM 


S47 


.  .  .  That  last  expression  is,  I  imagine,  still 
classical  at  boys'  schools,  and  it  was  a  favorite 
one  of  Bysshe's,  which  I  remember  from  a 
painful  fact,  tliat  one  of  my  sisters  ventured  to 
make  use  of  it,  and  was  punished  in  some  old- 
fashioned  way,  which  impressed  the  sentence 
on  my  memory.' 


A  CAT  in  distress, 
Nothing  more,  nor  less; 

Good  folks,  I  must  faithfully  tell  ye, 
As  I  am  a  sinner, 
It  waits  fox-  some  dinner 

To  stuff  out  its  own  little  belly. 


Ycu  would  not  easily  guess 
All  the  modes  of  distress 

Which  torture  the  tenants  of  earth; 
And  the  various  evils, 
Which  like  so  many  devils, 

Attend  the  poor  souls  from  their  birth. 

Ill 

Some  a  living  require, 

And  others  desire 
An  old  fellow  out  of  the  way; 

And  which  is  the  best 

I  leave  to  be  guessed, 
For  I  cannot  pretend  to  say. 

IV 

One  wants  society, 

Another  variety, 
Others  a  tranquil  life; 

Some  want  food. 

Others,  as  good, 
Only  want  a  wife. 


But  this  poor  little  cat 

Only  wanted  a  rat, 
To  stuff  out  its  own  little  maw; 

And  it  were  as  good 

Some  people  had  such  food, 
To  make  them  hold  their  Jaw! 


OMENS 

Published  by  Medwin,  Shelley  Papers,  1833, 
and  dated  1807.  He  gives  it  from  memory : 
'I  remember  well  the  first  of  his  effusions,  a 
very   German-like    fragment,  beginning'   with 

.  .  I  think  he  was  then  about  fifteen.'    In 


hia  Life  of  Shelley,  1847,  he  ascribes  it  to  Shel- 
ley's love  of  Chatterton :  '  Chatterton  was  then 
one  of  his  great  favorites ;  he  enjoyed  very 
much  the  literary  forgery  and  successful  mys- 
tification of  Horace  Walpole  and  his  contem- 
poraries ;  and  the  Immortal  Child's  melancholy 
and  early  fate  often  suggested  his  own.  One 
of  his  earliest  effusions  was  a  fragment  begin- 
ning —  it  was  indeed  almost  taken  from  the 
pseudo  Rowley.' 

Hark  I  the  owlet  flaps  his  wings 
In  the  pathless  dell  beneath ; 

Hark  !  't  is  the  night-raveu  sings 
Tidings  of  approaching  death. 

EPITAPHIUM 

latin  version  of  the  epitaph  in 
gray's  elegy 

Published  by  Medwin,  Life  of  Shelley,  1847, 
and  dated  1808-9,  with  this  note :  '  That  he 
had  certainly  arrived  at  great  skill  in  the  art 
of  versification,  I  think  I  shall  be  able  to  prove 
by  the  following  specimens  I  kept  among  my 
treasures,  which  he  gave  me  in  1808  or  9.  The 
first  is  the  Epitaph  on  Gray's  Elegy  in  a  Coun- 
try Churchyard,  probably  a  school  task.* 


Hic  sinu  fessum  caput  hospitali 
Cespitis  doruiit  juvenis  ;  nee  illi 
Fata  ridebant,  popularis  ille 
Nescius  aurse. 

II 

Musa  non  vultu  genus  arrogant! 
Rustica  natum  grege  despicata; 
£t  suum  tristis  puerum  notavit 
SoUicitudo. 

HI 

Indoles  illi  bene  larga;  pectus 
Veritas  sedem  sibi  vindieavit; 
Et  pari  tantis  meritis  beavifc 
Muuere  coelum. 

IV 

Omne  quod  mcestis  habuit  miserto 
Corde  largivit,  lacrymam;  reeepit 
Omne  quod  ccelo  voluit,  fidelis 
Pectus  amicL 


Longius  sed  tu  fuge  cnriosus 
Ceeteras  laudes  fuge  suspicari; 


54? 


JUVENILIA 


Cseteras  culpas  fuge  velle  tractas 
Sede  tremenda. 


VI 


Spe  tremescentes  recubant  in  ilia 
Sede  virtutes  pariterque  culpje, 
In  sui  Patris  gremio,  tremeudU 
Sede  Deique. 


IN   HOROLOGIUM 

Medwin  adds,  continuing  the  precedihg' 
note  :  '  The  second  specimen  of  his  versification 
is  of  a  totally  different  character,  and  shows  a 
considerable  precocity.' 

MacCarthy,  Shelley's  Early  Life,  affords  fur- 
ther light :  '  Something  of  the  precocity  is  ex- 
plained, however,  and  all  of  the  originality  re- 
moved, by  a  reference  to  ITie  Oxford  Herald 
of  Saturday,  September  16,  1809,  where  the 
following  English  Epigram  appears  :  — 

On  Seeing  a  French  Watch  KorND  the 
Neck  of  a  Beautiful  Young  Woman. 

"  Mark  what  we  gain  from  foreign  lands, 
Time  cannot  now  be  said  to  linger,  — 
Allowed  to  lay  his  two  rude  bands 
Where  others  dare  not  lay  a  finger." 

'  It  is  plain  that  Shelley's  Latin  lines  are  sim- 
ply a  translation  of  this  epigram,  which  he 
most  probably  saw  in  The  Oxford  Herald,  but 
may  have  read  in  some  other  paper  of  the  time 
as  I  distinctly  recollect  having  met  with  it  else- 
where when  making  my  researches  among  the 
journals  of  the  period.' 

Inter  marmoreas  Leonorse  pendula  coUes 
Fortunata  nimis  Machina  dicit  horas. 
Quas  manibus  premit  ilia  duas  insensa  pa- 

pillas 
Cur  mihi  sit  digito  tangere,  amata,  nefas  ? 


A   DIALOGUE 

Published  by  Hogg,  Life  of  Shelley,  1858, 
and  composed  1809. 

DEATH 

For  my  dagger  is  bathed  in  the  blood  of 
the  brave, 

I  come,  careworn  tenant  of  life,  from  the 
grave, 

Where  Innocence  sleeps  'neath  the  peace- 
giving  sod. 

And  the  good  cease  to  tremble  at  Tyranny's 
nod; 


I  offer  a  calm  habitation  to  thee, 

Say,  victim  of  grief,  wilt  thou  slumber  with 

me? 
My  mansion  is  damp,  cold  silence  is  there, 
But  it  lulls  in  oblivion  the  fiends  of  de- 
spair; 
Not  a  groan  of  regret,  not  a  sigh,  not  a 

breath, 
Dares  dispute  with  grim  Silence  the  em- 
pire of  Death. 
I  offer  a  calm  habitation  to  thee, 
Say,  victim  of  grief,  wilt  thou  slumber  with 
me? 

MOBTAIi 

Mine  eyelids  are  heavy ;  my  soul  seeks  re- 
pose; 

It  longs  in  thy  cells  to  embosom  its  woes; 

It  longs  in  thy  cells  to  deposit  its  load, 

Where  no  longer  the  scorpions  of  Perfidy 
goad, 

Where  the  phantoms  of  Prejudice  vanish 
away. 

And  Bigotry's  bloodhounds  lose  scent  of 
their  prey. 

Yet  tell  me,  dark  Death,  when  thine  em- 
pire is  o'er, 

What  awaits  on  Futurity's  mist-covered 
shore  ? 

DEATH 

Cease,  cease,   wayward  Mortal  I    I  dare 

not  unveil 
The   shadows  that    float    o'er    Eternity's 

vale; 
Nought  waits  for  the  good  but  a  spirit  of 

Love 
That  will  hail  their  blessed  advent  to  re- 
gions above. 
For   Love,   Mortal,   gleams    through    the 

gloom  of  my  sway. 
And  the  shades  which  surround  me  fly  fast 

at  its  ray. 
Hast    thou    loved  ?  —  Then    depart  from 

these  regions  of  hate, 
And  in  slumber  with  me  blunt  the  arrows 

of  fate. 
I  offer  a  calm  habitation  to  thee. 
Say,  victim  of  grief,  wilt  thou  slumber  with 

me? 

HOBTAI. 

Oh  !  sweet  is  thy  slumber  1  oh !  sweet  is 

tlie  ray 
Which  after  thy  night  introduces  the  day; 


TO   DEATH 


549 


How  concealed,  how  persuasive,  self-in- 
terest's breath, 

Though  it  floats  to  mine  ear  from  the  bosoin 
.  of  Death ! 

I  hoped  that  I  quite  was  forgotten  by  all. 

Yet  a  liugei'ing  friend  might  be  grieved  at 
my  fall. 

And  duty  fcrbids,  though  I  languish  to  die. 

When  departure  might  heave  Virtue's 
breast  with  a  sigh. 

Oh,  Death  !  oh,  my  friend !  snatch  this 
form  to  thy  shrine. 

And  I  fear,  dear  destroyer,  I  shall  not  re- 
pine. 


TO   THE   MOONBEAM 

Composed  September  23,  1809,  and  pub- 
lished by  Hogg,  Life  of  Shelley,  1858.  He 
gives  a  letter  from  Shelley  :  '  There  is  rhap- 
sody !  Now,  I  think,  after  this  you  ought  to 
send  me  some  poetry.' 


Moonbeam,  leave  the  shadowy  vale, 

To  bathe  this  burning  brow. 
Moonbeam,  why  art  thou  so  pale. 
As  thou  walkest  o'er  the  dewy  dale, 
Where  humble  wild  flowers  grow  ? 
Is  it  to  mimic  me  ? 
But  that  can  never  be; 
For  thine  orb  is  bright. 
And  the  clouds  are  light, 
That  at  intervals  shadow  the  star-studded 
ni&rht. 


Now  all  is  deathy  still  on  earth; 
Nature's  tired  frame  reposes; 
And,  ere  the  golden  morning's  birth 
Its  radiant  hues  discloses, 

Flies  forth  its  balmy  breath. 
But  mine  is  the  midnight  of  Death, 
And  Nature's  morn 
To  my  bosom  forlorn 
Brings   but  a  gloomier  night,  implants  a 
deadlier  thorn. 


Wretch  !     Suppress  the  glare  of  mad- 
ness 

Struggling  in  thine  haggard  eye. 
For  the  keenest  throb  of  sadness. 

Pale  Despair's  most  sickening  sigh, 


Is  but  to  mimic  me; 
And  this  must  ever  be, 
When  the  twilight  of  care, 
And  the  night  of  despair. 
Seem  in  my  breast  but  joys  to  the  pangs 
that  rankle  there. 


THE   SOLITARY 
Published  by  Rossetti,  1870,  and  dated  1810. 

I 

Dar'st  thou  amid  the  varied  multitude 
To  live  alone,  an  isolated  thing  ? 
To  see  the  busy  beings  round  thee  spring, 
And  care  for  none;  in  thy  calm  solitude, 
A  flower  that  scarce  breathes  in  the  desert 
rude 

To  Zephyr's  passing  wing  ? 

II 
Not  the  swart  Pariah  in  some  Indian  grove, 
Lone,  lean,  and  hunted  by  his  brother's 

hate. 
Hath  drunk  so  deep  the  cup  of  bitter 
fate 
As   that  poor  wretch  who  cannot,  cannot 

love. 
He   bears  a  load  which   nothing  can  re- 
move, 

A  killing,  withering  weight. 

in 

He  smiles  —  't  is  sorrow's  deadliest  mock- 
ery; 
He  speaks  —  the  cold   words   flow  not 

from  his  soul; 
He   acts   like  others,  drains  the  genial 
bowl,  — 
Yet,  yet  he  longs  —  although  he  fears  —  to 

die; 
He   pants  to  reach  what  yet  he  seems  to 

Dull  life's  extremest  goal. 

TO   DEATH 

Composed  at  Oxford,  1810,  and  published  by 
Hogg,  Life  of  Shelley,  1858. 

Death  !  where  is  thy  victory  ? 
To  triumph  whilst  I  die. 
To  triumph  whilst  thine  ebon  wing 
Enfolds  my  shuddering  soul  ? 


550 


JUVENILIA 


O  Death  !  where  is  thy  sting  ? 

Not  when  the  tides  of  murder  roll, 
When  nations  groan  that  kings  may  bask 
:,      in  bliss, 

Peath  !  canst  thou  boast  a  victory  such 
as  this  — 
When  in  his  hour  of  pomp  and  power 
His   blow  the   mightiest  murderer 
gave, 
Mid  Nature's  cries  the  sacrifice 
Of  millions  to  glut  the  grave  — 
When     sunk    the     tyrant     desolation's 

slave, 
Or  Freedom's  life-blood  streamed  upon 
thy  shrine,  — 
Stern  Tyrant,  couldst  thou  boast  a  victory 
such  as  mine  ? 

To  know  in  dissolution's  void 

That  mortals'  baubles  sunk  decay; 
That  everything,  but  Love,  destroyed 
Must  perish  with  its  kindred  clay,  — 
Perish  Ambition's  crown. 
Perish  her  sceptred  sway; 
From   Death's  pale  front  fades  Pride's 
fastidious  frown; 
In  Death's  damp  vault  the  lurid  fires  de- 
cay. 
That  Envy  lights  at  heaven-born  Virtue's 
beam; 

That  all  the  cares  subside. 
Which  lurk  beneath  the  tide 
Of  life's  unquiet  stream;  — 
Yes  !  this  is  victory  ! 
And  on  yon  rock,  whose  dark  form  glooms 
the  sky. 
To  stretch  these  pale  limbs,  when  the 
soul  is  fled; 
To  baffle  the  lean  passions  of  their  prey ; 
To  sleep  within  the  palace  of  the  dead  ! 
Oh  1  not  the  King,  around  whose  dazzling 

throne 
His   countless  courtiers  mock    the  words 

they  say. 
Triumphs  amid  the  bud  of  glory  blown, 
As  I  in  this  cold  bed,  and  faint  expiring 
groan  I 

Tremble,  ye  proud,  whose  grandeur  mocks 
the  woe 
Which   props   the  column  of  unnatural 
state  ! 
You  the  plainings  faint  and  low. 
From  misery's  tortured  soul  that  flow, 
Shall  usher  to  your  fate. 


Tremble,  ye  conquerors,  at  whose  fell  com- 
mand 
The  war-fiend  riots  o'er  a  peaceful  land  I 
You  desolation's  gory  throng 
Shall  bear  from  victory  along 
To  that  mysterious  strand. 


LOVE'S  ROSE 

Sent  by  Shelley  to  Hogg,  in  a  letter :  '  I 
transcribe  for  you  a  strange  medley  of  mad- 
dened stufp,  which  I  wrote  by  the  midnight 
moon  last  night.  [Here  follow  To  a  Star  and 
Love's  .Rose.]  Ohe !  jam  satis  dementice  I  I 
hear  you  exclaim.'  Composed  in  1810  or  1811, 
and  published  by  Hogg,  Life  of  Shelley,  1858. 


Hopes,  that  swell  in  youthful  breasts. 

Live  not  through  the  waste  of  time  ? 
Love's  rose  a  host  of  thorns  invests; 

Cold,  ungenial  is  the  clime. 

Where  its  honors  blow. 
Youth  says,  '  The  purple  flowers  are  mine,' 

Which  die  the  while  they  glow. 

II 
Dear  the  boon  to  Fancy  given, 

Retracted  whilst  it's  granted: 
Sweet  the  rose  which  lives  in  heaven, 
Although  on  earth  't  is  planted, 
Where  its  honors  blow. 
While   by   earth's  slaves    the   leaves   are 
riven 
Which  die  the  while  they  glow. 

Ill 

Age  cannot  Love  destroy. 

But  perfidy  can  blast  the  flower, 
Even  when  in  most  unwary  hour 
It  blooms  in  Fancy's  bower. 

Age  cannot  Love  destroy, 

But  perfidy  can  rend  the  shrine 

In  which  its  vermeil  splendors  shine. 

EYES 
Published  by  Rossetti,  1870,  and  dated  18ia 

How  eloquent  are  eyes  ! 
Not  the  rapt  poet's  frenzied  lay 
When  the  soul's  wildest  feelings  stray 

Can  speak  so  well  as  they. 

How  eloquent  are  eyes  1 


POEMS   FROM   ST.  IRVYNE 


5SI 


Not  music's  most  impassioned  note 
On  which  love's  warmest  fervors  float 
Like  them  bids  rapture  rise. 

Love,  look  thus  again,  — 
That  your  look  may  light  a  waste  of  years, 
X)arting  the  beam  that  conquers  cares 

Through  tlie  cold  shower  of  tears. 

Love,  look  thus  again  ! 


POEMS   FROM   ST.  IRVYNE,  OR 
THE   ROSICRUCIAN 

Shelley's  romance,  St.  Irvyne,  or  the  Rosi- 
crucian,  was  in  MS.  by  April  1,  1810,  and  pub- 
lished about  December  IS,  of  that  year.  Med- 
win  writes  :  '  This  work  contains  several  poems, 
some  of  which  were  written  a  year  or  two  be- 
fore the  date  of  the  Romance.  .  .  .  Three  of 
them  are  in  the  metre  of  Walter  Scott's  Hel- 
vellyn,  a  poem  he  greatly  admired.'  Rossetti 
ascribes  I,  III,  V,  and  VI  to  the  year  1808, 
and  II  and  IV  to  1809. 


I 


VICTORIA 


'T  WAS  dead  of  the  night,  when  I  sat  in  my 

dwelling; 
One  glimmering  lamp  was  expiring  and 

low; 
Around,  the  dark  tide  of  the  tempest  was 

swelling. 
Along    the    wild    mountains  night-ravens 

were  yelling,  — 
They  bodingly  presaged  destruction  and 

woe. 


'T  was  then  that   I   started  !  —  the   wild 
storm  was  howling. 
Nought   was   seen    save    the    lightning 
which  danced  in  the  sky; 
Above  me   the  crash  of   the  thunder  was 
rolling, 
And    low,    chilling  murmurs  the   blast 
wafted  by. 

Ill 

My  heart  sank  within  me  —  unheeded  the 
war 
Of  the  battling  clouds  on  the  mountain- 
tops  broke; 


Unheeded  the  thunder-peal  crashed  in  mine 
ear  — 

This   heart,  hard  as  iron,  is  stranger  to 
fear; 
But  conscience  in  low,  noiseless  whisper- 
ing spoke. 

IV 

'T  was  then  that,  her  form  on  the  whirlwind 
upholding. 
The    ghost  of    the   murdered  Victoria 
strode; 
In  her  right  hand  a  shadowy  shroud  she 
was  holding; 
She   swiftly  advanced  to  my  lonesome 
abode. 


I  wildly  then  called  on  the  tempest  to  bear 
me  — 


II 


'ON  THE  DARK  HEIGHT  OF  JURA' 


Ghosts  of  the  dead !   have  I   not  heard 
your  yelling 
Rise  on  the  night-rolling  breath  of  the 
blast. 
When  o'er  the  dark  ether  the  tempest  is 
swelling, 
And  on  eddying  whirlwind  the  thunder- 
peal passed  ? 


For  oft  have  I  stood  on  the  dark  height  of 
Jura, 
Which  frowns  on  the  valley  that  opens 
beneath ; 
Oft  have  I  braved  the  chill  night-tempest's 
fury, 
Whilst  around  me,  I   thought,  echoed 
murmurs  of  death. 


And  now,  whilst  the  winds  of  the  moantain 
are  howling, 
O  father  I  thy  voice  seems  to  strike  on 
mine  ear; 
In  air  whilst  the  tide  of  the  night-storm  is 
rolling, 
It  breaks  on  the  pause  of  the  elements' 
jar. 


ss^ 


JUVENILIA 


IV 

And  he  stamped  on  the  ground,  — 

On  the  wing  of  the  whirlwind  which  roars 

But,  when  ceased  the  sound, 

o'er  the  mountain 

Tears  again  began  to  flow. 

Perhaps  rides  the  ghost  of  my  sire  who 

is  dead,  — 

VI 

On  the  mist  of  the  tempest  which  hangs 

And  the  ice  of  despair 

1        o'er  the  fountain, 

Chilled  the  wild  throb  of  care. 

Whilst  a  wreath  of  dark  vapor  encircles 

And  he  sate  in  mute  agony  still; 

his  head. 

Till  the  night-stars  shone  through  the 

cloudless  air, 

Ill 

And  the  pale  moonbeam  slept  on  the  hill. 

SISTER  ROSA:    A  BALLAD 

VII 
Then  he  knelt  in  his  cell, — 

And  the  horrors  of  hell 

I 

Were  delights  to  his  agonized  pain; 

The  death-bell  beats  !  — 

And  he  prayed  to  God   to  dissolve  the 

The  mountain  repeats 

spell, 

The  echoing  sound  of  the  knell; 

Which  else  must  forever  remain. 

And  the  dark  monk  now 

Wraps  the  cowl  round  his  brow, 

VIII 

As  he  sits  in  his  lonely  cell. 

And  in  fervent  prayer  he  knelt   on   the 

ground, 

II 

Till  the  abbey  bell  struck  one; 

And  the  cold  hand  of  death 

His  feverish  blood  ran  chill  at  the  sound ; 

Chills  his  shuddering  breath, 

A   voice   hollow  and  horrible    murmured 

As  he  lists  to  the  fearful  lay. 

around, — 

Which  the  ghosts  of  the  sky. 

'  The  term  of  thy  penance  is  done  ! ' 

As  they  sweep  wildly  by, 

Sing  to  departed  day. 

IX 

And  they  sing  of  the  hour 

Grew  dark  the  night; 

When  the  stern  fates  had  power 

The  moonbeam  bright 

To  resolve  Rosa's  form  to  its  clay. 

Waxed  faint  on  the  mountain  high; 

And  from  the  black  hill 

Ill 

Went  a  voice  cold  and  still,  — 

But  that  hour  is  past; 

'  Monk  !  thou  art  free  to  die.' 

And  that  hour  was  the  last 

Of  peace  to  the  dark  monk's  brain; 

X 

Bitter  tears  from  his  eyes  gushed  silent 

Tlien  he  ros6  on  his  feet. 

and  fast; 

And  his  heart  loud  did  beat, 

And  he  strove  to  suppress  them  in  vain. 

And    his   limbs   they   were    palsied    with 

dread ; 

IV 

Whilst  the  grave's  clammy  dew 

Then  his  fair  cross  of  gold  he  dashed  on 

O'er  his  pale  forehead  grew; 

the  floor, 

And    he    shuddered    to    sleep    with    the 

When  the  death-knell  struck  on  his  ear, — 

dead. 

'  Delight  is  in  store 

For  her  evermore ; 

XI 

But  for  me  is  fate,  horror,  and  fear.' 

And  the  wild  midnight  storm 

Raved  around  his  tall  form. 

V 

As  he  sought  the  chapel's  gloom: 

Then  his  eyes  wildly  rolled. 

And  the  sunk  grass  did  sigh 

When  the  death-bell  tolled. 

To  the  wind,  bleak  and  high. 

And  he  raged  in  terrific  woe; 

As  he  searched  for  the  new-made  tomb. 

POEMS   FROM   ST.  IRVYNE 


553 


And  forms,  dark  and  high, 

Seemed  around  him  to  fly. 
And  mingle  their  yells  with  the  blast,  — 

And  on  the  dark  wall 

Half-seen  shadows  did  fall, 
As,  enhorrored,  he  onward  passed. 

XIII 

And  the  storm-fiends  wild  rave 

O'er  the  new-made  grave. 
And  dread  shadows  linger  around;  — 

The  Monk  called  on  God  his  soul  to  save. 
And,  iu  horror,  sank  on  the  ground. 

XIV 

Then  despair  nerved  his  arm 

To  dispel  the  charm, 
And  he  burst  Rosa's  cofBn  asunder; 

And  the  fierce  storm  did  swell 

More  terrific  and  fell 
And  louder  pealed  the  thunder. 

XV 
And  laughed  in  joy  the  fiendish  threng, 
Mixed  with  ghosts   of.  the   mouldering 
dead; 
And  their  grisly   wings,   as  they  floated 
along, 
Whistled  in  murmurs  dread. 

XVI 

And  her  skeleton  form  the  dead  Nun  reared, 

Which  dripped  with  the  chill  dew  of  hell; 

In  her  half-eaten  eyeballs  two  pale  flames 

appeared. 
And  triumphant  their  gleam  on  the  dark 
monk  glared. 
As  he  stood  within  the  cell. 

XVII 

And  her  lank  hand  lay  on  his  shuddering 
brain. 

But  each  power  was  nerved  by  fear,  — 
*  I  never,  henceforth,  may  breathe  again; 
Death  now  ends  mine  anguished  pain. 

The  grave  yawns,  —  we  meet  there.' 

XVIII 

And  her  skeleton  lungs  did  utter  the  sound. 

So  deadly,  so  lone  and  so  fell 
That    in    long  vibrations   shuddered    the 

ground ; 
And,  as  the  stem  notes  floated  around, 

A  deep  groan  was  answered  from  bell. 


IV 
ST.  IRVYNE'S   TOWER 


How  swiftly  through   heaven's  wide  ex- 
panse 

Bright  day's  resplendent  colors  fade  ! 
How  sweetly  does  the  moonbeam's  glance 

With  silver  tint  St.  Irvyne's  glade  1 

II 
No  cloud  along  the  spangled  air. 

Is  borne  upon  the  evening  breeze; 
How  solemn  is  the  scene  I  how  fair 

The  moonbeams  rest  upon  the  trees  ! 

Ill 

Yon  dark  gray  turret  glimmers  white, 
Upon  it  sits  the  mournful  owl; 

Along  the  stillness  of  the  night 
Her  melancholy  shriekings  roll. 

IV 

But  not  alone  on  Irvyne's  tower 

The  silver  moonbeam  pours  her  rays; 

It  gleams  upon  the  ivied  bower. 
It  dances  in  the  cascade's  spray. 


♦  Ah  I  why  do  darkening  shades  conceal 
The  hour  when  man  must  cease  to  be  ? 

Why  may  not  human  minds  unveil 
The  dim  mists  of  futurity  ? 

VI 

'  The  keenness  of  the  world  hath  torn 
The  heart  which  opens  to  its  blast; 

Despised,  neglected,  and  forlorn, 
Sinks  the  wretch  in  death  at  last.' 


BEREAVEMENT 


How  stern  are  the  woes  of  the  desolate 
mourner, 
As  he  bends  in  still  grief  o'er  the  hal- 
lowed bier, 
As  enanguished  he  turns  from  the  laugh  of 
the  scorner. 
And  drops  to  perfection's  remembrance  a 
tear; 


554 


JUVENILIA 


When  floods  of  despair  down  his  pale  cheek 

are  streaming, 
When  no  blissful  hope   on  his  bosom   is 

beaming, 
Or,  if  lulled  for  a  while,  soon  he  starts 

from  his  dreaming, 
And  finds  torn  the  soft  ties  to  affection 

so  dear. 


Ah  !  when  shall  day  dawn  on  the  night  of 

the  grave, 
Or  summer  succeed   to   the   winter  of 

death  ? 
Rest  awhile,  hapless  victim,  and   Heaven 

will  save 
The   spirit   that  faded   away   with  the 

breath. 
Eternity  points  in  its  amaranth  bower, 
Where  no  clouds  of  fate  o'er  the  sweet  pros- 
pect lower. 
Unspeakable    pleasure,   of    goodness   the 

dower. 
When  woe  fades  away  like  the  mist  of 

the  heath. 


VI 


THE   DROWNED  LOVER 


Ah  !  faint  are  her  limbs,  and  her  footstep 

is  weary, 
Yet   far    must    the    desolate   wanderer 

roam; 
Though  the  tempest  is  stem,  and  the  moun- 
tain is  dreary. 
She   must    quit  at  deep  midnight  her 

pitiless  home. 
I  see  her  swift  foot  dash  the  dew  from  the 

whortle. 
As  she  rapidly  hastes  to  the  green  grove  of 

myrtle ; 
And  I  hear,  as  she  wraps  round  her  figure 

the  kirtle, 
•Stay   thy  boat  on  the  lake,  —  dearest 

Henry,  I  come.' 


High  swelled  in  her  bosom   the  throb  of 
affection. 
As  lightly  her  form  bounded  over  the 
lea, 


And  arose  in  her  mind  every  dear  recollec- 
tion; 
'  I  come,  dearest  Henry,  and  wait  but  for 
thee.' 

How  sad,  when  dear  hope  every  sorrow  is 
soothing. 

When  sympathy's  swell  the  soft  bosom  is 
moving. 

And  the  mind  the  mild  joys  of  affection  is 
proving. 
Is  the  stern  voice  of  fate  that  bids  hap- 
piness flee  ! 

Ill 

Oh  I  dark  lowered  the  clouds  on  that  horri- 
ble eve. 
And  the   moon  dimly  gleamed  through 
the  tempested  air; 

Oh  I  how  could  fond  visions  such  softness 
deceive  ? 
Oh  1  how  could  false  hope  rend  a  bosom 
so  fair  ? 

Thy  love's  pallid  corse  the  wild  surges  are 
laving. 

O'er  his  form  the  fierce  swell  of  the  tem- 
pest is  raving; 

But  fear  not,  parting  spirit;  thy  goodness 
is  saving. 
In  eternity's  bowers,  a  seat  for  thee  there. 


POSTHUMOUS   FRAGMENTS 

OF 

MARGARET   NICHOLSON; 

BEING    POEMS    FOUND    AMONGST     THE     PAPERS 

OF  THAT    NOTED   FEMALE   WHO   ATTEMPTED 

THE    LIFE   OF   THE   KING    IN    1786. 

Edited  by  JOHN  FITZVICTOR 

The  Posthumous  Fragments  of  Margaret 
Nicholson  was  published  in  November,  181 1), 
at  Oxford,  probably  as  a  pamphlet.  Hog^g 
narrates  the  origin  and  history  of  this  volume 
at  length.  The  material  points  of  liis  account 
are  that  he  found  Shelley  reading  the  proofs 
of  some  poems  -which  were  meant  to  be  pub- 
lished, and  advised  him  to  burlesque  them  and 
issue  them  as  a  joke ;  that  this  plan  was 
adopted,  and  the  poems,  revised  by  the  two 
friends  and  ascribed  on  Hogg's  suggestion  to 
Peg  Nicholson,  a  mad  woman,  then  still  living, 
who  had  attempted  the  life  of  George  III., 
were  printed  at  the  publishers'  expense  and 
eagerly  taken  up  by  the  Oxford  collegians.   He 


POSTHUMOUS   FRAGMENTS 


555 


adds  tliat  the  first  poera  was  not  Shelley's,  but 
was  the  production  of  a  '  rhymester  of  the  day  ' 
and  had  been  confided  to  him.  This  account  is 
discredited  by  Dowden  and  others  ;  the  inten- 
tionally burlesque  portion  is  thought  to  be  con- 
fined to  the  Epithalamium  in  the  lines  referred 
to  by  Shelley  below  ;  '  the  rhymester '  is  pre- 
sumed to  be  Hog-g,  and  his  work  not  the  first 
poem,  but  the  aforesaid  passage  of  the  Epitha- 
lamium. 

Shelley  throws  a  dubious  light  on  the  matter 
in  a  letter  to  Graham,  November  30,  1810 : 
'  The  part  of  the  Epithalamium  which  you 
mention  (i.  e.  from  the  end  of  Satan's  triumph) 
is  the  production  of  a  friend's  mistress ;  it  had 
been  concluded  there,  but  she  thought  it  abrupt 
and  added  this  ;  it  is  omitted  in  numbers  of  the 
copies  —  that  which  I  sent  to  my  Mother  of 
course  did  not  contain  it.  I  shall  possibly  send 
you  the  abuse  to-day,  but  I  am  afraid  that 
they  will  not  insert  it.  But  you  mistake  ;  the 
Epithalamium  will  make  it  sell  like  wildfire, 
and  as  the  Nephew  is  kept  a  profound  secret, 
there  can  arise  no  danger  from  the  indelicacy 
of  the  Aunt.  It  sells  wonderfully  here,  and  is 
become  the  fashionable  subject  of  discussion. 
...  Of  course  to  my  Father  Peg  is  a  profound 
secret.' 

The  composition  of  the  verses  is  described 
by  an  eye-witness,  whose  account  is  given  in 
Montgomery's  Oxford,  quoted  by  Dowden : 
'  The  ease  with  which  Shelley  composed  many 
of  the  stanzas  therein  contained  is  truly  aston- 
ishing. When  surprised  with  a  proof  from  the 
printers  on  the  morning  he  would  frequently 
start  off  his  sofa  exclaiming  that  that  had  been 
his  only  bed  ;  and  on  being  informed  that  the 
men  were  waiting  for  more  copy,  he  would  sit 
down  and  write  off  a  few  stanzas,  and  send 
them  to  the  press  without  even  revising  or 
reading  them.' 


ADVERTISEMENT 

The  energy  and  native  genius  of  these  Frag- 
ments must  be  the  only  apology  which  the 
Editor  can  make  for  thus  intruding  them  on 
the  Public  Notice.  The  first  I  found  with  no 
title,  and  have  left  it  so.  It  is  intimately  con- 
nected with  the  dearest  interests  of  universal 
happiness ;  and  much  as  we  may  deplore  the 
fatal  and  enthusiastic  tendency  which  the 
ideas  of  this  poor  female  had  acquired,  we 
cannot  fail  to  pay  the  tribute  of  unequivocal 
regret  to  the  departed  memory  of  genius, 
which,  had  it  been  rightly  organized,  would 
have  made  that  intellect,  which  has  since  be- 
come the  victim  of  frenzy  and  despair,  a  most 
brilliant  ornament  to  society. 

In  case  the  sale  of  these  Fragments  evinces 


that  the  Public  have  any  curiosity  to  be  pre- 
sented with  a  more  copious  collection  of  my 
unfortunate  Aunt's  Poems,  I  have  other  papers 
in  my  possession,  which  shall,  in  that  case,  be 
subjected  to  their  notice.  It  may  be  supposed 
they  require  much  arrangement ;  but  I  send 
the  following  to  the  press  in  the  same  state  in 
which  they  came  into  my  possession. 

J.  F. 

WAR 

Ambition,  power,  and  avarice,  now  have 

hurled 
Death,  fate,  and  ruin,  on  a  bleeding  world. 
See  1  on  yon  heath  what  countless  victims 

lie! 
Hark !  vvliat  loud  shrieks  ascend  through 

yonder  sky  ! 
Tell  then  the  cause,  'tis  sure  the  avenger's 

rage 
Has     swept     these    myriads    from    life's 

crowded  stage. 
Hark  to  that  groan  —  an  anguished  hero 

dies. 
He  shudders  in  death's  latest  agonies; 
Yet  does  a  fleeting  hectic  flush  his  cheek, 
Yet    does    his    parting    breath    essay    to . 

speak: — 

'  O  God  !  my  wife,  my  children  !     Mon- 
arch, thou 
For  whose  support  this  fainting  frame  lies 

low, 
For  whose  support  in  distant  lands  I  bleed, 
Let   his  friends'  welfare  be  the  warrior's 

meed. 
He  hears  me  not  —  ah  !  no  —  kings  canriot 

hear, 
For  passion's  voice  has  dulled  their  listless 

ear. 
To  thee,    then,   mighty   God,   I    lift    my 

moan; 
Thoa  wilt  not  scorn  a  suppliant's  anguished 

groan. 
Oh  !  now  I  die  —  but  still  is  death's  fierce 

pain  — 
God  hears  my  prayer  —  we  meet,  we  meet 

again.' 
He  spake,  reclined  him  on  death's  bloody 

bed. 
And  with  a  parting  groan  his  spirit  fled. 

Oppressors  of  mankind,  to  you  we  owe 
The  baleful   streams   from  whence   these 
miseries  flow; 


5S6 


JUVENILIA 


For  you  how  many  a  mother  weeps   her 

sou, 
Snatched  from  life's  coarse  ere  half  his 

race  was  run  ! 
For  you  how  many  a  widow  drops  a  tear, 
In  silent  anguish,  on  her  husbaud's  bier  1 

•  Is  it  then  thine,  Almighty  Power,'  she 

cries, 
*  Whence  tears  of  endless  sorrow  dim  these 

eyes? 
Is  this  the  system  which  thy  powerful  sway, 
Which  else  in  shapeless  chaos  sleeping  lay, 
Formed  and  approved  ?  —  it  cannot  be  — 

but  oh  1 
Forgive  me  Heaven,  my  brain  is  warped  by 

woe.' 

'Tis  not  —  he  never  bade  the  war-note 

swell, 
He  never  triumphed  in  the  work  of  hell. 
Monarchs  of  earth  !   thine   is  the  baleful 

deed. 
Thine  are  the  crimes  for  which  thy  subjects 

bleed. 
Ah  !  when  will  come  the  sacred  fated  time. 
When  man  unsullied  by  his  leaders'  crime, 
Despising    wealth,   ambition,    pomp,   and 

pride, 
Will  stretch  him  fearless  by  his  foemen's 

side  ? 
Ah  !  when  will  come  the  time,  when  o'er 

the  plain 
No  more  shall  death  and  desolation  reign  ? 
When  will  the  sun  smile  on  the  bloodless 

field, 
And   the   stern  warrior's   arm   the   sickle 

wield  ? 
Not  whilst  some  King,  in  cold  ambition's 

dreams, 
Plans  for  the  field  of  death  his  plodding 

schemes; 
Not  whilst  for  private  pique  the  public  fall, 
And  one   frail  mortal's  mandate  governs 

all,  — 
Swelled  with  command  and  mad  with  diz- 
zying sway; 
Who  sees  unmoved  bis  myriads  fade  away, 
Careless   who  lives  or  dies  —  so  that  he 

gains 
Some  trivial  point  for  which  he  took  the 

pains. 
What  then  are  Kings  ?  —  I  see  the  trem- 
bling crowd, 
I  hear  their  fulsome  clamors  echoed  loud: 


Their    stern    oppressor    pleased     appears 

awhile. 
But  April's  sunshine  is  a  Monarch's  smile. 
Kings  are   but  dust  —  the    last  eventful 

day 
Will  level  all  and  make  them  lose  their 

sway; 
Will  dash  the  sceptre  from  the  Monarch's 

hand. 
And  from  the  warrior's  grasp  wrest  the 

ensanguined  brand. 

O  Peace,  soft  Peace,  art  thou  forever 
gone  ? 

Is  thy  fair  form  indeed  forever  flown  ? 

And  love  and  concord  hast  thou  swept 
away. 

As  if  incongruous  with  thy  parted  sway  ? 

Alas  I  fear  thou  hast,  for  none  appear. 

Now  o'er  the  palsied  earth  stalks  giant 
Fear, 

With  War  and  Woe  and  Terror  in  his 
train ; 

List'ning  he  pauses  on  the  embattled  plain, 

Then,  speeding  swiftly  o'er  the  ensanguined 
heath, 

Has  left  the  frightful  work  to  hell  and 
death. 

See !  gory  Ruin  yokes  his  blood-stained 
car; 

He  scents  the  battle's  carnage  from  afar; 

Hell  and  destruction  mark  his  mad  ca- 
reer; 

He  tracks  the  rapid  step  of  hurrying  Fear; 

Whilst  ruined  towns  and  smoking  cities 
tell. 

That  thy  work,  Monarch,  is  the  work  of 
hell. 

'  It  IS  thy  work  I '  I  hear  a  voice  repeat, 

'  Shakes  the  broad  basis  of  thy  blood- 
stained seat; 

And  at  the  orphan's  sigh,  the  widow's 
moan, 

Totters  the  fabric  of  thy  gpuilt-stained 
throne  — 

It  is  thy  work,  O  Monarch.'  Now  the 
sound 

Fainter  and  fainter  yet  is  borne  around; 

Yet  to  enthusiast  ears  the  murmurs  tell 

That  heaven,  indignant  at  the  work  of 
hell. 

Will  soon  the  cause,  the  hated  cause  re- 
move, 

Which  tears  from  earth  peace,  innocence 
and  love. 


POSTHUMOUS   FRAGMENTS 


557 


FRAGMENT 

SUPPOSED  TO  BE  AN  EPITHALAMIUM  OF 
FRANCIS  RAVAILLAC  AND  CHARLOTTE 
CORDAY 

'T  IS  midnight  now  —  athwart  the  murky 
air 
Dank  lurid  meteors  shoot  a  livid  gleam; 
From  the  dark  storm-clouds  flashes  a  fear- 
ful glare, 
It  shows  the  bending  oak,  the  roaring 
stream. 
I  pondered  on  the  woes  of  lost  mankind, 
I  pondered  on   the    ceaseless   rage    of 
kings; 
My  rapt  soul  dwelt  upon  the  ties  that  bind 
The  mazy  volume  of  commingling  things, 
When  fell  and  wild  misrule  to  man  stern 
sorrow  brings. 

I  heard  a  yell  —  it  was  not  the  knell, 
When  the  blasts  on  the  wild  lake  sleep, 

That  floats   on  the  pause  of  the  summer 
gale's  swell 
O'er  the  breast  of  the  waveless  deep. 

I  thought  it  had  been  death's  accents  cold 
That  bade  me  recline  on  the  shore; 

I  laid  mine  hot  head  on  the  surge-beaten 
mould, 
And  thought  to  breathe  no  more. 

But  a  heavenly  sleep 
That  did  suddenly  steep 

In  balm  my  bosom's  pain. 
Pervaded  my  soul, 
And  free  from  control 

Did  mine  intellect  range  again. 

Methought  enthroned  upon  a  silvery  cloud. 
Which  floated  mid  a  strange  and  bril- 
liant light. 
My  form  upborne  by  viewless  ether  rode. 
And   spurned  the    lessening  realms  of 
earthly  night. 
What  heavenly  notes  burst  on  my  ravished 
ears. 
What  beauteous  spirits  met  my  dazzled 
eye! 
Hark  I  louder  swells    the  music    of    the 
spheres. 
More  clear  the  forms  of  speechless  bliss 
float  by, 
And  heavenly  gestures  suit  ethereal  melody. 


But  fairer  than  the  spirits  of  the  air, 
More  graceful  than  the  Sylph  of  symme- 
try. 
Than  tlie  enthusiast's  fancied  love  more 
fair, 
Were  the  bright  forms  that  swept  the 
azure  sky. 
Enthroned   in    roseate   light,  a    heavenly 
band 
Strewed  flowers  of  bliss  that  never  fade 
away; 
They  welcome  virtue  to  its  native  land, 
And  songs  of  triumph  greet  the  joyous 
day 
When  endless  bliss  the  woes  of  fleeting  life 
repay. 

Congenial  minds  will  seek  their  kindred 
soul, 
E'en  though  the  tide  of  time  has  rolled 
between ; 
They  mock  weak  matter's  impotent  control, 
And  seek  of    endless   life  the  eternal 
scene. 
At  death's  vain  summons  this  will  never 
die. 
In  Nature's  chaos  this  will  not  decay. 
These  are  the  bands  which  closely,  warmly, 
tie 
Thy  soul,  O  Charlotte,  'yond  this  chain 
of  clay. 
To  him  who  thine  must  be  till  time  shall 
fade  away. 

Yes,  Francis  !  thine  was  the  dear  knife 
that  tore 
A  tyrant's  heartstrings  from  his  guilty 
breast; 
Thine  was  the  daring  at  a  tyrant's  gore 
To  smile  in  triumph,  to  contemn  the 
rest; 
And  thine,   loved  glory  of  thy  sex  I    to 
tear 
From  its  base  shrine  a  despot's  haughty 
soul. 
To  laugh  at  sorrow  in  secure  despair, 
To  mock,  with  smiles,  life's  lingering 
control. 
And  triumph  mid  the  griefs  that  round  thy 
fate  did  roll. 

Yes !  the  fierce  spirits  of   the  avenging 
deep 
With  endless  tortures  goad  their  guilty 
shades. 


558 


JUVENILIA 


I  see  the  lank  and  ghastly  spectres  sweep 
Along  the  burning  length  of  yon  arcades ; 

And  I  see  Satan  stalk  athwart  the  plain  — 
He  hastes  along  the  burning  soil  of  hell; 

*  Welcome,  thou  despots,  to  my  dark  do- 
main ! 

With  maddening  joy  mine  anguished  senses 
swell 

To  welcome  to  their  home  the  friends  I 
love  so  well.' 


Hark  !  to  those  notes,  how  sweet,  how  thrill- 
ing sweet 
They  echo  to  the  sound  of  angels'  feet. 

Oh,  haste  to  the  bower   where  roses  are 

spread, 
For  there  is  prepared  thy  nuptial  bed. 
Oh,  haste  —  hark  !  hark  !  —  they  're  gone. 

CHORUS  OF  spiRrrs 
Stay,  ye  days  of  contentment  and  joy. 

Whilst  love  every  care  is  erasing; 
Stay,  ye  pleasures  that  never  can  cloy, 
And   ye   spirits  that  can  never  cease 
pleasing  ! 

And  if  any  soft  passion  be  near. 

Which     mortals,    frail    mortals,    can 
know. 

Let  love  shed  on  the  bosom  a  tear, 
And  dissolve  the  chill  ice-drop  of  woe. 

SYMPHONY 

FRAKCIS 

Soft,  my  dearest  angel  stay. 
Oh  !  you  suck  my  soul  away; 
Suck  on,  suck  on,  I  glow,  I  glow  ! 
Tides  of  maddening  passion  roll, 
And  streams  of  rapture    drown  my 

soul. 
Now  give  me  one  more  billing  kiss. 
Let  your  lips  now  repeat  the  bliss, 
Endless  kisses  steal  my  breath, 
No  life  can  equal  such  a  death. 

OHARLOTTB 

Oh  I  yes,  I  will  kiss  thine  eyes  so  fair, 

And  I  will  clasp  thy  form; 
Serene  is  the  breath  of  the  balmy  air. 

But  I  think,    love,  thou  feelest  me 
varm. 


And  I  will  recline  on  thy  marble  neck 

Till  I  mingle  into  thee; 
And  I  will  kiss  the  rose  on  thy  cheek. 

And  thou  shalt  give  kisses  to  me ; 
For  here  is  no  morn  to  flout  our  delight 

Oh  !  dost  thou  not  joy  at  this  ? 
And  here  we  may  lie  an  endless  night, 

A  long,  long  night  of  bliss. 


Spirits  !  when  raptures  move. 

Say  what  it  is  to  love. 

When  passion's  tear  stands  on  the  cheek. 

When  bursts  the  unconscious  sigh; 
And  the  tremulous  lips  dare  not  speak 

What  is  told  by  the  soul-felt  eye.  * 

But  what  is  sweeter  to  revenge's  ear 

Than  the  fell  tyrant's  last  expiring  yell  ? 
Yes  !  than  love's  sweetest  blisses  't  is  more 
dear 

To  drink  the    floatings  of    a    despot's 
knell. 
I  wake  —  't  is  done  —  't  is  o'er. 


DESPAIR 

And  canst  thou   mock  mine  agony,  thus 
calm 
lu  cloudless  radiance,  Queen  of  silver 
night  ? 
Canyon,  ye  flowerets,  spread  your  perfumed 
balm 
Mid  pearly  gems  of  dew  that  shine  so 
bright  ? 
And  you  wild  winds,  thus  can  you  sleep  so 
still 
Whilst  throbs  the  tempest  of  my  breast 
so  high  ? 
Can  the  fierce  night-fiends  rest  on  yonder 
hill. 
And,  in  the  eternal  mansions  of  the  sky, 
Can  the  directors  of  the  storm  in  powerless 
silence  lie  ? 

Hark !    I    hear    music    on    the    zephyr's 
wing  — 
Louder  it  floats  along  the  unruffled  sky; 
Some  fairy  sure  has  touched  the  viewless 
string  — 
Now  faint  in  distant  air  the  murmnra 
die. 
Awhile  it  stills  the  tide  of  agony; 

Now  —  now  it    loftier    awells  —  again 
stern  woe 


POSTHUMOUS   FRAGMENTS 


559 


Arises  with  the  awakening  melody; 

Again  fierce  torments,  such  as  demons 

know, 
In  bitterer,  feller  tide,  on  this  torn  bosom 

flow. 

Arise,  ye  sightless  spirits  of  the  storm. 

Ye  unseen  minstrels  of  the  aerial  song, 
Pour  the   fierce   tide   around  this   lonely 
form, 
And  roll   the   tempest's    wildest    swell 
along. 
Dart  the  red   lightning,  wing  the  forked 
flash, 
Pour  from  thy  cloud-formed  hills  the 
thunder's  roar; 
Arouse  the  whirlwind  —  and  let  ocean  dash 
In     fiercest    tumult    on     the      rocking 
shore,  — 
Destroy  this  life'or  let  earth's  fabric  be  no 
more ! 

Yes  !  every  tie  that  links  me  here  is  dead ; 

Mysterious  fate,  thy  mandate  I  obey  ! 
Since  hope  and  peace,  and  joy,  for  aye  are 
fled, 
I  come,  terrific  power,  I  come  away. 
Then  o'er  this  ruined  soul  let  spirits  of  hell. 
In   triumph,  laughing  wildly,   mock   its 
pain; 
And,  though  with  direst  pangs  mine  heart- 
strings swell, 
I  '11  echo  back  their  deadly  yells  again, 
Cursing  the  power  that  ne'er  made  aught 


FRAGMENT 

Yes  !    all  is  past  —  swift    time    has    fled 
away. 
Yet  its   swell  pauses   on  my  sickening 
mind. 
How  long  will  horror  nerve  this  frame  of 
clay? 
I  'm  dead,  and  lingers  yet  my  soul  be- 
hind. 
Oh !    powerful   fate,    revoke    thy    deadly 
spell. 
And  yet  that  may  not  ever,  ever  be, 
Heaven  will   not  smile  upon  the  work  of 
hell; 
Ah  !  no,  for  heaven  cannot  smile  on  me; 
Fate,  envious  fate,  has  sealed  my  wayward 
destiny. 


I  sought  the  cold  brink  of  the  midnight 
surge ; 
I  sighed  beneath  its  wave  to  hide  my 
woes; 
The  rising  tempest  sung  a  funeral  dirge, 
And  on  the  blast  a  frightful  yell  arose. 
Wild  flew  the  meteors  o'er  the  maddened 
main, 
Wilder  did    grief    athwart   my  bosom 
glare; 
Stilled  was   the  unearthly  howling,  and  a 
strain 
Swelled  'mid  the  tumult  of  the  battling 
air, 
'T  was  like  a  spirit's   song,  but  yet  more 
soft  and  fair. 

I  met  a  maniac  —  like  he  was  to  me ; 
I  said  — '  Poor  victim,    wherefore  dost 
thou  roam  ? 
And  canst  thou  not  contend  with  agony, 
That  thus  at   midnight  thou   dost   quit 
thine  home  ?  ' 
'  Ah,  there  she  sleeps:  cold  is  her  bloodless 
form. 
And  I  will  go  to  slumber  in  her  grave; 
And  then  our  ghosts,  whilst  raves  the  mad^ 
dened  storm, 
Will  sweep  at  midnight  o'er  the  wildered 
wave; 
Wilt  thou  our  lowly  beds  with  tears  of  pity 
lave?' 

*  Ah  !  no,  I  cannot  shed  the  pitying  tear. 
This  breast  is  cold,  this  heart  can  feel  no 
more; 
But  I  can  rest  me  on  thy  chilling  bier. 
Can   shriek  in   horror  to  the  tempest's 
roar.' 


THE   SPECTRAL   HORSEMAN 

What  was  the  shriek  that  struck  fancy's 

ear 
As  it  sate  on  the  ruins  of  time  that  is  past  ? 
Hark !  it  floats  on  the  fitful  blast  of  tlie 

wind. 
And  breathes  to  the  pale  moon  a  funeral 

sigh. 
It  is  the  Benshie's  moan  on  the  storm. 
Or  a  shivering  fiend   that,   thirsting  for 

sin, 
Seeks  murder  and  guilt  when  virtue  sleeps, 


56o 


JUVENILIA 


Winged  with  the  power  of  some  ruthless 

king, 
And  sweeps  o'er  the  breast  of  the  prostrate 

plain. 
It  was  not  a  fiend  from  the  regions  of  hell 
That  poured  its  low  moan  on  the  stillness 

of  night; 
It  was  not  a  ghost  of  the  guilty  dead, 
Nor  a  yelling  vampire  reeking  with  gore ; 
But  aye  at  the  close  of  seven  years'  end 
That  voice  is  mixed  with  tlie  swell  of  the 

storm. 
And  aye  at  the  close  of  seven  years'  end, 
A  shapeless  shadow  that  sleeps  on  the  hill 
Awakens   and  floats   on  the  mist  of  the 

heath. 
It  is  not  the  shade  of  a  murdered  man, 
Who  has  rushed  uncalled  to  the  throne  of 

his  God, 
And  howls  in  the  pause  of  the  eddying 

storm. 
This  voice  is  low,  cold,  hollow,  and  chill; 
'T  is  not  lieard  by  the  ear,  but  is  felt  in  the 

soul. 
*Tis  more  frightful  far  than  the  death- 
demon's  scream. 
Or  the  laughter  of  fiends  when  they  howl 

o'er  the  corpse 
Of  a  man  who  has  sold  his  soul  to  hell. 
It  tells  the  approach  of  a  mystic  form, 
A  white  courser  bears  the  shadowy  sprite ; 
More  thin  they  are  than  the  mists  of  the 

mountain. 
When  the  clear  moonlight  sleeps  on  the 

waveless  lake. 
More   pale   his  cheek  than  the  snows  of 

Nithona 
When  winter  rides  on  the  northern  blast, 
And   howls   in   the  midst  of  the   leafless 

wood. 
Yet  when  the  fierce  swell  of  the  tempest  is 

raving. 
And  the  whirlwinds  howl  in  the  caves  of 

Liisfallen, 
Still  secure  'mid  the  wildest  war  of  the 

sky, 

The  phantom  courser  scours  the  waste, 
And  his  rider  howls  in  the  thunder's  roar. 
O'er  him   the    fierce    bolts    of    avenging 

heaven 
Pause,  as  in  fear,  to  strike  his  head. 
The  meteors  of  midnight  recoil  from  his 

figure; 
Yet  the  wildered  peasant,  that  oft  passes 

by. 


With  wonder  beholds  the  blue  flash  through 

his  form; 
And  his  voice,  though  faiiit  as  the  sighs  of 

the  dead, 
The  startled  passenger  shudders  to  hear, 
More  distinct  than  the  thunder's  wildest 

roar. 
Then  does  the  dragon,  who,  chained  in  the 

caverns 
To  eternity,  curses  the  champion  of  Erin, 
Moan   and  yell   loud  at  the  lone  hour  of 

midnight. 
And  twine  his  vast  wreaths  round  the  forms 

of  the  demons; 
Then   in  agony  roll  his  death-swimming 

eyeballs. 
Though  wildered  by  death,  yet  never  to 

die! 
Then  he  shakes  from  his  skeleton  folds  the 

nightmares, 
Who,  shrieking  in  agony,  seek  the  couch 
Of  some  fevered  wretch  who  courts  sleep 

in  vain; 
Then  the   tombless   ghosts  of  the  guilty 

dead 
In  horror  pause  on  the  fitful  gale. 
They  float  on  the  swell  of  the  eddying 

tempest, 
And  scared  seek  the  caves  of  gigantic  .  .  . 
Where  their  thin  forms   pour  unearthly 

sounds 
On  the  blast  that  sweeps  the  breast  of  the 

lake. 
And  mingles  its  swell  with  the  moonlight 


MELODY  TO   A  SCENE   OF 
FORMER   TIMES 

Art  thou  indeed  forever  gone, 

Forever,  ever,  lost  to  me  ? 
Must  this  poor  bosom  beat  alone, 

Or  beat  at  all,  if  not  for  thee  ? 
Ah,  why  was  love  to  mortals  given, 
To  lift  them  to  the  height  of  heaven, 
Or  dash  them  to  the  depths  of  hell  ? 

Yet  I  do  not  reproach  thee,  dear  I 
Ah  I  no,  the  agonies  that  swell 

This  panting  breast,  this  frenzied  brain, 

Might  wake  my *s  slumbering  tear. 

Oh  !  heaven  is  witness  I  did  love, 
And  heaven  does  know  I  love  thee  still,  — 
Does  know  the  fruitless  sickening  thrill, 

When  reason's  judgment  vainly  strove 


BIGOTRY'S   VICTIM 


S6i 


To  blot  thee  from  my  memory; 
But  which  might  never,  never  be. 
Oh  !  I  appeal  to  that  blest  day 
When  passion's  wildest  ecstasy 
Was  coldness  to  the  joys  I  knew, 
When  every  sorrow  sunk  away. 
Oh  !  I  had  never  lived  before, 
But  now  those  blisses  are  no  more. 

And  now  I  cease  to  live  again, 
I  do  not  blame  thee,  love;  ah  no  ! 
The  breast  that  feels  this  anguished  woe 
Throbs  for  thy  happiness  alone. 
Two  years  of  speechless  bliss  are  gone,  — 
I  thank  thee,  dearest,  for  the  dream. 
'T  is  night  —  what  faint  and  distant  scream 
Comes  on  the  wild  and  fitful  blast  ? 
It  moans  for  pleasures  that  are  past, 
It  moans  for  days  that  are  gone  by. 
Oh  !  lagging  hours,  how  slow  you  tly  1 

I  see  a  dark  and  lengthened  vale. 
The  black  view  closes  with  the  tomb; 
But  darker  is  the  lowering  gloom 

That  shades  the  intervening  dale. 
In  visioned  slumber  for  awhile 
I  seem  again  to  share  thy  smile, 
I  seem  to  hang  upon  thy  tone. 

Again  you  say,  '  confide  in  me. 
For  I  am  thine,  and  thine  alone. 

And  thine  must  ever,  ever  be.' 
But  oh  !  awakening  still  anew. 
Athwart  my  enanguished  senses  flew 

A  fiercer,  deadlier  agony  ! 

STANZA 

FROM   A   TRANSLATION   OF   THE   MAR- 
SEILLAISE  HYMN 

Sent    by  Shelley  in   a  letter  to  Graham. 
Published  by  Forman,  1876,  and  dated  1810. 

Tremble  Kings  despised  of  man  ! 

Ye  traitors  to  your  Country 
Tremble  !     Your  parricidal  plan 

At  length  shall  meet  its  destiny  .  .  . 
We  all  are  soldiers  fit  to  fight 
But  if  we  sink  in  glory's  night 
Our  mother  Earth  will  give  ye  new 
The  brilliant  pathway  to  pursue 

Which  leads  to  Death  or  Victory  .  .  . 

BIGOTRY'S  VICTIM 

Published  by  Hogg,  Life  of  Shelley,  1858. 
Dated  in  the  EsdaUe  MS.  1809. 


Dares  the  lama,  most  fleet  of  the  sons  of 
the  wind, 
The  lion  to  rouse  from  his  skull-covered 
lair? 
When  the  tiger  approaches  can  the  fast- 
fleeting  hind 
Repose  trust  in  his  footsteps  of  air  ? 
No  !     Abandoned  be  sinks  in  a  trance  of 
despair. 
The  monster  transfixes  his  prey. 
On  the  sand  flows  his  life-blood  away ; 
Whilst  India's  rocks  to  his  death-yells  reply. 
Protracting  the  horrible  harmony. 


Yet  the  fowl  of  the  desert,  when  danger 
encroaches. 
Dares  fearless  to  perish  defending  her 
brood. 
Though  the  fiercest  of  cloud-piercing  ty- 
rants approaches. 
Thirsting  —  ay,  thirsting  for  blood; 
And  demands,  like  mankind,  his   brother 
for  food; 
Yet  more  lenient,  more   gentle   than 

they; 
For  hunger,  not  glory,  the  prey 
Must  perish.     Revenge  does  not  howl  in 

the  dead. 
Nor  ambition  with  fame  crown  the  mur- 
derer's head. 


Though  weak  as  the  lama  that  bounds  on 
the  mountains. 
And  endued  not  with  fast-fleeting  foot- 
steps of  air. 
Yet,  yet  will   I  draw  from  the  purest  of 
fountains, 
Though  a  fiercer  than  tiger  is  there. 
Though  more  dreadful  than  death,  it  scat- 
ters despair. 
Though  its  shadow  eclipses  the  day, 
And  the  darkness  of  deepest  dismay 
Spreads  the  influence  of  soul-chilling  terror 

around. 
And  lowers  on  the  corpses,  that  rot  on  the 
ground. 


They  came  to  the  fountain  to  draw  from 
its  stream. 
Waves  too  pure,  too  celestial,  for  mortals 
to  see; 


562 


JUVENILIA 


They  bathed  for  a  while  in  its  silvery  beam, 

Then  perished,  and  perished  like  me. 
For  in  vain  from  the  grasp  of  the  Bigot  I 
flee; 
The  most  tenderly  loved  of  my  soul 
Are  slaves  to  his  hated  control. 
He  pursues  me,  he   blasts   me  !     'T  is   in 

vain  that  I  fly ;  — 
What  remains,  but  to  curse  him,  —  to  curse 
him  and  die  ? 

ON  AN  ICICLE  THAT  CLUNG  TO 
THE  GRASS  OF  A  GRAVE 

Sent  in  a  letter  to  Hogg,  January  6,  1811, 
and  published  by  him,  i//e  of  Shelley,  1858. 
Dated  in  the  Esdaile  MS.  1809. 


Oh  !  take  the  pure  gem  to  where  southerly 
breezes 
Waft  repose  to  some  bosom  as  faithful 
as  fair. 
In  which  the  warm  current  of  love  never 
freezes, 
As   it  rises  unmingled  with  selfishness 

there. 
Which,  untainted  with  pride,  unpolluted 
by  care. 
Might  dissolve  the  dim  ice-drop,  might  bid 

it  arise. 
Too  pure  for  these  regions,  to  gleam  in  the 
skies. 


Op  where   the  stern  warrior,  his  country 
defending. 
Dares  fearless  the  dark-rolling  battle  to 
pour. 
Or  o'er  the  fell  corpse  of  a  dread  tyrant 
bending. 
Where   patriotism   red   with   his   guilt- 
reeking  gore 
Plants  liberty's  flag  on  the  slave-peopled 
shore. 
With  victory's  cry,  with  the  shout  of  the 

free. 
Let  it  fly,  taintless  spirit,  to  mingle  with 
thee. 

Ill 
For  I  found  the  pure  gem,  when  the  day- 
beam  returning 
Ineffectual  gleams  on  the  snow-coTered 
plain, 


When  to  others  the  wished-for  arrival  of 
morning 
Brings   relief   to   long   visions   of   soul- 
racking  pain ; 
But  regret  is  an  insult  —  to  grieve  is  in 
vain : 

And  why  should  we  grieve  that  a  spirit  so 
fair 

Seeks  Heaven  to  mix  with  its  own  kindred 
there  ? 

IV 

But   still  'twas   some   spirit  of  kindness 
descending 
To  share  in  the  load  of  mortality's  woe. 
Who  over  thy  lowly-built  sepulchre  bending 
Bade  sympathy's  tenderest  tear-drop  to 

flow. 
Not   for  thee  soft  compassion  celestials 
did  know. 
But  if  angels  can  weep,  sure  man  may  re- 
pine. 
May  weep  in  mute  grief  o'er  thy  low-laid 
shrine. 


And  did  I  then  say,  for  the  altar  of  glory. 

That  the  earliest,  the  loveliest  of  flowers 

I  'd  entwine, 

Though   with    millions   of    blood-reeking 

victims  't  was  gory. 

Though  the  tears  of  the  widow  polluted 

its  shrine. 
Though  around  it  the  orphans,  the  father- 
less pine  ? 
O  Fame,  all  thy  glories  I  'd  yield  for  a  tear 
To  shed  on  the  grave  of  a  heart  so  sincere. 


LOVE 

Sent  by  Shelley  to  Hogg  in  a  letter,  May  2, 
1811,  and  published  by  him,  Life  of  Shelley, 
1858. 

Why  is  it  said  thou  canst  not  live 

In  a  youthful  breast  and  fair. 
Since  thou  eternal  life  canst  give, 

Canst  bloom  forever  there  ? 
Since  withering  pain  no  power  possessed, 

Nor  age,  to  blanch  thy  vermeil  hue. 
Nor  time's  dread  victor,  death,  confessed, 

Though  bathfed  with  his  poison  dew  ? 
Still  thou  retainest  unchanging  bloom. 
Fixed,  tranquil,  even  in  the  tomb. 


A  TALE  OF  SOCIETY  AS   IT  IS 


563 


And  oh  I  when  on  the  blest,  reviving, 

The  day-star  dawns  of  love. 
Each  energy  of  soul  surviving 

More  vivid  soars  above, 
Hast  thou  ne'er  felt  a  rapturous  thrill, 

Like  June's  warm  breath,  athwart  thee 

fly,. 

O'er  each  idea  then  to  steal. 

When  other  passions  die  ? 
Felt  it  in  some  wild  noonday  dream, 
When  sitting  by  the  lonely  stream, 
Where  Silence  says.  Mine  is  the  dell; 

And  not  a  murmur  from  the  plain, 
And  not  an  echo  from  the  fell, 

Disputes  her  silent  reign. 

ON  A  FETE  AT  CARLTON  HOUSE 

FRAGMENT 

Repeated  from  memory  by  Rev.  Mr.  Grove 
to  Garnett.  Published  by  Rossetti,  1870,  and 
dated  1811. 

.  .  .  By  the  mossy  brink. 
With  me  the  Prince  shall  sit  and  tliink; 
Shall  muse  in  visioned  Regency, 
Rapt  in  bright  dreams  of  dawning  Royalty. 


TO    A   STAR 

Sent  by  Shelley  to  Hogg  in  a  letter,  and 
published  by  him,  Life  of  Shelley,  1858,  and 
dated  1811. 

Sweet  star,  which  gleaming  o'er  the  dark- 
some scene 
Through  fleecy  clouds  of  silvery  radiance 

flyest, 
Spanglet  of   light   on   evening's   shadowy 

veil. 
Which  shrouds   the    day-beam    from    the 

waveless  lake, 
Lighting   the   hour  of   sacred   love ;  more 

sweet 
Than  the  expiring  mom-star's  paly  fires. 
Sweet  star  !     When  wearied  Nature  sinks 

to  sleep, 
And  all  is  hushed,  —  all,  save  the  voice  of 

Love, 
Whose  broken  murmurings  swell  the  balmy 

blast 
Of  soft  Favonius,  which  at  intervals 
Sighs  in  the  ear  of  stillness,  art  thou  aught 

but 


Lulling  the  slaves  of  interest  to  repose 
With    that    mild,   pitying    gaze !     Oh,    I 

would  look 
In  thy  dear  beam  till  every  bond  of  sense 
Became  enamoured  — 


TO   MARY,   WHO   DIED   IN   THIS 
OPINION 

One  of  several  poems  suggested  by  a  story 
told  Shelley  by  Hogg.  Shelley  sent  it  to  Miss 
Hiteliener,  in  a  letter,  November  23,  1811 :  '  I 
transcribe  a  little  poem  I  found  this  morning. 
It  was  written  some  time  ago ;  but,  as  it  ap- 
pears to  show  what  I  then  thought  of  eternal 
life,  I  send  it.'     Published  by  Rossetti,  1870. 


Maiden,  quench  the  glare  of  sorrow 
Struggling  in  thine  haggard  eye; 

Firmness  dare  to  borrow 
From  the  wreck  of  destiny; 
For  the  ray  morn's  bloom  revealing 
Can  never  boast  so  bright  an  hue 

As  that  which  mocks  concealing, 
And  sheds  its  loveliest  light  on  you. 


Yet  is  the  tie  departed 
Which  bound  thy  lovely  soul  to  bliss  ? 

Has  it  left  thee  broken-hearted 
In  a  world  so  cold  as  this  ! 

Yet,  though,  fainting  fair  one, 
Sorrow's  self  thy  cup  has  given, 

Dream  thou  'It  meet  thy  dear  one, 
Never  more  to  part,  in  heaven. 

Ill 

Existence  would  I  barter 
For  a  dream  so  dear  as  thine, 

And  smile  to  die  a  martyr 
On  affection's  bloodless  shrine. 

Nor  would  I  change  for  pleasure 
That  withered  hand  and  ashy  cheek. 

If  my  heart  enshrined  a  treasure 
Such  as  forces  thine  to  break. 


A    TALE   OF    SOCIETY  AS   IT   IS 

FROM    FACTS,    181I 

Sent  by  Shelley  (from  Keswick)  to  Miss 
Hitchener,  in  a  letter,  January  7,  1812:  'I 
now  send  you  some  poetry  ;  the  subject  is  not 


5^4 


JUVENILIA 


fictitious.  It  is  the  overflowings  of  the  mind 
this  morning.  .  .  .  The  facts  are  real ;  that 
recorded  in  the  last  fragment  of  a  stanza  is 
literally  true.  The  poor  man  said  :  "  None  of 
my  family  ever  came  to  parish,  and  I  would 
starve  first.  I  am  a  poor  man ;  but  I  could 
never  hold  my  head  up  after  that."  '  Pub- 
lished by  Rossetti,  1870. 


She  was  an  ag^d  woman;  and  the  years 
Which  she  had  numbered  on  her  toil- 
some way 
Had  bowed  her  natural  powers  to  de- 
cay. 
She  was  an  agfed  woman;  yet  the  ray 
Which  faintly  glimmered  through   her 

starting  tears, 
Pressed  into  light  by  silent  misery, 
Hath  soul's  imperishable  energy. 

She  was  a  cripple,  and  incapable 
To  add  one  mite  to  gold-fed  luxury; 

And  therefore  did  her  spirit  dimly  feel 
That  poverty,  the  crime  of  tainting  stain, 
Would  merge  her   in   its  depths,  never  to 
rise  again. 


One  only  son's  love  had  supported  her. 
She  long  had  struggled  with  infirmity, 
Lingering  to  human  life-scenes;  for  to 

die. 
When  fate  has   spared  to  rend  some 
mental  tie. 
Would  many  wish,  and  surely  fewer  dare. 
But,    when    the     tyrant's     bloodhounds 

forced  the  child 
For  his  cursed  power  unhallowed  arms 
to  wield  — 
Bend    to   another's   will  —  become    a 
thing 
More  senseless  than  the  sword  of  battle- 
field- 
Then  did  she  feel  keen  sorrow's  keen- 
est sting; 
And  many  years  had  passed  ere  comfort 
they  would  bring. 

Ill 
For  seven  years  did  this  poor  woman  live 
In  unparticipated  solitude. 
Thou  mightst  have  seen  her  in  the  for- 
est rude 
Picking  the  scattered  remnants  of  its 
wood. 


If  human,  thou  mightst  then  have  learned 

to  grieve. 
The  gleanings  of  precarious  charity 
Her  scantiness  of  food  did  scarce  sup- 
ply- 
The  proofs  of  an  unspeaking  sorrow 
dwelt 
Within  her  ghastly  hollo wness  of  eye: 
Each  arrow  of  the  season's  change  she 
felt. 
Yet  still  she  groans,  ere  yet  her  race 
were  run, 
One  only  hope:  it  was  —  once  more  to  see 
her  sou. 

rv 

It  was  an  eve  of  June,  when  every  star 
Spoke  peace  from  heaven  to  those  on 

earth  that  live. 
She  rested  on  the  moor.     'T  was  such 

an  eve 
When  first  her  soul  began  indeed  to 
grieve ; 
Then  he  was  there  ;  now  he  is  very  far. 
The  sweetness  of  the  balmy  evening 
A  sorrow  o'er  her  aged  soul  did  fling. 
Yet  not  devoid  of  rapture's  mingled 
tear; 
A  balm  was  in  the  poison  of  the  sting. 
This  ag^d  sufferer  for  many  a  year 
Had  never  felt  such  comfort.     She  sup- 
pressed 
A  sigh  —  and,  turning  round,  clasped  Wil- 
liam to  her  breast ! 


And,  though  his  form  was  wasted  by  the 
woe 
Which  tyrants  on  their  victims  love  to 

wreak. 
Though    his    sunk    eyeballs   and    his 

faded  cheek 
Of   slavery's  violence   and  scorn   did 
speak, 
Yet  did  the  agfed  woman's  bosom  glow. 
The  vital  fire  seemed  reillumed  within 
By  this  sweet  unexpected  welcoming. 

Oh,  consummation  of  the  fondest  hope 
Tliat«ver  soared  on  fancy's  wildest  wing  I 
Oh,  tenderness  that  found'st  so  sweet 
a  scope  ! 
Prince  who  dost  pride  thee  on  thy  mighty 
sway. 
When  thou  canst  feel  such  love,  thou  shalt 
be  great  as  they  1 


TO   IRELAND 


565 


Her  son,   compelled,   the  country's  foes 
had  fought. 
Had  bled  in  battle;  and  the  stern  con- 
trol 
Which  ruled  his  sinews  and  coerced 

his  soul 
Utterly  poisoned  life's  unmingledbowl. 
And  unsubduable  evils  on  him  brought. 
He  was  the  shadow  of  the  lusty  child 
Who,  when  the  time  of  summer  season 
smiled. 
Did  earn  for  her  a  meal  of  honesty, 
And  with  affectionate  discourse  beguiled 
The  keen  attacks  of  pain  and  poverty; 
Till  Power,  as  envying  her  this  only  joy. 
From  her  maternal  bosom   tore   the   un- 
happy boy. 


And  now  cold  charity's  unwelcome  dole 
Was  insufficient  to  support  the  pair; 
And   they   would   perish   rather  than 

would  bear 
The  law's  stern  slavery,  and  the  insolent 
stare 
With  which  law  loves  to  rend  the  poor 

man's  soul  — 
The  bitter  scorn,  the  spirit-sinking  noise 
Of  heartless  mirth  which  women,  men 

and  boys 
Wake  in  this  scene  of  legal  misery. 


TO   THE    REPUBLICANS    OF 
NORTH    AMERICA 

Sent  by  Shelley  to  Miss  Hitchener  in  a  let- 
ter February  14,  1812  :  ' Have  you  heard  a 
new  republic  is  set  up  in  Mexico  ?  I  have  just 
written  the  following'  short  tribute  to  its  suc- 
cess. These  are  merely  sent  as  lineaments  in 
the  picture  of  my  mind.  On  these  two  topics 
[Mexico  and  Ireland]  I  find  that  I  can  some- 
times write  poetry  when  I  feel,  such  as  it  is.' 
Published  by  Rossetti,  1870. 


Brothers  !  between  you  and  me 
Whirlwinds  sweep  and  billows  roar: 

Yet  in  spirit  oft  I  see 

On  thy  wild  and  winding  shore 

Freedom's  bloodless  banners  wave,  — 

Feel  the  pulses  of  the  brave 


Unextinguished  in  the  grave,  — 

See  them  drenched  in  sacred  gore,  — 
Catch  the  warrior's  gasping  breath 
Murmuring  '  Liberty  or  death  I ' 


Shout  aloud  !     Let  every  slave, 

Crouching  at  Corruption's  throne, 
Start  into  a  man,  and  brave 

Racks  and  chains  without  a  groan; 
And  the  castle's  heartless  glow, 
And  the  hovel's  vice  and  woe, 
Fade  like  gaudy  flowers  that  blow  — 

Weeds  that  peep,  and  then  are  gone/ 
Whilst,  from  misery's  ashes  risen, 
Love  shall  burst  the  captive's  prison. 

Ill 

Cotopaxi !  bid  the  sound 

Through  thy  sister  mountains  ring, 
Till  each  valley  smile  aroimd 

At  the  blissful  welcoming  ! 
And,  O  thou  stern  Ocean  deep. 
Thou  whose  foamy  billows  sweep 
Shores  where  thousands  wake  to  weep 

Whilst  they  curse  a  villain  king. 
On  the  winds  that  fan  thy  breast 
Bear  thou  news  of  Freedom's  rest ! 


Can  the  daystar  dawn  of  love. 

Where  the  flag  of  war  unfurled 
Floats  with  crimson  stain  above 
The  fabric  of  a  ruined  world  ? 
Never  but  to  vengeance  driven  ' 

When  the  patriot's  spirit  shriven 
Seeks  in  death  its  native  heaven  ! 

There,  to  desolation  hurled, 
Widowed  love  may  watch  thy  bier, 
Balm  thee  with  its  dying  tear. 

TO   IRELAND 

Sent  by  Shelley  to  Miss  Hitchener  in  th© 
same  letter  as  above,  and  published  in  part  by 
Rossetti,  1870,  and  completed  by  Dowden, 
Life  of  Shelley,  1887,  and  Kingsland,  Poet- 
Lore,  1892. 

I 
Bear  witness,  Erin  !  when  thine  injured  isle 
Sees  summer  on  its  verdant  pastures  smile, 
Its   cornfields  waving   in   the  winds   that 

sweep 
The  billowy  surface  of  thy  circling  deep  I 


S66 


JUVENILIA 


Thou  tree  whose  shadow  o'er  the  Atlantic 

ga.\e 
Peace,  wealth  and  beauty,  to  its  friendly 

wave, 

it£^  blossoms  fade, 
And  blighted  are  the  leaves  that  cast  its 

shade ; 
Whilst  the  cold  hand  gathers  its  scanty 

fruit, 
Whose  dullness  struck  a  canker  to  its  root. 

II 

I  could  stand 
Upon  thy  shores,  O  Erin,  and  could  count 
The  billows  that,  in  their  unceasing  swell, 
Dash  on  thy  beach,  and  every  wave  might 

seem 
An  instrument  in  Time,  the  giant's  grasp. 
To  burst  the  barriers  of  Eternity. 
Proceed,  thou  giant,  conquering  and  to  con- 
quer; 
March  on  thy  lonely  way  !   The  nations  fall 
Beneath  thy  noiseless  footstep;  pyramids 
That  for  milleiiniuuis  have  defied  the  blast. 
And  laughed  at  lightnings,  thou  dost  crush 

to  nought. 
Yon  monarch,  in  his  solitary  pomp, 
Is  but  the  fungus  of  a  winter  day 
That  thy  light  footstep  presses  into  dust. 
Thou  art  a  conqueror.  Time ;  all  things  give 

way 
Before  thee  but   the   'fixed  and  virtuous 

will;' 
The  sacred  sympathy  of  soul  which  was 
When  thou  wert  not,  which  shall  be  when 
thou  perishest. 


ON    ROBERT   EMMET'S   GRAVE 

Published  by  Dowden,  Life  of  Shelley,  1887, 
and  dated  1812.  Shelley  mentions  the  poem 
in  a  letter  to  Miss  Hitchener,  April  18,  1812  : 
'  I  have  written  some  verses  on  Robert  Emmet 
which  you  shall  see,  and  which  I  will  insert  in 
my  book  of  poems.' 


VI 
No   trump  tells  thy  virtues  —  the   grave 
where  they  rest 
With  thy  dust  shall  remain  unpolluted  by 
fame, 


Till  thy  foes,  by  the  world  and  by  fortune 
caressed, 
Shall  pass  like  a  mist  from  the  light  of 
thy  name. 

VII 

When   the   storm-cloud   that    lowers  o'er 
the  daybeam  is  gone. 
Unchanged,  unextinguished  its  life-spring 
will  shine; 
When  Erin  has  ceased  with  their  memory 
to  groan. 
She  will  smile  through  the  tears  of  re- 
vival on  thine. 


THE  RETROSPECT  :  CWM  ELAN, 

l8l2 

Published  by  Dowden,  Life  of  SheUey,  1887. 
Peacock  mentions  the  place :  '  Cwm  £lan  House 
was  the  seat  of  Mr.  Grove,  whom  Shelley 
had  visited  there  before  his  marriage  in  1811. 
...  At  a  subsequent  period  I  stayed  a  day  at 
Rhayader,  for  the  sake  of  seeing  this  spot. 
It  is  a  scene  of  singular  beauty.' 

A  SCENE,  which  wildered  fancy  viewed 

In  the  soul's  coldest  solitude. 

With  that  same  scene  when  peaceful  love 

Flings  rapture's  color  o'er  the  grove, 

When  mountain,  meadow,  wood  and  stream 

With  unalloying  glory  gleam. 

And  to  the  spirit's  ear  and  eye 

Are  unison  and  harmony. 

The  moonliglit  was  my  dearer  day; 

Then  would  I  wander  far  away, 

And,  lingering  on  the  wild  brook's  shore 

To  hear  its  unremitting  roar, 

Would  lose  in  the  ideal  flow 

All  sense  of  overwhelming  woe; 

Or  at  the  noiseless  noon  of  night 

Would  climb  some  heathy  mountain's  height, 

And  listen  to  the  mystic  sound 

That  stole  in  fitful  gasps  around. 

I  joyed  to  see  the  streaks  of  day 

Above  the  purple  peaks  decay, 

And  watch  the  latest  line  of  liglit 

Just  mingling  with  the  shades  of  night; 

For  day  with  me  was  time  of  woe 

When  even  tears  refused  to  flow; 

Then  would  I  stretch  my  languid  frame 

Beneath  the  wild  woods'  gloomiest  shade, 

And  try  to  quench  the  ceaseless  flame 

That  ou  my  withered  vitals  preyed  \ 


THE  RETROSPECT 


567 


Would  close  mine  eyes  and  dream  I  were 
Ou  some  remote  and  friendless  plain, 
And  long  to  leave  existence  there, 
If  with  it  I  might  leave  the  pain 
That  with  a  finger  cold  and  lean 
yVrote  madness  ou  my  withering  mien. 

It  was  not  unrequited  love 
That  bade  my  'wildered  spirit  rove; 
'T  was  not  the  pride  disdaining  life, 
That  with  this  mortal  world  at  strife 
Would  yield  to  the  soul's  inward  sense, 
Then  groan  in  human  impotence. 
And  weep  because  it  is  not  given 
To  taste  on  Earth  the  peace  of  Heaven. 
'T  was  not  that  in  the  narrow  sphere 
Where  nature  fixed  my  wayward  fate 
There  was  no  friend  or  kindred  dear 
Formed  to  become  that  spirit's  mate, 
Which,  searching  on  tired  pinion,  found 
Barren  and  cold  repulse  around ; 
Oh,  no  !  yet  each  one  sorrow  gave 
New  graces  to  the  narrow  grave. 

For  broken  vows  had  early  quelled 
The  stainless  spirit's  vestal  flame; 
Yes  !  whilst  the  faithful  bosom  swelled. 
Then  the  envenomed  arrow  came, 
And  apathy's  unaltering  eye 
Beamed  coldness  on  the  misery; 
And  early  I  had  learned  to  scorn 
The  chains  of  clay  that  bound  a  sopl 
Panting  to  seize  the  wings  of  morn. 
And  where  its  vital  fires  were  born 
To  soar,  and  spurn  the  cold  control 
Which  the  vile  slaves  of  earthly  night 
Would  twine  around  its  struggling  flight. 

Oh,  many  were  the  friends  whom  fame 
Had  linked  with  the  unmeaning  name. 
Whose  magic  marked  among  mankind 
Tlie  casket  of  my  unknown  mind, 
Which  hidden  from  the  vulgar  glare 
Imbibed  no  fleeting  radiance  there. 
My  darksome  spirit  sought  —  it  found 
A  friendless  solitude  around. 
For  who  that  might  undaunted  stand, 
The  savior  of  a  sinking  land. 
Would  crawl,  its  ruthless  tyrant's  slave. 
And  fatten  upon  Freedom's  grave. 
Though  doomed  with  her  to  perish,  where 
The  captive  clasps  abhorred  despair. 

They  could  not  share  the  bosom's  feeling. 
Which,  passion's  every  throb  revealing, 


Dared  force  on  the  world's  notice  cold 
Thoughts  of  tmprofitable  mould. 
Who  bask  in  Custom's  fickle  ray. 
Fit  sunshine  of  such  wintry  day  ! 
They  could  not  in  a  twiliglit  walk 
Weave  an  impassioned  web  of  talk, 
Till  mysteries  the  spirits  press 
In  wild  yet  tender  awf  ulness. 
Then  feel  within  our  narrow  sphere 
How  little  yet  how  great  we  are  ! 
But  they  might  shine  in  courtly  glare, 
Attract  the  rabble's  cheapest  stare, 
And  might  command  where'er  they  move 
A  thing  that  bears  the  name  of  love; 
They  might  be  learned,  witty,  gay, 
Foremost  in  fashion's  gilt  arra^'. 
On  Fame's  emblazoned  pages  shine, 
Be  princes'  friends,  but  never  mine  ! 

Ye  jagged  peaks  that  frown  sublime. 
Mocking  the  blunted  scythe  of  Time, 
Whence  I  would  watch  its  lustre  pale 
Steal  from  the  moon  o'er  yonder  vale: 

Thou  rock,  whose  bosom  black  and  vast, 
Bared  to  the  stream's  unceasing  flov/. 
Ever  its  giant  shade  doth  cast 
On  the  tumultuous  surge  below: 

Woods,  to  whose  depths  retires  to  die 
The  wounded  echo's  melody, 
And  whither  this  lone  spirit  bent 
The  footstep  of  a  wild  intent: 

Meadows  !    whose    green     and     spangled 

breast 
These  fevered  limbs  have  often  pressed, 
Until  the  watchful  fiend  Despair 
Slept  in  the  soothing  coolness  there  ! 
Have  not  your  varied  beauties  seen 
The  sunken  eye,  the  withering  mien, 
Sad  traces  of  tlie  unuttered  pain 
That    froze    my    heart    and    burned    my 

brain  ? 
How  changed  since  Natture's  summer  form 
Had  last  the  power  my  grief  to  charm, 
Since  last  ye  soothed  my  spirit's  sadness. 
Strange  chaos  of  a  mingled  madness  ! 
Changed  !  —  not  the  loathsome  worm  that 

fed 
In  the  dark  mansions  of  the  dead 
Now  soaring  through  the  fields  of  air, 
And  gathering  purest  nectar  there, 
A  butterfly,  whose  million  hues 
The  dazzled  eye  of  wonder  views, 


S68  JUVENILIA 


Long  lingering  on  a  work  so  strange, 
Has  undergone  so  bright  a  change. 

How  do  I  feel  my  happiness  ? 
I  cannot  tell,  but  they  may  guess 
Whose  every  gloomy  feeling  gone, 
Friendship  and  passion  feel  alone; 
Who  see  mortality's  dull  clouds 
Before  aflfection's  murmur  fly, 
Whilst  the  mild  glances  of  her  eye 
Pierce  the  thin  veil  of  flesh  that  shrouds 
The  spirit's  inmost  sanctuary. 

O  thou  !  whose  virtues  latest  known, 
First  in  this  lieart  yet  claim'st  a  throne; 
Whose  downy  sceptre  still  shall  share 
The  gentle  sway  with  virtue  there; 
Thou  fair  in  form,  and  pure  in  mind. 
Whose  ardent  friendship  rivets  fast 
The  flowery  band  our  fates  that  bind, 
Which  incorruptible  shall  last 
When  duty's  hard  and  cold  control 
Had  thawed  around  the  burning  soul,  — 
The  gloomiest  retrospects  that  bind 
With  crowns  of  thorn  the  bleeding  mind, 
The  prospects  of  most  doubtful  hue 
That  rise  on  Fancy's  shuddering  view,  — 
Are  gilt  by  the  reviving  ray 
Which  thou  hast  flung  upon  my  day. 


FRAGMENT   OF   A   SONNET 

TO   HARRIET 

Published  by  Dowden,  Life  of  Shelley,  1887, 
and  dated  August  1,  1812. 

Ever  as  now  with  Love  and  Virtue's  glow 
May   thy   unwithering   soul   not   cease   to 

burn, 
Still    may    thine    heart   with    those    pure 

thoughts  o'erflow 
Which   force   from  mine  such  quick  and 

warm  return. 

TO   HARRIET 

Published  in  part  with  Notes  to  Queen  Mab, 
1813,  and  completed  by  Forman,  1876.  and 
Dowden,  Life  of  Shelley,  1887  ;  dated  1812. 

It  is  not  blasphemy  to  hope  that  Heaven 
More  perfectly  will  give  those  nameless 
joys 


Which  throb  within  the  pulses  of  the  blood 
And  sweeten    all    that    bitterness    which 

Earth 
Infuses  in  the  heaven-born  soul.     O  thou 
Whose  dear  love  gleamed  upon  the  gloomji 

path 
Which  this  lone  spirit  travelled,  drear  and 

cold. 
Yet  swiftly  leading  to  those  awful  limits 
Which  mark  the  bounds  of  time  and  of  the 

space 
When  Time  shall  be  no  more;  wilt  thou 

not  turn 
Those  spirit-beaming  eyes  and  look  on  me, 
Until  I  be  assured  that  Earth  is  Heaven, 
And  Heaven    is   Earth  ?  —  will    not    thy 

glowing  cheek. 
Glowing  with  soft  suffusion,  rest  on  mine. 
And  breathe  magnetic  sweetness  through 

the  frame 
Of  my  corporeal  nature,  through  the  soul 
Now  knit  with  these  fine  fibres  ?     I  would 

give 
The  longest  and  the  happiest  clay  that  fate 
Has  marked  on  my  existence  but  to  feel 
One  soul-reviving  kiss.  .  .  .  O  thou  most 

dear, 
'T  is  an  assurance  that  this  Earth  is  Hea- 
ven, 
And  Heaven  the  flower  of  that  untainted 

seed 
Which  6pringeth  here  beneath  such  love  as 

ours. 
Harriet !  let  death  all  mortal  ties  dissolve. 
But  ours  shall  not  be  mortal !     The  cold 

baud 
Of  Time   may  chill  the   love  of  earthly 

minds 
Half  frozen  now;  the  frigid  intercourse 
Of  common  souls  lives  but  a  summer's  day; 
It  dies,  where  it  arose,  upon  tliis  earth. 
But  ours  !   oh,  't  is  the  stretch  of  fancy's 

hope 
To  portray  its  continuance  as  now. 
Warm,  tranquil,  spii'it-healiug;  nor  when 

age 
Has  tempered  these  wild  ecstasies,  and 

given 
A  soberer  tinge  to  the  luxurious  glow 
Which  blazing  on  devotion's  pinnacle 
Makes  virtuous  passion  supersede  the  power 
Of  reason ;  nor  when  life's  sestival  sun 
To  deeper  manhood  shall  have  ripened  me; 
Nor  when  some  years  have  added  judg- 
ment's store 


SONNET 


569 


To  all  thy  woman  sweetness,  all  the  fire 
Which  throbs   in  thine  enthusiast  heart; 

not  then 
Shall  holy  friendship  (for  what  other  name 
May  love   like  ours  assume  ?),  not   even 

then 
Shall  custom  so  corrupt,  or  the  cold  forms 
Of  this  desolate  world  so  harden  us, 
As  when  we  think  of  the  dear  love  that 

binds 
Our  souls  in   soft  communion,  while  we 

know 
Each  other's  thoughts  and  feelings,  can  we 

say 
Unblushingly  a  heartless  compliment. 
Praise,  hate,  or  love  with  the  unthinking 

world. 
Or  dare  to  cut  the  unrelaxing  nerve 
That  knits  our  love  to  virtue.     Can  those 

eyes, 
Beaming  with  mildest  radiance  on  my  heart 
To  purify  its  purity,  e'er  bend 
To  soothe  its  vice  or  consecrate  its  fears  ? 
Never,  thou  second  self  !     Is  confidence 
So  vain  in  virtue  that  I  learn  to  doubt 
The  mirror  even  of  Truth  ?    Dark  flood  of 

Time, 
Roll  as  it  listeth  thee;  I  measure  not 
By  month    or    moments    thy  ambiguous 

course. 
Another  may  stand  by  me  on  thy  brink. 
And  watch  the  bubble  whirled  beyond  his 

ken, 
Which  pauses  at  my  feet.     The  sense  of 

love. 
The  thirst  for  action,  and  the  impassioned 

thought 
Prolong  my  being;  if  I  wake  no  more, 
My  life  more  actual  living  will  contain 
Than  some  gray  veterans  of  the  world's 

cold  school, 
Whose  listless  hours  unprofitably  roll 
By  one  enthusiast  feeling  unredeemed, 
Virtue  and  Love  !  unbending  Fortitude, 
Freedom,  Devotedness  and  Purity  ! 
That  life  my  spijit  consecrates  to  you. 


SONNET 

TO  A  BALLOON  LADEN  WITH   KNOW- 
LEDGE 

In    August,    1812,  at    Lynmouth,  Shelley 
amused  lumself  with  sending  off  fire-balloons 


by  air,  and  boxes  and  green  bottles  by  water, 
containing  his  Declaration  of  Rights,  and 
Devil^s  Walk.  Both  this  and  the  next  poem 
were  published  by  Dowden,  Life  of  Shelley, 
1887,  and  dated  1812. 

Bright   ball  of  flame   that   through  tbe 
gloom  of  even 
Silently  takest  thine  ethereal  way. 
And  with  surpassing  glory  dimm'st  each 
ray 
Twinkling  amid  the  dark  blue  depths  of 

Heaven,  — 
Unlike  the  fire  thou  bearest,  soon  shalt  thou 
Fade  like  a  meteor  in  surrounding  gloom, 
Whilst   that   unquenchable   is  doomed   to 
glow 
A   watch-light  by  the  patriot's   lonely 
tomb; 
A  ray  of  courage   to  the  oppressed   and 
poor; 
A  spark,  though  gleaming  on  the  hovel's 
hearth, 
Which  through  the  tyrant's  gilded  domes 
shall  roar; 
A  beacon  in  the  darkness  of  the  Earth; 
A  sun  which,  o'er  the  renovated  scene. 
Shall  dart  like  Truth  where  Falsehood  yet 
has  been. 


SONNET 

ON  LAUNCHING  SOME  BOTTLES   FILLED 

WITH    KNOWLEDGE   INTO   THE   BRISTOL 

CHANNEL 

Vessels  of  heavenly  medicine  !   may  the 
breeze 
Auspicious  waft  your  dark  green  forms 

to  shore; 
Safe  may  ye  stem  the  wide  surrounding 
roar 
Of  the  wild  whirlwinds  and  the  raging  seas; 
And  oh  !  if  Liberty  e'er  deigned  to  stoop 
From  yonder  lowly  throne  her  crownless 
brow. 
Sure  she  will  breathe  around  your  emerald 
group 
The  fairest  breezes  of  her  west  that  blow. 
Yes !   she  will  waft  ye  to  some  freeborn 
soul 
Whose  eye-beam,  kindling  as  it  meets 

your  freight. 
Her    heaven-born     flame    in     suffering 
Earth  will  light, 


570 


JUVENILIA 


Until   its  radiance   gleams  from   pole  to 

pole, 
And  tyrant-hearts  with  powerless  envy 

burst 
To  see  their  night  of  ignorance  dispersed. 


THE   DEVIL'S   WALK 

A   BALLAD 

Composed  at  Dublin,  1812,  and  printed  as  a 
broadside.  It  was  unknown  until  1871,  when 
Kossetti  recovered  it  from  the  copy  in  the 
Public  Record  Office  where  it  had  been  sent 
with  the  Declaration  of  J.iiyhts  and  other  pro- 
perty of  kShelley's  supposed  by  government 
agents  to  be  treasonable.  For  circulating  it, 
Shelley's  servant,  Daniel  Healey,  was  impris- 
oned for  six  months,  bhelley  sent  an  earlier 
draft  to  Miss  Kitchener,  January  20,  1812. 


Once,  early  in  the  morning, 

Beelzebub  arose. 
With  care  his  sweet  person  adorning, 

He  put  on  his  Sunday  clothes. 


He  drew  on  a  boot  to  hide  his  hoof, 

He  drew  on  a  glove  to  hide  his  claw, 
His  horns  were  concealed  by  a  Bras  Cha- 

peau, 
And    the    Devil   went    forth  as  natty  a 
Beau 
As  Bond-street  ever  saw. 

Ill 
He  sate  him  down,  in  London  town, 

Before  earth's  morning  ray; 
With  a  favorite  imp  he  began  to  chat. 
On  religion,  and  scandal,  this  and  that, 

Until  the  dawn  of  day. 

IV 

And  then  to  St.  James's  court  he  went. 
And  St.  Paul's  Church  he  took  on  his 
way; 

He  was  mighty  thick  with  every  Saint, 
Though  they  were  formal  and  he  was 

gay- 


The  Devil  was  an  agriculturist, 

And  as  bad  weeds  quickly  grow, 


In  looking  over  his  farm,  I  wist, 

He  would  n't  find  cause  for  woe. 

VI 

He  peeped  in  each  hole,  to  each  chamber 
stole. 
His  promising  live-stock  to  view; 
Grinning   applause,  he  just  showed  them 

his  claws, 
And   they   shrunk  with  affright   from  his 
ugly  sight, 
Whose  work  they  delighted  to  do. 

VII 

Satan  poked  his  red  nose  into  crannies  so 
small 
One  would   think  that  the   innocents 
fair. 
Poor  lambkins  f  were  just  doing  nothing  at 

all 
But  settling  some  dress  or  arranging  some 
ball. 
But  the  Devil  saw  deeper  there. 


A  Priest,  at  whose  elbow  the  Devil  during 
prayer 
Sate  familiarly,  side  by  side. 
Declared   that,  if  the  tempter  were  there. 

His  presence  he  would  not  abide. 
Ah  1  ah  !  thought  Old  Nick,  that 's  a  very 

stale  trick, 
For  without  the  Devil,  O  favorite  of  evil, 
In  your  carriage  you  would  not  ride. 

IX 

Satan  next  saw  a  brainless  King, 

Whose  house  was  as  hot  as  his  own ; 
Many  imps  in  attendance  were  there  on  the 

wing, 
They  flapped  the  pennon  and  twisted  the 
sting. 
Close  by  the  very  Throne. 


Ah,  hat  thought    Satan,  'the    pasture   is 


good, 
Ca 


My  Cattle  will  here  thrive  better  than 
others; 
They  dine  on  news  of  human  blood. 
They  sup  on  the  groans  of  the  dying  and 

dead. 
And  supperless  never  will  go  to  bed; 

Which   will  make   them  fat  as  their 
brothers. 


THE  DEVIL'S   WALK 


S7« 


Fat  as  the  fiends  that  feed  on  blood, 
Fresh  and  warm  from  the  fields  of  Spain, 
Where  ruin  ploughs  her  gory  way, 
Where  the  shoots  of  earth  are  nipped  in 
the  bud. 
Where  Hell  is  the  Victor's  prey, 
Its  glory  the  meed  of  the  slain. 


Fat  —  as  the  death-birds  on  Erin's  shore, 
That  glutted  themselves  in   her    dearest 
gore, 
And  flitted  round  Castlereagh, 
When  they    snatched  the  Patriot's   heart, 

that  his  grasp 
Had  torn  from  its  widow's  maniac  clasp, 
And  fled  at  the  dawn  of  day. 

XIII 

Fat  —  as  the  reptiles  of  the  tomb. 

That  riot  in  corruption's  spoil. 
That  fret  their  little  hour  in  gloom, 
And  creep,  and  live  the  while. 


Fat  as  that  Prince's  maudlin  brain. 
Which,  addled  by  some  gilded  toy, 

Tired,  gives  his  sweetmeat,  and  again 
Cries  for  it,  like  a  humored  boy. 


For  he  is  fat,  —  his  waistcoat  gay, 
When  strained  upon  a  levee  day. 

Scarce  meets  across  his  princely  paunch; 
And  pantaloons  are  like  half  moons 

Upon  each  brawny  haunch. 


How  vast  his  stock  of  calf  I  when  plenty 
Had  filled  his  empty  head  and  heart. 

Enough  to  satiate  foplings  twenty. 

Could  make  his  pantaloon  seams  start. 

XVII 

The  Devil  (who  sometimes  is  called  nature), 
For  men  of  power  provides  thus  well, 

Whilst  every  change  and  every  feature, 
Their  great  original  can  tell. 

XVIII 

Satan  saw  a  lawyer  a  viper  slay. 

That  crawled  up  the  leg  of  his  table, 

It  reminded  him  most  marvellously 
Of  the  story  of  Cain  and  Abel. 


XIX 

The  wealthy  yeoman,  as  he  wanders 

His  fertile  fields  among, 
And  on  his  thriving  cattle  ponders, 

Counts  his  sure  gains,  and  hums  a  song; 
Thus  did  the  Devil,  through  earth   walk- 
ing. 
Hum  low  a  hellish  song. 


For  they  thrive  well  whose  garb  of  gore 

Is  Satan's  choicest  livery. 
And  they  thrive  Well  who  from  the  poor 

Have  snatched  the  bread  of  penury. 
And  heap  the  houseless  wanderer's  store, 

On  the  rank  pile  of  luxury. 

XXI 
The  Bishops  thrive,  though  they  are  big; 
The  Lawyers  thrive,  though    they    are 
thin; 
For  every  gown,  and  every  wig, 
Hides  the  safe  thrift  of  Hell  within. 

XXII 

Thus  pigs  were  never  counted  clean, 
Although  they  dine  on  finest  corn ; 

And  cormorants  are  sin-like  lean. 

Although  they  eat  from  night  to  mom. 


Oh  I  why  is  the  Father  of  Hell  in  such 
glee. 
As  he  grins  from  ear  to  ear  ? 
Why  does  he  doff  his  clothes  joyfully. 
As  he  skips,  and  prances,  and  flaps  bis 

wing, 
As  he  sidles,  leers,  and  twirls  his  sting, 
And  dares,  as  he  is,  to  appear  ? 

XXIV 
A  statesman  passed  —  alone  to  him. 

The  Devil  dare  his  whole  shape  uncover. 
To  show  each  feature,  every  limb. 

Secure  of  an  unchanging  lover. 

XXV 

At  this  known  sign,  a  welcome  sight. 
The  watchful  demons  sought  their  King, 

And  every  fiend  of  the  Stygian  night, 
Was  in  an  instant  on  the  wing. 

XXVI 

Pale  Loyalty,  his  guilt-steeled  brow. 
With  wreaths  of  gory  laurel  crowned  : 


572 


JUVENILIA 


The  hell-hounds,  Murder,  Want  and  Woe, 

Forever  hungering  flocked  around; 
From  Spain  had  Satan  sought  their  food, 
'T  was  human  woe  and  human  blood  ! 


Hark  !  the  earthquake's  crash  I  hear,  — 
Kings  turn  pale,  and  Conquerors  start, 

Ruillans  tremble  in  their  fear, 
For  their  Satan  doth  depart. 

XXVIII 

This  day  fiends  give  to  revelry 
To  celebrate  their  King's  return, 

And  with  delight  its  sire  to  see 
Hell's  adamantine  limits  burn. 

XXIX 

But  were  the  Devil's  sight  as  keen 

As  Reason's  penetrating  eye, 
His  sulphurous  Majesty  I  ween, 

Would  find  but  little  cause  for  joy. 

XXX 

For  the  sons  of  Reason  see 

That,  ere  fate  consume  the  Pole, 

The  false  Tyrant's  cheek  shall  be 
Bloodless  as  his  coward  soul. 

FRAGMENT  OF  A   SONNET 

FAREWELL   TO   NORTH   DEVON 

Published  by  Dowden,  Life  of  Shelley,  1887, 
and  dated  August,  1812. 


Where  man's  profane  and  tainting  hand 
Nature's  primeval  loveliness  has  marred. 
And  some  few  souls  of  the  high  bliss  de- 
barred 
Which  else  obey  her  powerful  command; 

.  .  .  mountain  piles 
That  load  in  grandeur  Cambria's  emerald 
vales. 


ON      LEAVING      LONDON      FOR 
WALES 

Published  by  Dowden,  Life  of  SheUey,  1887, 
and  dated  November,  1812. 

Hail  to  thee,  Cambria  !  for  the  unfet- 
tered wind 

Which  from  thy  wilds  even  now  methinks 
I  feel, 


Chasing  the  clouds  that  roll  in  wrath  be- 
hind. 
And  tightening  the  soul's  laxest  nerves 

to  steel; 
True  mountain  Liberty  alone  may  heal 
The  pain  which  Custom's  obduracies  bring. 
And  he  who  dares  in  fancy  even  to  steal 
One  draught  from  Snowdon's  ever  sacred 
spring 
Blots   out  the  unholiest  rede  of    worldly 
witnessing. 

And  shall  that  soul,  to  selfish  peace  re- 
signed. 

So  soon  forget  the  woe  its  fellows  share  ? 

Can  Snowdon's  Lethe  from  the  freeborn 
mind 

So    soon   the  page  of    injured    penury 
tear? 

Does    this  fine  mass  of  human  passion 
dare 

To  sleep,  unhonoring  the  patriot's  fall. 

Or  life's  sweet  load  in  quietude  to  bear 

While  millions  famish  even  in  Luxury's 
hall. 
And  Tyranny  high  raised  stern  lowers  on 
all? 

No,  Cambria  !   never  may  thy  matchless 

vales 
A    heart    so    false   to  hope   and  virtue 

shield; 
Nor  ever  may  thy  spirit-breathing  gales 
Waft  freshness  to  the  slaves  who  dare  to 

yield. 
For  me  I  .  .  .  the  weapon  th&t  I  burn  to 

wield 
I  seek  amid  thy  rocks  to  ruin  hurled. 
That  Reason's  flag  may  over  Freedom's 

field, 
Symbol  of  bloodless  victory,  wave   un- 
furled, 
A  meteor-sign  of  love  effulgent  o'er  the 

world. 


Do  thou,  wild  Cambria,  calm  each  strug- 
gling thought; 
Cast  thy  sweet  veil  of  rocks  and  woods 

between, 
That  by  the  soul  to  indignation  wrought 
Mountains  and  dells  be  mingled  with  the 

scene; 
Let  me  forever  be  what  I  have  been. 
But  not  forever  at  my  needy  door 


THE  WANDERING  JEW 


573 


Let  Misery  linger  speechless,  pale  and 

lean; 
I  am  the  friend  of  the  unfriended  poor,  — 
Let  me  not   madly  stain   their  righteous 

cause  in  gore. 


THE   WANDERING   JEW'S 
SOLILOQUY 

Published  by  Dobell,  1887. 

Is  it  the  Eternal  Triune,  is  it  He 
Who  dares  arrest  the  wheels  of  destiny 
And  plunge  me  in  the  lowest  Hell  of  Hells  ? 
Will  not  the  lightning's  blast  destroy  my 

frame  ? 
Will  not  steel  drink  the  blood-life  where  it 

swells  ? 
No  —  let  me  hie  where  dark  Destruction 

dwells, 
To  rouse  her  from  her  deeply  caverned 

lair, 
And  taunting  her  cursed  sluggishness  to 

ire 
Light  long  Oblivion's  death  torch  at  its 

flame 
And  calmly  mount  Annihilation's  pyre. 


Tyrant  of  Earth  !  pale  misery's  jackal  thou  ! 
Are  there  no  stores  of  vengeful  violent  fate 
Within  the  magazines  of  thy  fierce  liate  ? 
No  poison  in  the  clouds  to  bathe  a  brow 
That  lowers  on  thee  with  desperate  con- 
tempt ? 
Where  is  the  noonday  pestilence  that  slew 
The  myriad  sous  of  Israel's  favored  nation  ? 
Where  the  destroying  minister  that  flew 
Pouring  the  fiery  tide  of  desolation 
Upon  tlie  leagued  Assyrian's  attempt  ? 
Where  the  dark  Earthquake  demon  who 

ingorged 
At   the   dread  word   Korah's  unconscious 

crew  ? 
Or  the  Angel's  two-edged  sword   of  fire 

that  urged 
Our  primal  parents  from  their  bower  of 

bliss 
(Reared  by  thine  hand)  for  errors  not  their 

own 
By   Thine   omniscient   mind   foredoomed, 

foreknown  ? 
Yes  !  I  would  court  a  ruin  such  as  this, 
Almighty   Tyrant  !    and   give    thanks    to 

Thee  — 
Drink  deeply  —  drain  the  cup  of  hate  — 

remit  this  I  may  die. 


DOUBTFUL,  LOST   AND    UNPUBLISHED   POEMS 
VICTOR   AND   CAZIRE 


DOUBTFUL  POEMS 

THE    WANDERING  JEW 

A  poem  in  MS.,  entitled  The  Wandering  Jew, 
was  offered  by  Shelley  to  Ballantyne  &  Co. 
of  Edinburgh  in  the  early  summer  of  1810,  and 
declined  by  them  September  2-4.  It  was  im- 
mediately afterward,  on  September  28,  offered 
by  him  to  Stockdale  of  London,  to  whom  he 
ordered  Ballantyne  &  Co.  to  send  the  MS.  ; 
but,  as  they  delayed  or  failed  to  do  so,  he  sent 
to  Stockdale  a  second  MS.  which  he  had  re- 
tained. A  poem,  thus  entitled,  was  published, 
as  by  Shelley,  in  The  Edinburgh  Literary  Jour- 
nal, June  27  and  July  4,  lt»29.  The  editor 
stated  that  the  MS.  was  in  Shelley's  hand- 
writing, and  had  remained  for  the  preceding 
twenty  years  in  the  custody  of  a  literary  gentle- 
man of  Edinburgh,  to  whom  Shelley  in  person 
had  offered  it  for  publication  while  on  a  visit 
to  that  city.      A  second  version  of  the  same 


poem  was  published,  as  by  Shelley,  and  with 
Mrs.  Shelley's  consent,  but  without  mention  of 
the  former  publication,  in  Fraser''s,  July,  1831. 
Lines  435,  443-451,  were  quoted  by  Shelley 
as  a  motto  for  chapter  viii.,  and  lines  780. 782- 
790  for  chapter  x.  of  St.  Irvyne,  1811.  These 
last  lines,  and  lines  1401-1408,  were  quoted  by 
Medwin  (Life,  i.  56,  58),  who  ascribes  them  to 
Shelley,  and  are  given  among  the  Juvenilia  by 
Rossetti,  Forman  and  Dowden.  The  poem,  as 
it  appeared  in  Fraser^s,  appears  to  have  been 
edited,  by  omission  or  alteration  or  both,  and 
Mrs.  Shelley's  statement  made  below  refers  ex- 
clusively to  such  editing.  Three  lines  are  quoted 
in  the  Introduction  to  Fraser^s  version,  as  fol- 
lows, — '  There  is  a  pretty,  affecting  passage 
at  the  end  of  the  fourth  canto,  which  we  dare 
say  bore  reference  to  the  cloud  of  family  mis- 
fortune in  which  he  [Shelley]  was  then  en- 
veloped :  — 

'  "  'T 13  mournful  when  the  deadliest  hate 

Of  friends,  of  fortune,  and  of  fate, 

la  levelled  at  one  fated  head."  ' 


574 


DOUBTFUL  POEMS 


These  lines  are  also  quoted  by  Medwin  {Life,  i. 
364)  as  written  '  in  bis  seventeenth  year,'  but 
he  does  not  mention  independent  authority  for 
them.  They  do  not,  however,  appear  in  the 
poem  as  given  in  either  version.  Such  are  the 
facts  making  for  Shelley's  authorship. 

On  the  other  hand  Medwin  claims  to  have 
•written  the  poem,  Avith  aid  from  Shelley,  and 
ascribes  to  him  a  concluding  portion,  embody- 
ing speculative  opinions,  which  has  never  come 
to  light.  It  is  plain  that  the  poem  was  not 
printed  from  Medwin's  MS.,  which  he  does  not 
himself  seem  to  have  consulted.  His  memory 
of  the  past  was  at  best  a  confused  one,  as  is 
shown  by  the  inaccuracy  of  his  Life  of  the 
poet ;  and,  when  the  matter  related  to  his  lit- 
erary partnership  with  Shelley,  as  in  his  trans- 
lations at  Pisa,  his  recollection  of  the  share  of 
each  in  their  joint  work  was,  one  is  compelled 
to  think,  very  feeble  indeed.  It  may,  at  least, 
be  fairly  surmised  that  more  of  Shelley's  work 
goes  under  Medwin's  name  than  has  ever  been 
affirmed.  In  the  present  instance  Medwin's 
assertion  of  authorship,  in  which  several  blun- 
ders are  obvious,  is  of  no  more  value  than 
other  unsupported  aiid  loose  statements  by  him, 
which  would  certainly  be  accepted  only  pro- 
visionally and  with  doubt.  In  view  of  the 
facts  above,  that  Shelley  twice  offered  the  poem 
as  his  own  and  that  it  was  twice  printed  from 
different  MSS.  without  Medwin's  interposition, 
the  claim  of  a  far  more  trustwortliy  writer  would 
be  much  impaired.  If  the  internal  evidence  of 
the  poem  be  appealed  to,  the  opinion  that  it 
is  substantially  Shelley's  work  is  as  much 
strengthened.  The  most  plausible  hypothesis 
is  that  Shelley  worked  with  Medwin  upon  the 
subject  in  prose  and  in  the  first  versification 
made  of  the  prose ;  that  he  tlien  rewrote  the 
whole,  confined  the  poem  to  the  story,  and  re- 
served the  speculative  part,  whicli  has  never 
appeared,  among  those  early  materials  out  of 
which  Queen  Mab  was  made  and  to  which,  both 
prose  and  verse,  he  referred  in  saying,  that 
Queen  Mab  was  written  in  his  eighteentli  and 
nineteenth  year,  or  1809-10 ;  but  that  The 
Wandering  Jew,  as  we  have  it,  is  substantially 
the  poem  offered  by  him  for  publication  in 
ISIO,  and  that  it  was  Shelley's  work  and  not 
Medwin's,  are  statements  as  well  supported  by 
external  and  internal  evidence  as  can  be  looked 
for  in  such  cases.  Forman  and,  though  with 
less  decision,  Dowden  reject  the  poem,  and 
therefore  it  is  here  placed  in  this  division. 

The  following  documentary  account  of  it  is 
condensed  from  the  Introduction  to  the  reprint 
in  the  Shelley  Society  Publications  by  Mr. 
Bertram  Dobell,  who  discovered  the  Edinburgh 
1829  version. 

Messrs.  Ballantyne  &  Co.  (from  Edinburgh) 


to  Shelley,  September  24,  1810  :  '  Sir,  —  The 
delay  which  occurred  in  our  reply  to  you,  re- 
specting the  poem  you  have  obligingly  offered 
us  for  publication,  has  arisen  from  our  literary 
friends  and  advisers  (at  least  such  as  we  have 
confidence  in)  being  iu  the  country  at  this  sea- 
son, as  is  usual,  and  the  time  they  have  be- 
stowed on  its  perusal. 

'  We  are  extremely  sorry  at  length,  after 
the  most  mature  deliberation,  to  be  under  the 
necessity  of  declining  the  honor  of  being  the 
publishers  of  the  present  poem;  not  that  we 
doubt  its  success,  but  that  it  is  perhaps  better 
suited  to  the  character  and  liberal  feelings  of 
the  English,  than  the  bigoted  spirit  which  yet 
pervades  many  cultivated  minds  in  this  coun- 
try. Even  Walter  Scott  is  assailed  on  .^ll 
hands,  at  present,  by  our  Scotch  spiritual  and 
evangelical  magazines  and  instructoi^.  for  hav- 
ing promulgated  atheistical  doctrines  in  The 
Lady  of  the  Lake. 

'  We  beg  yon  will  have  the  goodness  to 
advise  us  how  it  should  be  returned,  and  we 
think  its  being  consigned  to  some  person  in 
London  would  be  more  likelj'  to  ensure  its 
safety  than  addressing  it  to  Horsham.'  Stock- 
dale's  Budget,  1827.     (Hotten's  Shelley,  i.  41.) 

Shelley  (from  Field  Place)  to  Stockdale, 
September  28,  1810  :  '  Sir,  —  I  sent,  before  I 
had  the  pleasure  of  knowing  you,  the  MS.  of 
a  poem  to  Messrs.  Ballantyne  &  Co.,  Edin- 
burgh ;  they  have  declined  publishing  it,  with 
the  enclosed  letter.  I  now  offer  it  to  you,  and 
depend  upon  your  honor  as  a  gentleman  for  a 
fair  price  for  the  copyright.  It  will  be  sent 
to  you  from  Edinburgh.  The  subject  is  The 
Wandering  Jew.  As  to  its  containing  atheis- 
tical principles,  I  assure  you  I  was  wholly  un- 
aware of  the  fact  hinted  at.  Your  good  sense 
will  point  out  the  impossibility  of  inculcat- 
ing pernicious  doctrines  in  a  poem  which,  as 
you  will  see,  is  so  totally  abstract  from  any 
circumstances  which  occur  under  the  possible 
view  of  mankind.'  StockdaWs  Budget,  1827. 
(Hotten,  i.  140.) 

Shelley  (from  University  College)  to  Stock- 
dale,  November  14,  1810:  'I  am  surprised 
that  you  have  not  received  Tlie  Wandering  Jew, 
and  in  consequence  write  to  Mr.  Ballantyne  to 
mention  it ;  you  will,  doubtlessly,  therefore 
receive  it  soon.'  StockdaWs  Budget,  1827. 
(Hotten,  i.  44.) 

Shelley  (from  University  College)  to  Stock- 
dale,  November  19,  1810 :  '  If  you  have  rot 
got  The  Wandering  Jew  from  Mr.  B.,  I  will 
send  you  a  MS.  copy  which  I  possess.'  (Hot- 
ten,  i.  44.) 

Shelley  (from  Oxford)  to  Stockdale,  Decem- 
ber 2,  1810  :  '  Will  yon,  if  you  have  got  two 
copies  of  The  Wandering  Jew,  send  one  of 
them  to  me,  as  I  have  thought  of  some  correc* 


THE  WANDERING  JEW 


575 


tions  which  I  wish  to  make  ;  your  opinion  on  it 
will  likewise  much  oblige  me.'  Stockdale's 
Budget,  1827.     (Hotten,  i.  45.) 

The  Edinburgh  Literary  Journal,  No.  32, 
June  20,  1829  :  — 

'  THE    POBT    8HBLLEY 

*  There  has  recently  been  put  into  our  hands 
a  manuscript  volume,  which  we  look  upon  as 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  literary  curiosities 
extant.  It  is  a  poem  in/our  cantos,  by  the  late 
poet  Shelley,  and  entirely  written  in  his  own  hand. 
It  is  entitled  The  Wandering  Jew,  and  contains 
many  passages  of  great  power  and  beauty.  It 
was  compossd  upwards  of  twenty  years  ago, 
and  brought  by  the  poet  to  Edinburgh,  which 
he  visited  about  that  period.  It  has  since  lain 
in  the  custody  of  a  literary  gentleman  of  this 
town,  to  whom  it  was  then  offered  for  publica- 
tion. We  have  received  permission  to  give 
our  readers  a  further  account  of  its  contents, 
with  some  extracts,  next  Saturday  ;  and  it  af- 
fords us  much  pleasure  to  have  it  in  our  power 
to  be  thus  instrumental  in  rescuing,  through 
the  medium  of  the  Literary  Journal,  from  the 
obscurity  to  which  it  might  otherwise  have 
been  consigned,  one  of  the  earliest  and  most 
striking  of  this  gifted  poet's  productions,  the 
very  existence  of  which  has  never  hitherto 
been  surmised.'  [The  poem  was  published, 
Nos.  33,  34  (June  27,  July  4,  1829),  with  the 
following  remarks]  :  — 

'  It  may  possibly  have  been  offered  to  one 
or  two  booksellers,  both  in  London  and  Edin- 
burgh, without  success,  and  this  may  account 
for  the  neglect  into  which  the  author  allowed 
it  to  fall,  when  new  cares  crowded  upon  him, 
and  new  prospects  opened  round  him.  Certain 
it  is,  that  it  has  been  carefully  kept  by  the 
literary  gentleman  to  whom  he  entrusted  its 
perusal  when  he  visited  Edinburgh  in  1811, 
and  would  have  been  willingly  surrendered  by 
him  at  any  subsequent  period,  had  any  appli- 
cation to  that  effect  been  made.  .  .  . 

'  Mr.  Shelley  appears  to  have  some  doubts 
whether  to  call  his  poem  The  Wandering  Jew 
or  The  Victim  of  the  Internal  Avenger.  Both 
names  occur  in  the  manuscript ;  but  had  the 
work  been  published,  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  he 
would  finally  have  fixed  on  the  former,  the 
more  especially  as  the  poem  itself  contains 
very  little  calculated  to  give  offence  to  the  re- 
ligious reader.  The  motto  on  the  title-page  is 
from  the  22d  chapter  of  St.  John  :  "  If  1  will 
that  he  tarry  till  I  come,  what  is  that  to  thee  ? 
—  follow  thou  me."  Turning  over  the  leaf, 
we  meet  with  the  following  Dedication :  "  To 
Sir  Francis  Burdett,  Bart.,  M.  P.,  in  considera- 
tion of  tke  active  virtues  by  which  both  his 
public  and  private  life  is  so  eminently  distin- 


guished, the  following  poem  is  inscribed  by  the 
Author."  Again  turning  the  leaf,  we  meet 
with  the  — 


'  "  The  subject  of  the  following  Poem  is  an 
imaginary  personage,  noted  for  the  various  and 
contradictory  traditions  which  have  prevailed 
concerning  him  —  the  Wandering  Jew.  Many 
sage  monkish  writers  have  supported  the  au- 
thenticity of  this  fact,  the  reality  of  his  exist- 
ence. But  as  the  quoting  them  would  have 
led  me  to  annotations  perfectly  uninteresting, 
although  very  fashionable,  I  decline  presenting 
anything  to  the  public  but  the  bare  poem, 
which  they  will  agree  with  me  not  to  be  of 
su£Bcient  consequence  to  authorize  deep  anti- 
quarian researches  on  its  subject.  I  might, 
indeed,  have  introduced,  by  anticipating  future 
events,  the  no  less  grand,  although  equally 
groundless,  superstitions  of  the  battle  of  Ar- 
mageddon, the  personal   reign  of  J C , 

etc. ;  but  I  preferred,  improbable  as  the  fol- 
lowing tale  may  appear,  retaining  the  old 
method  of  describing  past  events -■  it  is  cer-' 
tainly  more  consistent  with  reason,  more  inter- 
esting, even  in  works  of  imagination.  With 
respect  to  the  omission  of  elucidatory  notes,  I 
have  followed  the  well-known  maxim  of  '  Do 
unto  others  as  thoa  wonldest  they  should  do 
unto  thee.'  —  January,  1811."  ' 

'  The  poem  introduced  by  the  above  Preface 
is  in  four  cantos  ;  and  though  the  octosyllabic 
verse  is  the  most  prominent,  it  contains  a  vari- 
ety of  measures,  like  Sir  Walter  Scott's  poeti- 
cal romances.  The  incidents  are  simple,  and 
refer  rather  to  an  episode  in  the  life  of  the 
Wandering  Jew,  than  to  any  attempt  at  a  full 
delineation  of  all  his  adventures.  We  shall 
give  an  analysis  of  the  plot,  and  intersperse,  as 
we  proceed,  some  of  the  most  interesting  pas- 
sages of  the  poem.' 

Medwin,  Shelley  Papers,  pp.  7-9 :  '  Shortly 
afterwards  we  wrote,  in  conjunction,  six  or 
seven  cantos  on  the  subject  of  the  Wandering 
Jew,  of  which  the  first  four,  with  the  exception 
of  a  very  few  lines,  were  exclusively  mine-  It 
was  a  thing  such  as  boys  usually  write,  a  cento 
from  different  favorite  authors  ;  the  crucifixion 
scene  altogether  a  plagiary  from  a  volume  of 
Cambridge  Prize  Poems.  The  part  which  I 
contributed  I  have  still,  and  was  surprised  to 
find  totidem  verbis  in  Fraser^s  Magazine.  .  .  . 
As  might  be  shown  by  the  last  cantos  of  that 
poem,  which  Fraser  did  not  think  worth  pub- 
lishing, his  [Shelley's]  ideas  were,  at  that 
time,  strange  and  incomprehensible,  mere  ele- 
ments of  Uiought  —  images  wild,  vast  and 
Titanic' 


576 


DOUBTFUL  POEMS 


Medwin,  Life,  i.  54-57 :  '  Shelley,  having 
abandoned  prose  for  poetry,  now  formed  a 
grand  design,  a  metrical  romance  on  the  snb- 
ject  of  the  Wandeiing  Jew,  of  which  the  first 
three  cantos  were,  with  a  few  additions  and 
alterations,  almost  entirely  mine.  It  was  a 
sort  of  thing  such  as  boys  usually  write,  a  cento 
from  different  favorite  authors  ;  the  vision  in 
the  third  canto  taken  from  Lewis's  Monk,  of 
which,  in  common  with  Byron,  he  was  a  great 
admirer ;  and  the  crucifixion  scene  altogether 
a  plagiarism  from  a  volume  of  Cambridge  Prize 
Poems.  The  part  which  I  supplied  is  still  in  my 
possession.  After  seven  or  eight  cantos  were 
perpetrated ,  Shelley  sent  them  to  Campbell  for 
his  opini(m  on  their  merits,  with  a  view  to 
publication.  The  autlior  of  the  Pleasures  of 
Hope  returned  the  MS.  with  the  remark  that 
there  were  only  two  good  lines  in  it :  — 

♦  "  It  seemed  as  if  an  angel's  sigh 

Had  breathed  the  plaintive  symphony." 

Lines,  by  the  way,  savoring  strongly  of  Walter 
Scott.  This  criticism  of  Campbell's  gave  a 
death-blow  to  our  hopes  of  immortality,  and 
so  little  regard  did  Shelley  entertain  for  the 
production,  that  he  left  it  at  his  lodgings  in 
Edinburgh,  where  it  was  disinterred  by  some 
correspondent  of  ¥r user's,  and  in  whose  maga- 
zine, in  1831,  four  of  the  cantos  appeared.  The 
others  he  very  wisely  did  not  think  worth 
publishing. 

'  It  must  be  confessed  that  Shelley's  contri- 
butions to  this  juvenile  attempt  were  far  the 


best,  and  those,  with  my  MS.  before  me,  I 
could,  were  it  worth  while,  point  out,  though 
the  contrast  in  the  style,  and  the  inconsequence 
of  the  opinions  on  religion,  particularly  in  the 
last  canto,  are  sufficiently  Oijvious  to  mark  two 
different  hands,  and  show  which  passages  were 
his.  .  .  ,  The  finale  of  The  Wandering  Jew  is 
also  Shelley's,  and  proves  that  thus  early  he  had 
imbibed  opinions  which  were  often  the  subject 
of  our  controversies.  We  differed  also  as  to 
the  conduct  of  the  poem.  It  was  my  wish  to 
follow  the  German  fragment,  and  put  an  end 
to  the  Wandering  Jew  —  a  consummation 
Shelley  would  by  no  means  consent  to.'  [Mi-. 
Dobell  examines  the  inconsistencies  and  the 
precise  statements  of  Medwin  at  length.] 

JFVaser's,  July,  ISol  :  'An  obscure  contem- 
porary has  accused  us  of  announcing  for  pub- 
lication Shelley's  poem  without  proper  author- 
ity. We  beg  to  assure  him  that  we  have  tlie 
sanction  of  Mrs.  Shelley.     0[liver]  Y[orke].' 

The  same  :  '  The  important  literary  curiosity 
which  the  liberality  of  the  gentleman  into 
whose  hands  it  has  fallen,  enables  us  now  to 
lay  before  the  public  for  the  first  time,  an  a 
complete  state,  was  offered  for  publication  by 
Mr.  Shelley  when  quite  a  boy,' 

Mrs.  Shelley,  Note  on  Queen  Mab,  1839,  i 
102  :  '  He  wrote  also  a  poem  on  the  subject  of 
Ahasuerus  —  being  led  to  it  by  a  German 
Fragment  he  picked  up,  dirty  and  torn,  in 
Lincoln's  Inn  Fields.  This  fell  afterwards 
into  other  hands  —  and  was  considerably  al- 
tered before  it  was  printed.' 


THE   WANDERING   JEW 

[The  passages  in  italics  are  from  the  Edin- 
biirgh  version,] 

CANTO  I 

•  Me  miserable,  whioh  way  shall  I  fly  ? 
Infinite  wrath  and  infinite  despair  — 
Which  way  I  fly  is  hell  —  myself  am  hell ; 
And  in  this  lowest  deep  a  lower  deep, 
To  which  the  hell  I  suffer  seems  a  heaven.' 

J'aradite  Lost. 

The  brilliant  orb  of  parting  day 
Diffused  a  rich  and  mellow  ray 
Above  the  mountain's  brow  ; 
It  tinged  the  hills  with  lustrous  light, 
It  tinpred  the  promontory's  height, 
Still  sparkling  with  the  snow  ; 
And,  as  aslant  it  threw  its  beam, 
Tipped  with  pold  the  mountain  stream 
That  laved  the  vale  below  ; 
Lone  hung  the  eye  of  glory  there, 
And  lingered  as  if  loth  to  leave 
A  scene  so  lovely  and  so  fair. 


'T  were  luxury  even,  there  to  grieve. 
So  soft  the  clime,  so  halm  the  air. 
So  pure  and  genial  were  the  skies. 
In  sooth  H  was  almost  Paradise, 
For  ne'er  did  the  suns  splendor  close 
On  such  a  picture  of  repose. 
All,  all  was  tranquil,  all  was  still. 
Save  when  the  music  of  the  rill. 
Or  distant  waterfall. 
At  intervals  broke  on  the  ear, 
Wliich  Echo's  self  was  charmed  to  hear, 
And  ceased  her  babbling  call. 
With  every  charm  the  landscape  glowed 
Which  partial  Nature's  hana  bestowed  ; 
Nor  could  the  mimic  hand  of  art 
Such  beauties  or  such  hues  impart. 

Light  clouds  in  fleeting  livery  gay 

Hung,  painted  in  grotesque  array. 

Upon  the  western  sky  ; 

Forgetful  of  the  approaching  dawn. 

The  peasants  danced  upon  the  lawn, 

For  the  vintage  time  was  nigh. 

How  jocund  to  the  tabor's  s«)und 

O'er  the  smooth,  trembling  turf  they  bound. 

In  every  measure  light  and  free,' 

The  very  soul  of  harmony  1 


THE  WANDERING  JEW 


577 


Grace  in  each  attitude,  they  move. 

They  thrill  to  a  inorous  ecstasy. 

Light  as  the  dewdrops  of  tlie  morn, 

That  hang  upon  the  blossomed  tliorn. 

Subdued  by  the  jmwer  of  resistless  Love. 

Ah  !  days  of  innocence,  of  joy. 

Of  rapture  that  knows  no  alloy, 

Haste  on,  — ye  roseate  hours. 

Free  from  the  world's  tmnultuous  cares. 

From  pale  distrust,  from  hopes  and  fears, 

Baneful  concomitants  of  time,  — 

^T  is  yours,  beneath  this  favored  clime, 

Your  pathway  strewn  with  flowers. 

Upborne  on  pleasure's  downy  wing. 

To  quaff  a  long  unfading  sjwing, 

A  nd  beat  with  light  and  careless  step  the  ground ; 

The  fairest  flowers  too  soon  grow  sere, 

Too  soon  shall  tempests  blast  the  year, 

And  sin's  eternal  winter  reign  around. 

But  see,  what  forms  are  those, 

Scarce  seen  by  glimpse  of  dim  twilight, 

Wandering  o'er  the  mountain's  height  ? 

They  swiftly  haste  to  the  vale  below. 

One  wraps  hia  mantle  around  his  brow, 

As  if  to  hide  his  woes  ; 

And  as  his  steed  impetuous  flies. 

What  strange  fire  flashes  from  his  eyes ! 

The  far-off  city's  murmuring  sound 

Was  borne  on  the  breeze  which  floated  around  ; 

Noble  Padua's  lofty  spire 

Scarce  glowed  with  the  sunbeam's  latest  fire, 

Yet  dashed  the  travellei-s  on  ; 

Ere  night  o'er  the  earth  was  spread, 

Full  many  a  mile  they  must  have  sped, 

Ere  their  destined  course  was  run. 

Welcome  was  the  moonbeam's  ray. 

Which  slept  upon  the  towers  so  gray. 

But,  hark  !  a  convent's  vesper  bell  — 

It  seemed  to  be  a  very  spell ! 

The  stranger  checked  his  courser's  rein, 

And  listened  to  the  mournful  sound  ; 

Listened  —  and  paused  —  and  paused  again  ; 

A  thrill  of  pity  and  of  pain 

Through  his  inmost  soul  had  passed. 

While  gushed  the  tear-drops  silently  and  fast. 

A  crowd  was  at  the  convent  gate, 

The  gate  was  opened  wide  ; 

No  longer  on  his  steed  he  sate, 

But  mingled  with  the  tide. 

He  felt  a  solemn  awe  and  dread, 

As  he  the  chapel  entered 

Dim  was  the  light  from  the  pale  moon  beam- 
ing, 

As  it  fell  on  the  saint-cyphered  panes. 

Or,  from  the  western  window  streaming. 

Tinged  the  pillars  with  varied  stains. 

To  the  eye  of  enthusiasm  strange  forms  were 
gliding 

In  each  dusky  recess  of  the  aisle  ; 

And  indefined  shades  in  succession  were  strid- 
ing 

O'er  the  coignes  ^  of  the  Gothic  pile. 

The  pillars  to  the  vaulted  roof 

In  airy  lightness  rose  ; 

'  Buttress  or  coign  of  vantage.    Macbeth. 


Now  they  mount  to  the  rich  Gothic  ceiling  aloof 
And  exquisite  tracery  disclose. 

The   altar   illumined    now    darts    its    bright 

rays. 
The  train  passed  in  brilliant  array ; 
On  the  shrine  Saint  Pietro's  rich  ornaments 

blaze. 
And  rival  the  brilliance  of  day. 
Hark  I  —  now  the  loud  organ  swells  full  on  the 

ear  — 
So  sweetly  mellow,  chaste,  and  clear ; 
Melting,  kindling,  raising,  firing. 
Delighting  now,  and  now  inspiring, 
Peal  upon  peal  the  music  floats ; 
NoAv  they  list  still  as  death  to  the  dying  notes ; 
W^hilst  the  soft  voices  of  the  choir, 
Exalt  the  soul  from  base  desire, 
Till  it  mounts  on  unearthly  pinions  free. 
Dissolved  in  heavenly  ecstasy. 

Now  a  dead  stillness  reigned  around, 

Uninterrupted  by  a  sound ; 

Save  when  in  deadened  response  ran 

The  last  faint  echoes  down  the  aisle. 

Reverberated  through  the  pile. 

As  wdthin  the  pale  the  holy  man. 

With  voice  devout  and  saintly  look. 

Slow  chanted  from  the  sacred  book, 

Or  pious  prayers  were  duly  said 

For  spirits  of  departed  dead. 

With  beads  and  crucifix  and  hood. 

Close  by  his  side  the  abbess  stood  ; 

Now  her  dark  penetrating  eyes 

Were  raised  in  suppliance  to  heaven. 

And  now  her  bosom  heaved  with  sighs, 

As  if  to  human  weakness  given. 

Her  stern,  severe,  yet  beauteous  brow 

Frowned  on  all  who  stood  below  ; 

And  the  fire  which  flashed  from  her  steady 

gaze, 
As  it  turned  on  the  listening  crowd  its  rays, 
Superior  virtue  told,  — 
Virtue  as  pure  as  heaven's  own  dew, 
But  which,  untainted,  never  knew 
To  pardon  weaker  mould. 
The  heart  though  chaste  and  cold  as  snow  — 
'T  were  faulty  to  be  virtuous  so. 

Not  a  whisper  now  breathed  in  the  pillared 

aisle. 
The  stranger  advanced  to  the  altar  high  — 
Convulsive  was  heard  a  smothered  sigh  ! 
Lo  !  four  fair  nuns  to  the  altar  draw  near. 
With  solemn  footstep,  as  the  while 
A  fainting  novice  they  bear ; 
The  roses  from  her  cheek  are  fled 
But  there  the  lily  reigns  instead  ; 
Light  as  a  sylph's,  her  form  confessed 
Beneath  the  drapery  of  her  vest, 
A  perfect  grace  and  symmetry  ; 
Her  eyes,  with  rapture  formed  to  move. 
To  melt  with  tenderness  and  love. 
Or  beam  with  sensibility. 
To  Heaven  were  raised  in  pious  prayer, 
A  silent  eloquence  of  woe ; 
Now  hung  me  pearly  tear-drop  there ; 


578 


DOUBTFUL  POEMS 


Sate  on  her  cheek  a  _ fixed  despair ; 
And  now  she  beat  her  bosom  bare. 
As  pure  as  driven  snow. 

Nine  graceful  novices  around 
Fresh  roses  strew  upon  the  ground  ; 
In  purest  white  arrayed, 
Nine  spotless  vestal  virgins  shed 
babaeau  incense  o'er  the  head 
Of  the  devoted  maid. 

They  dragged  her  to  the  altar's  pale, 
The  traveller  leant  against  the  rail, 
And  gazed  with  eager  eye,  — 
His  cheek  was  flushed  with  sudden  glow, 
On  his  brow  sate  a  darker  shade  of  woe. 
As  a  transient  expression  fled  by. 

The  sympathetic  feeling  flew 

Through  every  breast,  from  man  to  man  ; 

Confused  and  open  clamors  ran  — 

Louder  and  louder  still  they  grew  ; 

When  the  abbess  waved  her  hand, 

A  stern  resolve  was  in  her  eye. 

And  every  wild  tunmltuous  cry 

Was  stilled  at  her  command. 

The  abbess  made  the  well-known  sign  — 

The  novice  reached  the  fatal  shrine, 

And  mercy  implored  from  tlie  power  divine  ; 

At  length  she  shrieked  aloud, 

She  dashed  from  the  supporting  nun, 

Ere  the  fatal  rite  was  done, 

And  plunged  amid  the  crowd. 

Confusion  reigned  throughout  the  throng  — 

Still  the  novice  fled  along. 

Impelled  by  frantic  fear. 

When  the  maddened  traveller's  eager  grasp 

In  firmest  yet  in  wildest  clasp 

Arrested  her  career. 

As  fainting  from  terror  she  sank  on  the  ground. 

Her  loosened  locks  floated  her  fine  form  around  ; 

The  zone  which  confined  her  shadowy  vest 

No  longer  her  throbbing  bosom  pressed, 

Its  animation  dead ; 

No  more  her  feverish  pulse  beat  high. 

Expression  dwelt  not  in  her  eye. 

Her  wildered  senses  fled. 


Hark  !  Hark  !  the  demon  of  the  storm  ! 
I  see  his  vast  expanding  form 
Blend  with  the  strange  and  sulphurous  glare 
Of  comets  through  the  turbid  air. 
Yes,  't  was  his  voice,  I  heard  its  roar. 
The  wild  waves  liished  the  caverned  shore 
In  angry  murmurs  hoarse  and  loud,  — 
Higher  and  higher  still  they  rise  ; 
Red  lightnings  gleam  from  every  cloud 
And  paint  wild  shapes  upon  the  skies ; 
The  echoing  thimder  rolls  around, 
Convulsed  with  earthquake  rocks  the  ground. 

The  traveller  yet  undaunted  stood, 
He  heeded  not  the  roaring  flood  ; 
Yet  Rosa  slept,  her  bosom  bare, 
Her  cheek  was  deadly  pale. 


The  ringlets  of  her  auburn  hair 

Streamed  in  a  lengthened  trail, 

And  motionless  her  seraph  form  ; 

Unheard,  unheeded  raved  the  storm  ; 

Whilst,  borne  on  the  wing  of  the  gale, 

The  harrowing  shriek  of  the  white  sea-mew 

As  o'er  the  midnight  surge  she  flew,  — 

The  bowlings  of  tlie  squally  blast. 

As  o'er  the  beetling  clifl^s  it  piissed, 

Mingled  with  the  peals  on  high, 

Tliat,  swelling  louder,  echoed  bj',  — 

Assailed  the  traveller's  ear. 

He  heeded  not  the  maddened  storm 

As  it  pelted  against  his  lofty  form  ; 

He  felt  no  awe,  no  fear  ; 

In  contrast,  like  the  courser  pale  ^ 

That  stalks  along  Death's  pitchy  vale 

With  silent,  with  gigantic  tread. 

Trampling  the  dying  and  the  dead. 

Rising  from  her  deathlike  trance, 
Fair  Rosa  met  the  stranger's  glance  ; 
She  started  from  his  chilling  gaze,  — 
Wild  was  it  as  the  tempest's  blaze, 
It  shot  a  lurid  gleam  of  light, 
A  secret  spell  of  sudden  dread, 
A  mystic,  strange,  and  han-o«ing  fear, 
As  when  the  spirits  of  the  dead, 
Dressed  in  ideal  shapes  .nppear, 
And  hideous  glance  on  human  sight ; 
Scarce  could  Rosa's  frame  sustain 
The  chill  that  pressed  upon  her  brain. 

Anon,  that  transient  spell  was  o'er  ; 

Dark  clouds  deform  his  brow  no  more, 

But  rapid  fled  away  ; 

Sweet  fascination  dwelt  around, 

Mixed  with  a  soft,  a  silver  sound. 

As  soothing  to  the  ravished  ear, 

As  what  enthusiast  lovers  hear ; 

Which  seems  to  steal  along  the  skj', 

W^hen  mountain  mists  are  seen  to  fly 

Before  the  approach  of  day. 

He  seized  on  wondering  Rosa's  hand, 

'  And,  ah  ! '  cried  he,  '  be  this  the  band 

Shall  join  us,  till  this  earthly  frame 

Sinks  convulsed  in  bickering  flame  — 

When  around  the  demons  yell. 

And  drag  the  sinful  wretch  to  hell, 

Then,  Rosa,  will  we  part  — 

Tlien  fate,  and  only  fate's  decree. 

Shall  tear  thy  lovely  soul  from  me. 

And  rend  thee  from  my  heart. 

Long  has  Paulo  sought  in  vain 

A  friend  to  share  his  grief ; 

Never  will  he  seek  again. 

For  the  wretch  has  found  relief. 

Till  tlie  Prince  of  Darkness  bursts  his  chain. 

Till  death  and  desolation  reign. 

Rosa,  wilt  thou  then  be  mine  ? 

Ever  fairest,  I  am  thine  ! ' 

He  ceased,  and  on  the  howling  blast. 

Which  wildly  round  the  mountain  passed, 

•  '  Behold  a  pale  horse,  and  his  name  thnt  sate  upon 
him  wa-s  Death,  and  Hell  followed  with  him.'  — JZere- 
lation,  vi.  8. 


THE  WANDERING  JEW 


579 


Died  his  accents  low  ; 

Yet  fiercely  howled  the  midnight  storm, 

As  Paulo  bent  his  awful  form, 

And  leaned  his  lofty  brow. 


'Stranger,  mystic  stranger,  rise  ; 

Whence  do  these  tumults  fill  the  skies  ? 

Who  conveyed  me,  say,  this  night. 

To  this  wild  and  cloud-capped  height  ? 

Who  art  tliou  ?  and  why  am  I 

Beneath  Heaven's  pitiless  canopy  ? 

For  the  wild  winds  roar  around  my  head  | 

Lightnings  redden  the  wave  ; 

Was  it  the  power  of  the  mighty  dead, 

Wlio  live  beneath  the  grave  ? 

Or  did  the  Abbess  drag  me  here 

To  make  yon  swelling  surge  my  bier  ?  ' 


*  Ah,  lovely  Rosa !  cease  thy  fear, 

It  was  thy  friend  who  bore  thee  here  — 

I,  thy  friend,  till  this  fabric  of  earth 

Sinks  in  the  chaos  that  gave  it  birth  ; 

Till  the  meteor-bolt  of  the  God  above 

Shall  tear  its  victim  from  his  love,  — 

That  love  which  must  unbroken  last, 

Till  the  hour  of  envious  fate  is  past, 

Till  the  mighty  basements  of  tlie  sky 

In  bickering  hell-flames  heated  fly. 

E'en  then  will  I  sit  on  some  rocky  height. 

Whilst  around  lower  clouds  of  eternal  night ; 

E'en  then  will  I  loved  Kosa  save 

From  the  yawning  abyss  of  the  grave  ; 

Or,  into  the  gulf  impetuous  hurled 

If  sinks  with  its  latest  tenants  the  world, 

Tlien  will  our  souls  in  union  fly 

Throughout  the  wide  and  boundless  sky  ; 

Then,  free  from  the  iUs  that  envious  fate 

Has  heaped  upon  our  mortal  state. 

We  '11  taste  ethereal  pleasure  ; 

Such  as  none  but  thou  canst  give, 

Such  as  none  but  I  receive,  — 

And  rapture  without  measure.' 

As  thus  he  spoke,  a  sudden  blaze 

Of  pleasure  mingled  in  his  gaze. 

Illumined  by  the  dazzling  light, 

He  glows  with  radiant  lustre  bright ; 

His  features  with  new  glory  shine. 

And  sparkle  as  with  beams  divine. 

'  Strange,  awful  being,'  Rosa  said. 

'  Whence  is  this  superhuman  dread. 

That  harrows  up  my  inmost  frame  ? 

Whence  does  this  unknown  tingling  flame 

Consume  and  penetrate  my  soul  ? 

By  turns  with  fear  and  love  possessed. 

Tumultuous  thoughts  swell  high  my  breast ; 

A  thousand  wild  emotions  roll. 

And  mingle  their  resistless  tide  ; 

O'er  thee  some  magic  arts  preside  ; 

As  by  the  influence  of  a  charm. 

Lulled  into  rest,  my  griefs  subside, 

And,  safe  in  thy  protecting  arm, 

I  feel  no  power  can  do  me  harm. 

But  the  storm  raves  wildly  o'er  the  sea,  — 

Bear  me  away !  I  confide  in  thee  I ' 


CANTO   II 

'  I  could  a  tale  unfold,  whose  slightest  word 
Would  harrow  up  thy  soul,  freeze  thy  youug  blood, 
Make  thy  two  eyes,  Uke  stars,  start  from  their  spheres ; 
Thy  knotted  aud  combined  locks  to  part, 
AuJ  each  particular  hair  to  stand  on  end, 
Like  quills  upon  the  fretful  porcupine.' 

Hamlet- 

The  horrors  of  the  mighty  blast. 

The  lowering  tempest  clouds,  were  passed  — 

Had  sunk  beneath  the  main  ; 

Light  baseless  mists  were  all  that  fled 

Above  the  weaiy  traveller's  head, 

As  he  left  the  spacious  plain. 

Fled  were  the  vapors  of  the  night, 
Faint  streaks  of  rosy  tinted  light 
Were  painted  on  the  matin  g^ray  ; 
And  as  the  sun  began  to  rise 
To  pour  his  animating  ray. 
Glowed  with  his  fire  the  eastern  skies, 
The  distant  rockso  the  far-off  bay. 
The  ocean's  sweet  and  lovely  blue, 
The  mountain's  variegated  breast, 
Blushing  with  tender  tints  of  dawn, 
Or  with  fantastic  shadows  dressed  ; 
The  waving  wood,  the  opening  lawn, 
Rose  to  existence,  waked  anew, 
In  coloi-s  exquisite  of  hue  ; 
Their  mingled  charms  Victorio  viewed, 
And  lost  in  admiration  stood. 

From  yesternight  how  changed  the  scene, 

When  howled  the  blast  o'er  the  dark  cliff's  side 

And  mingled  with  the  maddened  roar 

Of  the  wild  surge  that  lashed  the  share. 

To-day  —  scarce  heard  the  whispering  breeze, 

And  still  and  motionless  the  seas. 

Scarce  heard  the  murmuring  of  their  tide ; 

All.  all  is  peaceful  and  serene  ; 

Serenely  on  Victorio's  breast 

It  breathed  a  soft  and  tranquil  rest. 

Which  bade  each  wild  emotion  cease, 

And  hushed  the  passions  into  peace. 

Along  the  winding  Po  he  went ; 

His  footsteps  to  the  spot  were  bent 

Where  Paulo  dwelt,  his  wandered  friend. 

For  thither  did  his  wishes  tend. 

Noble  Victorio's  race  was  proud, 

From  Cosmo's  blood  he  came ; 

To  him  a  wild  untutored  crowd 

Of  vassals  in  allegiance  bowed. 

Illustrious  was  his  name  ; 

Yet  vassals  and  wealth  he  scorned  to  go 

Unnoticed  with  a  man  of  woe  ; 

Gay  hope  and  expectation  sate 

Throned  in  his  eager  eye. 

And,  ere  he  reached  the  castle  gate. 

The  sun  had  momited  high. 

Wild  was  the  spot  where  the  castle  stood 
Its  towers  embosomed  deep  in  wood  ; 
Gigantic  cliffs,  with  craegy  steeps. 
Reared  their  proud  heads  on  high,  — 


58o 


DOUBTFUL  POEMS 


Their  bases  were  washed  by  the  foaming  deeps, 

Their  summits  were  hid  in  the  sky ; 

From  the  valley  below  they  excluded  the  day, 

That  valley  ne'er  cheered  by  the  sunbeam's  ray ; 

Nought  broke  on  the  silence  drear, 

Save  the  hunjjry  vultures  darting  by, 

Or  eagles  yelhng  fearfully, 

As  they  bore  to  the  rocks  their  prey : 

Or  when  the  fell  wolf  ravening  prowled, 

Or  the  gaunt  wild  boar  fiercely  howled 

His  hideous  screams  on  the  night's  dull  ear. 

Borne  on  pleasure's  downy  wing, 

Downy  as  the  breath  of  spring. 

Not  thus  fled  Paulo's  hours  away. 

Though  brightened  by  the  cheerful  day. 

Friendship  or  wine,  or  softer  love. 

The  sparkling  eye,  the  foaming  bowl, 

Could  with  no  lasting  rapture  move, 

Nor  still  the  tumults  of  his  soul. 

And  yet  there  was  in  Rosa's  kiss 

A  momentary  thrill  of  bliss  ; 

Oft  the  dark  clouds  of  grief  would  fly 

Beneath  the  beams  of  sympathy  ; 

And  love  and  converse  sweet  bestow, 

A  transient  requiem  from  woe.  — 

Strange  business,  and  of  import  vast, 
On  things  which  long  ago  were  past 
Drew  Paulo  oft  from  home  ; 
Then  would  a  darker,  deeper  shade, 
By  sorrow  traced,  his  brow  o'erspread 
And  o'er  his  features  roam. 
Oft  as  they  spent  the  midnight  hour, 
And  heard  the  wintry  wild  winds  rave 
Midst  the  roar  and  spray  of  the  dashing  wave, 
Was  Paulo's  dark  brow  seen  to  lower. 
Then,  as  the  lamp's  uncertain  blaze 
Shed  o'er  the  hall  its  partial  rays,  ' 

And  shadows  strange  were  seen  to  fall, 
And  glide  upon  the  dusky  wall. 
Would  Paulo  start  with  sudden  fear. 
Why  then  unbidden  gushed  the  tear. 
As  he  muttered  strange  words  to  the  ear  ? 
Wliy  frequent  heaved  the  smothered  sigh  ? 
Why  did  he  gaze  on  vacancy, 
As  if  some  strange  form  was  near  ? 
Then  would  the  fillet  of  his  brow 
Fierce  as  a  fiery  furnace  glow, 
As  it  burned  with  red  and  lambent  flame ; 
Then  would  cold  shuddering  seize  his  frame. 
As  gasping  he  labored  for  breath. 
The  strange  light  of  his  gorgon  eye, 
As,  frenzied  and  rolling  dreadfully. 
It  glared  with  terrific  gleam, 
Would  chill  like  the  spectre  gaze  of  death, 
As,  conjured  by  feverish  dream. 
He  seems  o'er  the  sick  man's  couch  to  stand. 
And  shakes  the  dread  lance  in  his  skeleton 
hand. 

But  when  the  paroxysm  was  o'er, 
And  clouds  deformed  his  brow  no  more. 
Would  Rosa  soothe  his  tumults  dire. 
Would  bid  him  calm  his  grief. 
Would  quench  reflection's  rising  fire, 
And  give  his  soul  relief. 
As  on  his  form  with  pitying  eye 


The  ministering  angel  hung. 
And  wiped  the  drops  of  agony, 
The  music  of  her  siren  tongue 
Lulled  forcibly  his  griefs  to  rest ; 
Like  fleeting  visions  of  the  dead, 
Or  midnight  dreams,  his  sorrows  fled  ; 
Waked  to  new  life,  through  all  his  soul 
A  soft  delicious  languor  stole, 
And  lapped  in  heavenly  ecstasy 
He  sank  and  fainted  on  her  breast. 

'Twas  on  an  eve,  the  leaf  was  sere. 

Howled  the  blast  round  the  castle  drear, 

The  boding  night-bird's  hideous  cry 

Was  mingled  with  the  warning  sky  ; 

Heard  was  the  distant  torrent's  dash. 

Seen  was  the  lightning's  dark  red  flash, 

As  it  gleamed  on  the  stormy  cloud  ; 

Heard  was  the  troubled  ocean's  roar. 

As  its  wild  waves  lashed  the  rocky  shore  ; 

The  thunder  muttered  loud. 

As  wilder  still  the  lightnings  flew  ; 

Wilder  as  the  tempest  blew. 

More  wildly  strange  their  converse  grew. 

They    talked    of   the   ghosts    of    the  mighty 

dead, — 
If,  when  the  spark  of  life  were  fled, 
They  visited  this  world  of  woe  ? 
Or,  were  it  but  a  fantasy. 
Deceptive  to  the  feverish  eye. 
When  strange  forms  flashed  upon  the  sight, 
And  stalked  along  at  the  dead  of  night  ? 
Or  if,  in  the  realms  above, 
They  still,  for  mortals  left  below. 
Retained  the  same  affection's  glow. 
In  friendship  or  in  love  ?  — 
Debating  thus,  a  pensive  train. 
Thought  upon  thought  began  to  rise ; 
Her  thrilling  wild  harp  Rosa  took  ; 
What  sounds  in  softest  murmurs  broke 
From  the  seraphic  strings  ! 
Celestials  borne  on  odorous  wings 
Caught  the  dulcet  melodies  ; 
The  life-blood  eljbed  in  every  vein. 
As  Paulo  listen'd  to  the  strain. 


What  sounds  are  those  that  float  upon  the  air. 
As  if  to  bid  the  fading  day  farewell,  — 
What  form  is  that  so  shadowy,  yet  so  fair, 
Which  glides  along   the    rough    and  pathless 
dell? 

Nightly  those  sounds  swell  full  upon  the  breeze, 
Which  seems  to  sigh  as  if  in  sympathy  ; 
Tliey  hang  amid  yon  cliff -embosomed  trees. 
Or  d!oat  in  dying  cadence  through  the  sky. 

Now  rests  that  form  upon  the  moonbeam  pale^ 
In  piteous  strains  of  woe  its  vesper  sings ; 
Now  —  now  it  traverses  the  silent  vale. 
Borne  on  transparent  ether's  viewless  wings. 

Oft  will  it  rest  beside  yon  abbey's  tower, 
Which  lifts  its  ivy-mantled  mass  so  high; 


THE  WANDERING  JEW 


58X 


Bears  its  dark  head  to  meet  the  storms  that 

lower. 
And    braves    the    trackless   tempests  of    the 

sky. 

That  form,  the  embodied  spirit  of  a  maid, 
Forced  by  a  perjured  lover  to  the  grave  ; 
A  desperate  fate  the  maddened  girl  obeyed, 
And   from  the  dark  cliffs  plunged  into  the 


There  the  deep  murmurs  of  the  restless  surge. 

The  mournful  shriekings  of  the  white  sea- 
mew. 

The  warring  waves,  the  wild  winds,  sang  her 
dirge, 

And  o'er  her  bones  the  dark  red  coral  grew. 

Yet  though  that  form  be  sunk  beneath  the 

main, 
Still    rests   her   spirit    where    its    vows  were 

given; 
Still  fondly  visits  each  loved  spot  again, 
And  pours  its  sorrows  on  the  ear  of  Heaven. 

That  spectre  wanders  through  the  abbey  dale. 
And  suffers  pangs  which  such   a   fate  must 

share ; 
Early  her  soul  sank  in  death's  darkened  vale, 
And  ere  long  all  of  us  must  meet  her  there. 

She  ceased,  and  on  the  listening  ear 

Her  pensive  accents  died  ; 

So  sad  they  were,  so  softlj'  clear. 

It  seemed  as  if  some  angel's  sigh 

Had  breathed  the  plaintive  symphony ; 

So  ravishingly  sweet  their  close, 

The  tones  awakened  Paulo's  woes ; 

Oppressive  recollections  rose, 

And  poured  their  bitter  tide. 

Absorbed  awhile  in  grief  he  stood  ; 

At  length  he  seemed  as  one  inspired. 

His  burning  fillet  blazed  with  blood  — 

A  lambent  flame  his  features  fired. 

'  The  hour  is  come,  the  fated  hour  ; 

Whence  is  this  new,  this  unfelt  power  ?  — 

Yes,  I  've  a  secret  to  unfold, 

And  such  a  tale  as  ne'er  was  told, 

A  dreadful,  dreadful  mystery  ! 

Scenes,  at  whose  retrospect  e'en  now. 

Cold  drops  of  anguish  on  ray  brow. 

The  icy  chill  of  death  I  feel : 

Wrap,  Rosa,  bride,  thy  breast  in  steel. 

Thy  soul  with  nerves  of  iron  brace, 

As  to  your  eyes  I  darkly  trace 

My  sad,  my  cruel  destiny. 

'  Victorio,  lend  your  ears,  arise. 

Let  US  seek  the  battling  skies. 

Wild  o'er  o\ir  heads  the  thunder  crashing, 

And  at  our  feet  the  wild  waves  dashing, 

As  tempest,  clouds,  and  billowg  roll. 

In  gloomy  concert  with  my  soul. 

Rosa,  follow  me  — 

For  my  soul  is  joined  to  thine, 

And  thy  being 's  linked  to  mine  — 

Rosa,  list  to  me.' 


CANTO   III 

'  His  form  had  not  yet  lost 
AU  its  original  brightness,  nor  appeared 
Less  than  archangel  ruined,  and  the  excess 
Of  glory  obscured ;  but  his  face 
Deep  scars  of  thunder  had  intrenched,  and  care 
Bate  on  bis  faded  cheek.' 

Paradise  Lost. 

PAULO 

'T  IS  sixteen  hundred  years  ago. 

Since  I  came  from  Israel's  land  ; 

Sixteen  hundred  years  of  woe  !  — 

With  deep  and  furrowing  hand 

God's  mark  is  painted  on  my  head  ; 

Must  there  remain  until  the  dead 

Hear  the  last  trump,  and  leave  the  tomb. 

And  earth  spouts  fire  from  her  riven  womb. 

How  can  I  paint  thai  dreadful  day. 

That  time  of  terror  and  dismay, 

When,  for  our  sins,  a  Saviour  died. 

And  the  meek  Lamb  was  crucified  ! 

As  dread  that  day,  when,  borne  along 

To  slaughter  by  the  insulting  throng, 

Infuriate  for  Deicide, 

L  mocked  our  Saviour,  and  I  cried, 

'  Go,  go,'  '  Ah  !  I  will  go,'  said  he, 

'  Where  scenes  of  endless  bliss  invite ; 

To  the  blest  regions  of  the  light 

I  go,  but  thou  shalt  here  remain  — 

Thou  diest  not  till  I  come  again.'  — 

E'en  now,  by  horror  traced,  I  see 

His  perforated  feet  and  hands  ; 

The  maddened  crowd  around  him  stands  ; 

Pierces  his  side  the  ruffian  spear. 

Big  rolls  the  bitter  anguished  tear. 

Hark,  that  deep  groan  !  —  he  dies  —  ha 
dies,  — 

And  breathes,  in  death's  last  agonies. 

Forgiveness  to  his  enemies. 

Then  was  the  noonday  gloiy  clouded, 

Tlie  sun  in  pitchy  darkness  shrouded. 

Tlien  were  strange  forms  through  the  darkness 
gleaming. 

And  the  red  orb  of  night  on  Jerusalem  beam- 
ing; 

Which  faintly,  with  ensanguined  light, 

Dispersed  the  thickening  shades  of  night. 

Convulsed,  all  nature  shook  with  fear, 

As  if  the  very  end  was  near  ; 

Earth  to  her  centre  trembled  ; 

Rent  in  tivain  was  the  temple'' s  veil; 

The  graves  gave  up  their  dead  ; 

Whilst  ghosts  and  spirits,  ghastly  pale. 

Glared  hideous  on  the  sight. 

Seen  through  the  dark  and  lurid  air. 

As  fiends  arrayed  in  light 

Tlirew  on  the  scene  a  frightful  glare. 

And,  howling,  shrieked  with  hideous  yell  — 

They  shrieked  in  joy,  for  a  Saviour  fell ! 

^Twas  then  I  felt  the  Almighty^  s  ire ; 

Then  full  on  my  remembrance  came 

Those  words  despised,  alas  !  too  late  I 

The  horrors  qf  my  endless  fate 


58* 


DOUBTFUL  POEMS 


Flashed  on  my  soul  and  shook  my  frame  ;  . 

They  scorched  my  breast  as  with  aflame 

Of  unextinguishahle  fire ; 

An  exquisitely  torturing  pain 

Offrenzying  anguish  fired  my  brain. 

By  keen  remorse  and  auguish  driven, 

I  called  for  vengeance  down  from  Heaven. 

But,  ah !  the  all-wasting  hand  of  Time 

Might  never  wear  away  my  crime  ! 

I  scarce  could  draw  my  fluttering  breath  — 

Was  it  the  appalling  grasp  of  death  ? 

1  lay  entranced,  and  deemed  he  shed 

His  dews  of  poppy  o'er  my  head  ; 

But,  though  the  kindly  warmth  was  dead, 

The  self-inflicted  torturing  pangs 

•Of  conscience  lent  their  scorpion  fangs. 

Still  life  prolonging  after  life  was  fled. 

Methought  what  glories  met  my  sight, 

As  burst  a  sudden  blaze  of  light 

Illumining  the  azure  skies,  — 

I  saw  the  blessed  Saviour  rise. 

But  how  unlike  to  him  who  bled  ! 

Where  then  his  thorn-encircled  head  ? 

Where  the  big  drops  of  agony 

Which  dimmed  the  lustre  of  his  eye  ? 

Or  deathlike  hue  that  overspread 

The  features  of  that  heavenly  face  ? 

Gone  now  was  every  mortal  trace  ; 

His  eyes  with  radiant  lustre  beamed  — 

His  form  confessed  celestial  grace, 

And  with  a  blaze  of  glory  streamed. 

Innumerable  hosts  around, 

Tiieir  brows  with  wreaths  immortal  crowned. 

With  amaranthine  chaplets  bound. 

As  on  their  wings  the  cross  they  bore. 

Deep  dyed  in  the  Redeemer's  gore. 

Attune  their  golden  haips.  and  sing 

Loud  hallelujalis  to  their  King. 

But  in  an  instant  from  my  sight 

Fled  were  the  visions  of  delight. 

Darkness  had  spread  her  rjiven  pall ; 

Dank,  lurid  darkness  covered  all. 

All  was  as  silent  as  the  dead  ; 

I  felt  a  petrifying  dread. 

Which  harrowed  up  my  frame  ; 

When  suddenly  a  lurid  stream 

Of  dark  red  light,  with  hideous  gleam. 

Shot  like  a  meteor  through  the  night, 

And  painted  Hell  upon  the  skies  — 

The  Hell  from  whence  it  came. 

What  clouds  of  sulphur  seemed  to  rise  ! 

What  sounds  were  borne  upon  the  air  1 

The  breathings  of  intense  despair  — 

The  piteous  shrieks  —  the  wails  of  woe  — 

The  screams  of  torment  and  of  pain  — 

The  red-hot  rack  —  the  clanking  chain  I 

I  gazed  npon  the  gulf  below. 

Till,  fainting  from  excess  of  fear. 

My  tottering  knees  refused  to  bear 

My  odious  weight.     I  sink  —  I  sink  I 

Already  had  I  reached  the  brink. 

The  fiery  waves  disparted  wide 

To  plunge  me  in  their  sulphurous  tide ; 

When,  racked  by  agonizing  pain, 

I  started  into  life  again. 


Yet  still  the  impression  left  behind 
Was  deeply  graven  on  my  mind 
In  characters  whose  inwai-d  trace 
No  change  or  time  could  ere  deface  ; 
A  burning  cross  illumed  my  brow, 
I  hid  it  with  a  fillet  gray. 
But  could  not  hide  the  wasting  woe 
That  wore  my  wildered  soul  away, 
And  ate  my  heart  with  living  fire. 
I  knew  it  was  the  avenger's  sway, 
I  felt  it  was  the  avenger's  ire  ! 

A  burden  on  the  face  of  earth, 

I  cursed  the  mother  who  gave  me  birth  ; 

I  cursed  myself  —  my  native  land. 

Polluted  by  repeated  crimes, 

I  sought  in  distant  foreign  climes 

If  change  of  country  could  bestow 

A  transient  respite  from  my  woe. 

Vain  from  myself  the  attempt  to  fly, 

Sole  cause  of  my  own  misery. 

Since  when,  in  deathlike  trance  I  lay, 

Passed,  slowly  passed,  the  years  away 

That  poured  a  bitter  stream  on  me  ; 

When  once  I  fondly  longed  to  see 

Jerusalem,  alas  I  my  native  place, 

Jerusalem  —  alas !  no  more  in  name  — 

No  portion  of  her  former  fame 

Had  left  behind  a  single  trace. 

Her  pomp,  her  splendor,  was  no  more. 

Her  towers  no  longer  seem  to  rise 

To  lift  their  proud  heads  to  the  skies,  — 

Fane  and  monumental  bust 

Long  levelled  even  with  the  dust. 

The    holy    pavements    were    stained    with 

gore. 
The  place  where  the  sacred  temple  stood 
Was  crimson-dyed  with  Jewisli  blood. 
Long  since  my  parents  had  been  dead, 
All  my  posterity  had  bled 
Beneath  the  dark  Crusader's  spear. 
No  friend  was  left  my  path  to  cheer. 
To  shed  a  few  last  setting  rays 
Of  sunshme  on  my  evening  days  1 

Racked  by  the  tortures  of  the  mind. 

How  have  I  longed  to  plunge  beneath 

The  mansions  of  repelliiig  death  ! 

And  strove  that  resting  place  to  find 

Where  earthly  sorrows  cease  ! 

Oft,  when  the  tempest-fiends  engaged. 

And  the  warring  winds  tumultuous  raged. 

Confounding  skits  with  seas. 

Then  would  I  rush  to  the  towering  height 

Of  the  gigantic  Teneriffe, 

Or  some  precipitous  cliff'. 

All  in  the  dead  of  the  silent  night. 

I  have  cast  myself  from  the  mountain's  height. 

Above  was  day —  below  was  night ; 

The  suhatantial  clouds  that  lowered  beneath 

Bore  my  detested  form; 

They  whirled  it  above  the  volcanic  breath 

A  nd  the  meteors  of  the  storm ; 

The  torrents  of  electric  flame 

Scorched  to  a  cinder  my  fated  frame. 


THE  WANDERING  JEW 


583 


Hark  to  the  thunder'' s  awful  crash  — 
JJar/c  to  the  midnight  lightmng^s  hiss! 
At  length  was  heard  a  sullen  dash. 
Which  made  the  hollow  rocks  around 
Mibellow  to  the  awful  sound  ; 
The  yawning  ocean  opening  wide 
Heceived  me  in  its  vast  abyss. 
And  whelmed  me  in  its  foaming  tide. 
Though  my  astounded  senses  fled, 
Yet  did  the  spark  of  life  remain; 
Then  the  wild  surges  of  the  main 
Dashed  and  left  me  on  the  rocky  shore. 
Oh .'  would  that  I  had  waked  no  more  ! 
Vain  wish  !    I  lived  again  to  feel 
Torments  more  fierce  than  those  of  hell ! 
A  tidi  of  keener  pain  to  roll,^ 
And  the  bruises  to  enter  my  inmost  soul  I 

I  east  mygelf  in  Etna's  womb,'- 

If  haply  I  might  meet  my  doom 

In  torrents  of  electric  liame  ; 

Thrice  happy  had  I  found  a  grave 

'Mid  fierce  combustion's  tumults  dire, 

'Mid  oceans  of  volcanic  fire 

Which  whirled  me  in  their  sulphurous  wave, 

And  scorched  to  a  cinder  my  hated  frame, 

Parched  up  the  blood  within  my  veins. 

And  racked  my  breast  with  damning  pains,  — 

Then  hurled  me  from  the  mountain's  entrails 

dread. 
With  what  unutterable  woe 
Even  now  I  feel  this  bosom  glow  — 
I  burn  —  I  melt  with  fervent  heat  — 
Again  life's  pulses  wildly  beat  — 
What  endless  throbbing  pains  I  live  to  feel ! 
The  elements  respect  their  Maker's  seal,  — 
That  seal  deep  printed  on  my  fated  head. 
Still  like  the  scathed  pine-tree's  height. 
Braving  the  tempests  of  the  night. 
Have  I  'scaped  the  bickering  fire. 
Like    the    scathed    pine   which   a  monument 

stands 
Of  faded  grandeur,  which  the  brands 
Of  the  tempest-shaken  air 
Have  riven  on  the  desolate  heath, 
Yet  it  stands  majestic  even  in  death, 
And  rears  its  wild  form  there. 
Tlius  have  I  'scaped  the  ocean's  roar 
The  red-hot  bolt  from  God's  right  hand. 
The  flaming  midnight  meteor  brand, 
And  Etna's  flames  of  bickering  fire. 
Thus  am  I  doomed  by  fate  to  stand, 

^  '  I  cast  myself  from  the  overhanging  summit  of  the 
gigantic  Teneriffe  into  tlie  wide  weltering  ocean.  The 
clouds  which  hung  upon  its  base  below,  bore  up  my 
oiious  weight ;  the  foaming  billows,  swoln  by  the  fury 
of  the  northern  blast,  opened  to  receive  me,  and,  bury- 
ing in  a  vast  abyss,  at  length  dashed  my  almost  inani- 
mate frame  against  the  crags.  The  bruises  entered 
into  my  soul,  but  I  awoke  to  life  and  all  its  torments.  I 
precipitated  myself  into  the  crater  of  Vesuvius ;  the 
bickering  flames  and  melted  lava  vomited  me  up  again, 
and  though  I  felt  the  tortures  of  the  damned,  though 
the  sulphureous  bitumen  scorched  the  blood  within 
my  veins,  parched  up  my  flesh  and  burnt  it  to  a  cinder, 
still  did  I  live  to  drag  the  galling  chain  of  existence 
on.  Repeatedly  have  I  exposed  myself  to  the  tempestu- 
ous battling  of  the  elements  ;  the  clouds  which  burst 
upon  my  bead  in  crash  terrific  and  exterminating,  and 


A  monument  of  the  Eternal's  ire ; 
Nor  can  this  being  pass  away. 
Till  time  shall  be  no  more. 

I  pierce  with  intellectual  eye, 
Into  each  hidden  mystery ; 
I  penetrate  the  fertile  womb 
Of  nature  ;  I  produce  to  light 
The  secrets  of  the  teeming  earth. 
And  give  air's  unseen  embryos  birth  ; 
The  past,  the  present,  and  to  come, 
Float  in  review  before  my  sight ; 
To  me  is  known  the  mapic  spell. 
To  summon  e'en  the  Prince  of  Hell ; 
Awed  by  the  Cross  upon  my  head. 
His  fiends  would  obey  my  mandates  dread, 
To  twilight  change  the  blaze  of  noon 
And  stain  with  spots  of  blood  the  moon  — 
But  that  an  interposing  hand 
Restrains  my   potent    arts,   my  else   supreme 
command.  — 

He  raised  his  passion-quivering  hand, 
He  loosed  the  gray  encircling  band, 
A  burning  Cross  was  there  ; 
Its  color  was  like  to  recent  blood, 
Deep  marked  upon  his  brow  it  stood, 
And  spread  a  lambent  glare. 
Dimmer  grew  the  taper's  blaze. 
Dazzled  by  the  brighter  rays, 
Whilst  Paulo  spoke  —  't  was  dead  of  night  — 
Fair  Rosa  shuddered  with  affright ; 
Victorio,  fearless,  had  braved  death 
Upon  the  blood-besprinkled  heath  ; 
Had  heard,  unmoved,  the  cannon's  roar. 
Echoing  along  the  Wolga's  shore. 
When  the  thunder  of  battle  was  swelling. 
When  the  birds  for  their  dead  prey  were  yelling. 
When  the  ensigns  of  slaughter  were  stream- 
ing, _ 
And  falchions  and  bayonets  were  gleaming, 
And  almost  felt  death's  chilling  hand, 
Stretched  on  ensanguined  Wolga's  strand, 
And,  careless,  scorned  for  life  to  cry. 
Yet  now  he  turned  aside  his  eye. 
Scarce  could  his  death-like  terror  bear, 
And  owned  now  what  it  was  to  fear. 

[PAULo] 

Once  a  funeral  met  my  aching  sight. 
It  blasted  my  eyes  at  the  dead  of  night, 

the  flaming  thunderbolt,  hurled  headlong  on  me  its 
victim,  stunned  but  not  destroyed  me.  The  light- 
ning, in  bickering  coruscation,  blasted  me ;  and  like 
the  scattered  [?  shattered]  oak,  which  remains  a 
monument  of  faded  grandeur,  and  outlives  the  other 
moiiarchs  of  the  forest,  doomed  me  to  live  forever.  Nine 
times  did  this  dagger  enter  into  my  heart  —  the  ensan- 
guined tide  of  existence  followed  the  repeated  plunge ; 
at  each  stroke,  unutterable  anguish  seized  my  frame, 
and  every  limb  was  convulsed  by  the  pangs  of  approach- 
ing dissolution.  The  wounds  still  closed,  and  still  I 
breathe  the  hated  breath  of  life.' 

I  have  endeavored  to  deviate  as  little  as  possible  from 
the  extreme  sublimity  of  idea  which  the  style  of  the 
German  author,  of  which  this  is  a  translation,  so  forci- 
bly impresses. 


584 


DOUBTFUL  POEMS 


When  the  sightless  fiends  of  the  tempests  rave. 
And  hell-birds  liowl  o'er  the  storm-blackened 

wave. 
Nought  was  seen,  save  at  fits,  but  the  meteor's 

glare 
And  the  lightnings  of  God  painting  hell  on  the 

air ; 
Nought  was  heard  save  the  thunder's  wild  voice 

in  the  sky, 
And  strange  birds  who,  shrieking,  fled  dismally 

by. 
'Twas  then  from  my  head  my  drenched  hair 

that  I  tore, 
And  bade  my  vain  dagger's  point    drink  my 

life's  gore ; 
'Twas  then  I  fell  on  the  ensanguined  earth. 
And  cursed  the  mother  who  gave  me  birth  ! 
My  maddened  brain-  could  bear  no  more  — 
Hark  !  the  chilling  whirlwind's  roar ; 
The  spiiits  of  the  tombless  dead 
Flit  around  my  fated  head,  — 
Howl  horror  and  destruction  round. 
As  they  quaff  my  blood  that  stains  the  ground, 
And  shriek  amid  their  deadly  stave,  — 
'  Never  shalt  thou  find  the  g^ave ! 
Ever  shall  thy  fated  soul 
111  life's  protracted  torments  roll, 
Till,  in  latest  ruin  hurled. 
And  fate's  destruction,  sinks  the  world  ! 
Till  the  dead  arise  from  the  yawning  ground, 
To  meet  their  Maker's  last  decree. 
Till  angels  of  vengeance  flit  around. 
And  loud  yelling  demons  seize  on  thee  ! ' 
Ah  !  would  were  come  that  fated  hour, 
When  the  clouds  of  chaos  around  shall  lower  ; 
When  this  globe  calcined  by  the  fury  of  God 
Shall  sink  beneath  his  wrathful  nod  !  — 

As  thus  he  spake,  a  wilder  gaze 

Of  fiend-like  horror  lit  his  eye 

With  a  most  unearthly  blaze, 

As  if  some  phantom-form  passed  by. 

At  last  he  stilled  the  maddening  wail 

Of  grief,  and  thus  pursued  his  tale :  — 

Oft  I  invoke  the  fiends  of  hell. 

And  summon  each  in  dire  array  — 

I  know  they  d.are  not  disobey 

My  stem,  my  powerful  spell. 

Once  on  a  night,  when  not  a  breeze 

Ruffled  the  surface  of  the  seas. 

The  elements  were  lulled  to  rest. 

And  all  was  calm  save  my  sad  breast,— 

On  death  resolved  —  intent, 

I  marked  a  circle  round  my  form ; 

About  me  sacred  relics  spread, 

The  relics  of  magicians  dead. 

And  potent  incantations  read  — 

I  wiuted  their  event. 

All  at  once  grew  dark  the  night, 

Mists  of  swarthiness  hung  o'er  the  pale  moon- 

Ught. 
Strange  yells  were  heard,  the  boding  cry 
Of  the  night  raven  that  flitted  by, 
Whilst  the  silver-winged  mew, 
Startled  with  screams,  o'er  the  dark  wave  flewt 


'T  was  then  I  seized  a  magic  wand. 

The  wand  by  an  enchanter  given, 

And  deep  dyed  in  his  heart's  red  blood. 

Tlie  crashing  thunder  pealed  aloud  ; 

I  saw  the  portentous  meteor's  glare 

And  the  lightnings  gleam  o'er  the  lurid  air ; 

I  raised  the  wand  in  my  trembling  hand. 

And  pointed  Hell's  mark  at  the  zenith  of  Hea* 


A  superhuman  sound 

Broke  faiiitly  on  the  listening  air  ; 

Like  to  a  silver  harp  the  notes. 

And  yet  they  were  more  soft  and  clear. 

I  wildly  strained  my  eyes  around  — 

Again  the  unknown  music  floats. 

Still  stood  Hell's  mark  above  my  head  — 

In  wildest  accents  I  summoned  the  dead  — 

And  through  the  unsubstantial  night 

It  diffused  a  strange  and  fiendish  light ; 

Spread  its  rays  to  the  charnel-house  air, 

And  marked  mystic  forms  on  the  daik  vapors 

there. 
The  winds  had  ceased  —  a  thick  dark  smoke 
From  beneath  the  pavement  broke  ; 
Around  ambrosial  perfumes  breathe 
A  fragrance,  grateful  to  the  sense. 
And  bliss,  past  utterance,  dispense. 

The  heavy  mists,  encircling,  wreathe, 

Disperse,  and  gradually  unfold 

A  youthful  female  form  ;  —  she  rode 

Upon  a  rosy-tinted  cloud  ; 

Bright  streamed  her  flowing  locks  of  gold; 

She  shone  with  radiant  lustre  bright, 

And  blazed  with  strange  and  dazzling  light ; 

A  diamond  coronet  decked  her  brow. 

Bloomed  on  her  cheek  a  vermeil  glow  ; 

The  terrors  of  her  fierj'  eye 

Poured  forth  insufferable  day. 

And  shed  a  wildly  lurid  ray. 

A  smile  upon  her  features  played, 

But  there,  too,  sate  portrayed 

The  inventive  malice  of  a  soul 

Where  wild  demoniac  passions  roll ; 

Despair  and  torment  on  her  brow. 

Had  marked  a  melancholy  woe 

In  dark  and  deepened  shade. 

Under  these  hypocritic  smiles. 

Deceitful  as  the  serpent's  wiles, 

Her  hate  and  malice  were  concealed  ; 

Whilst  on  her  guilt-confessing  face. 

Conscience  the  strongly  printed  trace 

Of  agony  betrayed. 

And  all  the  fallen  angel  stood  revealed. 

She  held  a  poniard  in  her  hand. 

The    point    was    tinged    by   the    lightning's 

brand  ; 
In  her  left  a  scroll  she  bore. 
Crimsoned  deep  with  human  gore  ; 
And,  as  above  my  head  she  stood. 
Bade  me  smear  it  with  my  blood. 
She  said  that  when  it  was  my  doom 
That  every  earthly  pang  should  cease. 
The  evening  of  my  mortal  woe 
Wonld  close  beneath  the  yawning  tomb, 
And,  lulled  into  the  arms  of  death. 


THE  WANDERING  JEW 


58s 


(  should  resign  my  laboring  breath, 

And  in  the  siglitless  realms  below 

Enjoy  an  endless  reign  of  peace. 

She  ceased  —  O,  God,  I  thank  thy  grace, 

Which  bade  me  spurn  the  deadly  scroll  ; 

Uncertain  for  a  while  I  stood  — 

The  dagger's  point  was  in  my  blood. 

Even  now  I  bleed  1  —  I  bleed  ! 

When  suddenly  what  horrors  flew, 

Quick  as  the  lightnings,  through  my  frame  ; 

Flashed  on  my  mind  the  infernal  deed, 

The  deed  which  would  condemn  my  soul 

To  torments  of  eternal  flame. 

Drops  colder  than  the  cavern  dew 

Quick  coiursed  each  other  down  my  face, 

I  labored  for  my  breath  ; 

At  length  I  cried,  '  Avaunt  !  thou  fiend  of  Hell, 

Avaunt  I  thou  minister  of  death  ! ' 

I  cast  the  volume  on  the  ground. 

Loud  shrieked  the  fiend  with  piercing  yell, 

And  more  than  mortal  iaughter  pealed  around. 

The  scattered  fragments  of  the  storm 

Floated  along  the  Demon's  form. 

Dilating  till  it  touched  the  sky  ; 

The  clouds  that  rolled  athwart  his  eye. 

Revealed  by  its  terrific  ray, 

Brilliant  as  the  noontide  day. 

Gleamed  with  a  lurid  fire  ; 

Red  lightningfs  darted  around  his  head. 

Thunders  hoarse  as  the  grroans  of  the  dead 

Pronounced  their  Maker's  ire  ; 

A  whirlwind  rushed  impetuous  by, 

Chaos  of  horror  filled  the  sky  ; 

I  sunk  convulsed  with  awe  and  dread. 

When  I  waked  the  storm  was  fled. 

But  sounds  unholy  met  my  ear. 

And  fiends  of  hell  were  flitting  near. 

Here  let  me  pause  —  here  end  my  tale. 

My  mental  powers  begrin  to  fail  ; 

At  this  short  retrospect  I  faint  ; 

Scarce  beats  ray  pulse  —  I  lose  my  breath, 

I  sicken  even  unto  death. 

Oh  !  hard  would  be  the  task  to  paint 

And  gift  with  life  past  scenes  again  ; 

To  knit  a  long  and  linkless  chain. 

Or  strive  minutely  to  relate 

The  varied  horrors  of  my  fate. 

Rosa !  I  could  a  tale  disclose, 

So  full  of  horror  —  full  of  woes. 

Such  as  might  blast  a  demon's  ear. 

Such  as  a  fiend  might  shrink  to  hear  — 

But,  no  — 

Here  ceased  the  tale.    Convulsed  with  fear. 

The  tale  yet  lived  in  Rosa's  ear  — 

She  felt  a  strange  mysterious  dread, 

A  chilling  awe  as  of  the  dead ; 

Gleamed  on  her  sight  the  Demon's  form  ? 

Heard  she  the  fury  of  the  storm  ? 

The  cries  and  hideous  yells  of  death  ? 

Tottered  the  ground  her  feet  beneath  ? 

Was  it  the  fiend  before  her  stood  ? 

Saw  she  the  poniard  drop  with  blood  ? 

All  seemed  to  her  distempered  eye 

A  true  and  sad  reality. 


CANTO   IV 

OvTOt,  yvraucaf,  oAAa  Topyivai  Xiyn' 
i&  aire  ropyiCouTii'  eijcaaoi  tuttoi?' 

^e'Aairai  6'  ««  rh  niv  pS<\vKTpoiroi' 

peyKovcn  6'  ov  irAoTOKTt  ^v<rtd(ia<nV 
€K  6'  ofinoLTtav  Kti^ovai  6uo'i/)iAjj  /Scac. 

M&cuYixa,  EuiiieuidM,  v.  48. 

'  What  are  ye 
Bo  withered  and  so  wild  in  your  attire, 
That  look  not  like  th'  inhabitants  of  earth, 
And  yet  are  on't?  — Live  you,  or  are  you  aught 
Tliat  man  may  question  ? ' 

Macbeth. 

Ah  I  why  does  man,  whom  God  has  sent 

As  the  Creation's  ornament,  » 

Who  stands  amid  his  works  confessed 

The  first  —  the  noblest  —  and  the  best. 

Whose  vast  —  whose  comprehensive  eye, 

Is  bounded  only  by  the  sky, 

O'erlook  the  charms  which  Xature  yields, 

The  garniture  of  woods  and  fields. 

The  sun's  all  vivifying  light. 

The  glory  of  the  moon  by  night, 

And  to  himself  alone  a  foe. 

Forget  from  whom  these  blessings  flow  P 

And  is  there  not  in  friendship's  eye. 

Beaming  with  tender  sympathy, 

An  antidote  to  every  woe  ? 

And  cannot  woman's  love  bestow 

An  heavenly  paradise  below  ? 

Such  joys  as  these  to  man  are  given. 

And  yet  you  dare  to  rail  at  Heaven  ; 

Vainly  oppose  the  Almighty  Cause. 

Transgress  His  universal  laws  ; 

Forfeit  the  pleasures  that  await 

The  virtuous  in  this  mortal  state ; 

Question  the  goodness  of  the  Power  on  high, 

In  misery  live,  despairing  die. 

What  then  is  man,  how  few  his  days. 

And  heightened  by  what  transient  rays ; 

Made  up  of  plans  of  happiness. 

Of  visionary  schemes  of  bliss ; 

The  varying  passions  of  his  mind 

Inconstant,  varying  as  the  wind ; 

Now  hashed  to  apathetic  rest. 

Now  tempested  with  storms  his  breast ; 

Now  with  the  fluctuating  tide 

Sunk  low  in  meanness,  swoln  with  pride  ; 

Thoughtless,  or  overwhelmed  with  care, 

Hoping,  or  tortured  by  despair  I 

The  sun  had  sunk  beneath  the  hill. 
Soft  fell  the  dew,  the  scene  was  still ; 
All  nature  hailed  the  evening's  close. 
Far  more  did  lovely  Rosa  bless 
The  twilight  of  her  happiness. 
Even  Paulo  blessed  the  tranquil  hour 
As  in  the  aromatic  bower. 
Or  wandering  through  the  olive  grove. 
He  told  his  plaintive  tale  of  love  ; 
But  welcome  to  Victorio's  soul 
Did  the  dark  clouds  of  evening  roll ! 
But,  ah  !  what  means  his  hurried  pace. 
Those  gestures  strange,  that  varying  face ; 
Now  pale  with  mingled  rage  and  ire, 
Now  burning  with  intense  desire  ; 


S86 


DOUBTFUL   POEMS 


That  brow  where  brood  the  imps  of  care, 
That  fixed  exijression  of  desjjair, 
That  haste,  that  laboring-  tor  breath  — 
His  soul  is  madly  bent  on  death. 
A  dark  resolve  is  in  his  eye, 
Victorio  raves  —  I  hear  him  cry, 
'  Kosa  is  Paulo's  eternally.' 

But  whence  is  that  soul-harrowing  moan, 
Deep  drawn  and  half  suppressed  — 
A  low  and  melancholy  tone, 
That  rose  upon  the  wind  ? 
Victorio  wildly  gazed  around, 
He  cast  his  eyes  upon  the  ground. 
He  raised  them  to  the  spangled  air, 
But  all  was  still —  was  quiet  there. 
Hence,  hence,  this  superstitious  fear ; 
'Twas  but  the  fever  of  his  mind 
That  conjured  the  ideal  sound. 
To  his  distempered  ear. 

With  rapid  step,  with  frantic  haste. 

He  scoured  the  long  and  dreary  waste  ; 

And  now  the  gloomy  cypress  spread 

Its  darkened  umbrage  o'er  his  head  ; 

The  stately  pines  above  him  high 

Lifted  their  tall  heads  to  the  sky  ; 

Whilst  o'er  his  form,  the  poisonous  yew 

And  melancholy  nightshade  threw 

Their  baleful  deadly  dew. 

At  intervals  the  moon  shone  clear ; 

Yet,  passing  o'er  her  disk,  a  cloud 

Would  now  her  silver  beautj'  shroud. 

The  autumnal  leaf  was  parched  and  sere  ; 

It  rustled  like  a  step  to  fear. 

The  precipice's  battled  height 

Was  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of  night, 

As  Victorio  moved  along. 

At  length  he  reached  its  summit  dread, 

The  night-wind  whistled  round  his  head 

A  wild  funereal  song. 

A  dying  cadence  swept  around 

Upon  the  waste  of  air ; 

It  scarcely  might  be  called  a  sound. 

For  stillness  yet  was  there. 

Save  when  the  roar  of  the  waters  below 

Was  wafted  by  fits  to  the  mountain's  brow. 

Here  for  a  while  Victorio  stood 

Suspended  o'er  the  yawning  flood. 

Ana  gazed  upon  the  gulf  beneath. 

No  apprehension  paled  his  cheek. 

No  sighs  from  his  torn  bosom  break, 

No  terror  dimmed  his  eye. 

'  Welcofne,  thrice  welcome,  friendly  death,' 

In  desperate  harrowing  tone  he  cried, 

'  Receive  me,  ocean,  to  your  breast, 

Hush  this  ungovernable  tide. 

This  troubled  sea  to  rest. 

Thus  do  I  bury  all  my  grief  — 

This  plunge  shall  give  my  soul  relief, 

This  plunge  into  eternity  I ' 

I  see  him  now  about  to  spring 

Into  the  watery  grave  : 

Hark  !  the  death  angel  flaps  his  wing 

O'er  the  blackened  wave. 

Hark  !  the  night-raven  shrieks  on  high 

To  the  breeze  which  passes  on  ; 


Clouds  o'ershade  the  moonlight  sky  — 

The  deadly  work  is  almost  done  — 

When  a  soft  and  silver  sound. 

Softer  than  the  fairy  song 

Which  floats  at  midnight  hour  along 

The  daisy-spangled  ground. 

Was  borne  upon  the  wind's  soft  sweU. 

Victorio  started  —  't  was  the  knell 

Of  some  departed  soul ; 

Now  on  the  pinion  of  the  blast, 

Which  o'er  the  craggy  mountain  passed. 

The  lengthened  murmurs  roll  — 

Till,  lost  in  ether,  dies  away 

The  plaintive,  melancholy  lay. 

'T  is  said  congenial  sounds  have  power 

To  dissipate  the  mists  that  lower 

Upon  the  wretch's  brow  — 

To  still  the  maddening  passions'  war  — 

To  calm  the  mind's  impetuous  jar  — 

To  turn  the  tide  of  woe. 

Victorio  shuddered  with  affright. 

Swam  o'er  his  eyes  thick  mists  of  night ; 

Even  now  he  was  about  to  sink 

Into  the  ocean's  yawning  womb. 

But  that  the  branches  of  an  oak. 

Which,  riven  by  the  lightning's  stroke, 

O'erhung  the  precipice's  brink. 

Preserved  him  from  the  billowy  tomb  ; 

Quick  throbbed  his  pulse  with  feverish  heat, 

He  wildly  started  on  his  feet, 

And  rushed  from  the  mountain's  height. 

The  moon  was  down,  but  through  the  air 
Wild  meteors  spread  a  transient  glare  ; 
Borne  on  the  wing  of  the  swelling  gale, 
Above  the  dark  and  woody  dale, 
Thick  clouds  obscured  the  sky. 
All  was  now  wrapped  in  silence  drear. 
Not  a  whisper  broke  on  the  listening  ear. 
Not  a  murmur  floated  by. 

In  thought's  perplexing  labyrinth  lost 
The  trackless  heath  he  swiftly  crossed. 
Ah  I  why  did  terror  blanch  his  cheek  ? 
Why  did  his  tongue  attempt  to  speak. 
And  fail  in  the  essay  ? 
Through  the  dark  midnight  mists  an  eye. 
Flashing  with  crimson  brilliancy. 
Poured  on  his  face  its  ray. 
'  What  sighs  pollute  the  midnight  air? 
What  mean  tnose  breathings  of  despair  ?  ' 
Thus  asked  a  voice,  whose  hollow  tone 
Might  seem  but  one  funereal  moan. 
Victorio  groaned,  with  faltering  breath, 
'  I  burn  with  love,  I  pant  for  death  I  ' 

Suddenly  a  meteor's  glare. 

With  brilliant  flash  illumed  the  air  ; 

Bursting  through  clouds  of  sulphurous  smoke. 

As  on  a  Witch's  form  it  broke. 

Of  herculean  bulk  her  frame 

Seemed  blasted  by  the  lightning's  flame  ; 

Her  eyes  that  flared  with  lurid  light, 

Were  now  with  bloodshot  lustre  filled. 

They  blazed  like  comets  through  the  night, 

And  now  thick  rheumy  gore  distilled  ; 


THE  WANDERING  JEW 


587 


Black  as  the  raven's  plnme,  her  locks 
Loose  streamed  upon  the  pointed  rocks  ; 
Wild  floated  on  the  hoUow  gale, 
Or  swept  the  ground  in  matted  trail ; 
Vile  loathsome  weeds,  whose  pitchy  fold 
Were  blackened  by  the  fire  of  Hell, 
Her  shapeless  limbs  of  giant  mould 
Scarce  served  to  hide  —  as  she  the  while 
'  Grinned  horribly  a  ghastly  smUe,' 
And  shrieked  with  demon  yeU. 

Terror  unmanned  Victorio's  mind, 

His  limbs,  like  lime  leaves  in  the  \\and. 

Shook,  and  his  brain  in  wild  dismay 

Swam  —  vainly  he  strove  to  turn  away. 

'  Follow  me  to  the  mansions  of  rest,' 

The  weird  female  cried ; 

The  life-blood  rushed  through  Victorio's  breast 

In  full  and  swelling  tide. 

Attractive  as  the  eagle's  gaze. 

And  bright  as  the  meridian  blaze, 

Led  by  a  sanguine  stream  of  light, 

He  followed  through  the  shades  of  night  — 

Before  him  his  conductress  fled, 

As  swift  as  the  ghosts  of  the  dead. 

When  on  some  dreadful  errand  they  fly, 

In  a  thunderblast  sweeping  the  sky. 

They  reached  a  rock  whose  beetling  hei|rht 

Was  dimly  seen  through  the  clouds  of  night ; 

Illumined  by  the  meteor's  blaze. 

Its  wild  crags  caught  the  reddened  rays 

And  their  refracted  brilliance  threw 

Around  a  solitary  yew. 

Which  stretched  its  blasted  form  on  high, 

Braving  the  tempests  of  the  sky. 

As  glared  the  flame,  a  cavemed  cell, 

More  pitchy  than  the  shades  of  heU, 

Lay  open  to  Victorio's  view. 

Lost  for  an  instant  was  his  guide  ; 

He  rushed  into  the  mountain's  side. 

At  length  with  deep  and  harrowing  yell 

She  bade  him  quickly  speed. 

For  that  ere  again  had  risen  the  moon 

'T  was  fated  that  there  must  be  done 

A  strange  —  a  deadly  deed. 

Swift  as  the  wind  Victorio  sped  ; 

Beneath  him  lay  the  mangled  dead  ; 

Around  dank  putrefaction's  power 

Had  caused  a  dim  blue  mist  to  lower. 

Yet  an  unfixed,  a  wandering  light 

Dispersed  the  thickening  shades  of  night ; 

Yet  the  weird  female's  features  dire 

Gleamed  through  the  lurid  yellow  air, 

With  a  deadly  livid  fire. 

Whose  wild,  inconstant,  dazzling  light 

Dispelled  the  tenfold  shades  of  night, 

Whilst  her  hideous  fiendlike  eye. 

Fixed  on  her  victim  with  horrid  stare, 

Elamed  with  more  kindled  radiancy ; 

More  frightful  far  than  that  of  Death, 

When  exulting  he  stalks  o'er  the  battle  heath  ; 

Or  of  the  dread  prophetic  form. 

Who  rides  the  curled  clouds  in  the  storm, 

And  borne  upon  the  tempest's  wings, 

Death,  despair,  and  horror  brings. 


Strange  voices  then  and  shrieks  of  death 

Were  borne  along  the  trackless  heath  ; 

Tottered  the  ground  his  steps  beneath  ; 

Rustled  the  blast  o'er  the  dark  clift's  side, 

And  their  works  unhallowed  spirits  plied. 

As  they  shed  their  baneful  breath. 

Yet  V^ictorio  hastened  on  — 

Soon  the  dire  deed  will  be  done. 

'  Mortal,'  the  female  cried,  '  this  night 

Shall  dissipate  thy  woe  ; 

And,  ere  return  of  morning  light. 

The  clouds  that  shade  thy  brow 

Like  fleeting  summer  mists  shall  fly 

Before  the  sun  that  mounts  on  high. 

I  know  the  wishes  of  thy  heart  — 

A  soothing  balm  I  could  impart : 

Rosa  is  Paulo's  —  can  be  thine. 

For  the  secret  power  is  mine.' 


Give  me  that  secret  power  —  Oh  I  give 
To  me  fair  Rosa  —  I  will  live 
To  bow  to  thy  command. 
Rosa  but  mine  —  and  I  will  fly 
E'en  to  the  regions  of  the  cky. 
Will  traverse  every  land. 


Calm  then  those  transports  and  attend, 
Mortal,  to  one,  who  is  thy  friend  — 
The  charm  begins.  — 

An  ancient  book 
Of  mystic  characters  she  took  ; 
Her  loose  locks  floated  on  the  air  ; 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  in  lifeless  stare  ; 
She  traced  a  circle  on  the  floor, 
Around  dauk  chilling  vapors  lower ; 
A  golden  cross  on  the  pavement  she  threw, 
'T  was  tinged  with  a  ilame  of  lambent  blue. 
From  which  bright  scintillations  flew  ; 
By  it  she  cursed  her  Saviour's  soul ; 
Around  strange  fiendish  laughs  did  roll, 
A  hollow,  wild,  and  frightful  sound, 
At  fits  was  heard  to  float  around. 
She  uttered  then,  in  accents  dread. 
Some  maddening  rhyme  that  wakes  the  dead, 
And  forces  every  shivering  fiend 
To  her  their  demon-forms  to  bend ; 
At  length  a  wild  and  piercing  shriek. 
As  the  dark  mists  disperse  and  break. 
Announced  the  coming  Prince  of  Hell  — 
His  horrid  form  obscured  the  cell. 
Victorio  shrunk,  unused  to  shrink. 
E'en  at  extremest  danger's  brink ; 
The  witch  then  pointed  to  the  gromw^ 
Infernal  shadows  flitted  around 
And  with  their  Prince  were  seen  to  rise ; 
The  cavern  bellows  with  their  cries, 
Which,  echoing  through  a  thousand  caves, 
Sound  like  as  many  tempest  waves. 

Inspired  and  wrapped  in  bickering  flame, 
The  strange,  the  awful  being  stood. 
Words  unpremeditated  came 
In  unintelligible  flood 


S8» 


DOUBTFUL  POEMS 


From  her  black  tumid  li^s,  arrayed 
In  livid  fiendish  smiles  oi  joy  ; 
Lips,  whicli  now  dropped  with  deadly  dew 
And  now,  extending  wide,  displayed 
Projecting  teeth  of  mouldy  hue, 
As  with  a  loud  and  piercing  cry 
A  mystic,  harrowing  lay  she  sang  ; 
Along  the  rocks  a  death-peal  rang ; 
In  accents  hollow,  deep  and  drear, 
They  struck  upon  Victorio's  ear. 
As  ceased  the  soul-appalling  verse. 
Obedient  to  its  power  grew  still 
The  hellish  shrieks;  the  mists  disperse ; 
Satan  —  a  shadeless,  hideous  beast  — 
In  all  his  hoirors  stood  confessed  1 
And  as  his  vast  proportions  Jill 
T/ie  lofty  cave,  his  features  dire 
Gleam  with  a  pale  and  sulphurous  fire ; 
From  his  fixed  glance  of  deadly  hate 
Even  s\ie  shrunk  back,  appalled  with  dread - 
For  there  contempt  and  malice  sate. 
And  from  his  basiliskine  eye 
Sparks  of  living  fury  fly, 
Which  wanted  but  a  being  to  strike  dead. 
A  wilder,  a  more  awful  spell 
Now  echoed  through 'the  long-drawn  cell ; 
The  demon  bowed  to  its  mandates  dread. 
'  Receive  this  potent  drug,'  he  cried, 
'  Whoever  quati's  its  fatal  tide. 
Is  mingled  with  the  dead.' 
Swept  by  a  rushing  sulphurous  blast. 
Which  wildly  through  the  cavern  passed, 
The  fatal  word  was  borne. 
The  cavern  trembled  with  the  sound, ^ 
Trembled  beneath  his  feet  the  ground  ; 
With  strong  convulsions  torn, 
Victorio,  shuddering,  fell ; 
But  soon  awakening  from  his  trance, 
He  cast  around  a  fearful  glance, 
Yet  gloomy  was  the  cell. 
Save  where  a  lamp's  uncertain  flare 
Cast  a  flickering,  dying  glare. 


Receive  this  dear-earned  drag  —  its  power 
Thou,  mortal,  soon  shalt  know : 
This  drug  shall  be  thy  nuptial  dower, 
This  drug  shall  seal  thy  woe. 
Mingle  it  with  Rosa's  wine, 
Victorio  —  Rosa  then  is  thine. 

She  spake,  and,  to  confirm  the  spell, 
A  strange  and  subterranean  sound 
Reverberated  long  around 
In  dismal  echoes  —  the  dark  cell 
Rocked  as  in  terror  —  through  the  sky 
Hoarse  thunders  murmured  awfully, 
And,  winged  with  horror,  darkness  spread 
Her  mantle  o'er  Victorio's  hea<l. 
He  gazed  around  with  dizzy  fear. 
No  fiend,  no  witch,  no  cave,  was  near ; 
But  the  blasts  of  the  forest  were  heard  to  roar, 
The  wild  ocean's  billows  to  dash  on  the  shore. 
»  'Death! 
Hell  trembled  at  the  hideous  name  and  sighed 
From  all  ita  cavea,  and  back  resounded  death.' 

Paradise  Lost. 


The  cold  winds  of  Heaven  struck  chill  on  his 
frame ; 

For  the  cave  had  been  heated  by  hell's  black- 
ening flame. 

And  his  liand  grasped  a  casket  —  the  philtre 
was  there  ! 

Sweet  is  the  whispering  of  the  breeze 
Which  scarcely  sways  yon  summer  trees ; 
Sweet  is  the  pale  moon's  pearly  beam. 
Which  sleeps  upon  the  silver  stream, 
In  slumber  cold  and  stiU  : 
Sweet  those  wUd  notes  of  harmony. 
Are  wafted  from  yon  hiU  ; 
Which  on  the  blast  that  passes  by. 
So  low,  so  thrilling,  yet  so  clear, 
Which  strike  enthusiast  fancy's  ear,  — 
Which  sweep  along  the  moonlight  sky, 
Like  notes  of  heavenly  symphony. 


See  yon  opening  flower 

Spreads  its  fragrance  to  the  blast ; 

It  fades  within  an  hour, 

Its  decay  is  pale,  is  fast. 

Paler  is  you  maiden  ; 

Faster  is  her  heart's  decay  ; 

Deep  with  sorrow  laden, 

She  sinks  in  death  away. 

'T  is  the  silent  dead  of  night  — 

Hark  !  hark  !  what  shriek  so  low  yet  clear. 

Breaks  on  calm  rapture's  pensive  ear 

From  Lara's  castled  height  ? 

'T  was  Rosa's  death-shriek  fell ! 

What  sound  is  that  which  rides  the  blast, 

As  onward  its  fainter  murmurs  passed  ? 

'T  is  Rosa's  funeral  knell ! 

What  step  is  that  the  ground  which  shakes  ? 

'Tis  the  step  of  a  wretch.  Nature  shrinks  from 
his  tread  ; 

And  beneath  their  tombs  tremble  the  shudder- 
ing dead ; 

And  while  he  sx>eaks  the  churchyard  quakes 


Lies  she  therefor  the  worm  to  devour, 

Lies  she  there  till  the  judgment  hour. 

Is  tlien  my  Rosa  dead  ! 

False  fiend  !  I  curse  thy  futile  •power  I 

O'er  her  form  will  lightnings  flash, 

O^er  her  form  will  thunders  crash. 

But  harmless  from  my  head 

Will  the  fierce  tempest'' s  fury  Jly, 

Rebounding  to  its  native  sky.  — 

Who  is  the  God  of  Mercy  f  —  where 

Enthroned  the  power  to  save  f 

Reigns  he  above  the  viewless  air  ? 

Lives  he  beneath  the  grave  ? 

To  him  would  I  lift  my  suppliant  moan. 

That  power  should  hear  myfiarrowing  groan , 

Is  it  then  Christ's  terri fie  Sire  f 

Ah  !  I  have  felt  his  burning  ire, 

I  feel,  —  I  feel  it  now,  — 

Histlamina  mark  isj^xed  on  my  head. 

Ana  must  there  remain  in  traces  dread ; 


LOST  POEMS 


589 


Wild  anguish  glooms  my  brow  ; 

Oh  I  Griefs  like  mine  that  ^fiercely  burn 

Where  is  the  balm  can  heal ! 

Where  is  the  monumental  urn 

Can  bid  to  dust  this  frame  return^ 

Or  quench  the  pangs  I  feel  I 

As  thus  he  spoke  grew  dark  the  sky. 
Hoarse  thunders  murmured  awfully, 
'  O  Demon  !  I  am  thine  !  '  he  cried. 
A  hollow  fiendish  voice  replied, 
'  Come  !  for  thy  doom  is  misery.^ 


THE  DINNER  PARTY  ANTICIPATED:  A  PARA- 
PHRASE OF  HORACE  III.  19 

This  poem  was  found  by  Forraan  among  the 
Hunt  iJJSS.  in  Mrs.  Shelley's  handwriting^.  It 
was  printed  in  Hunt's  Companion,  March  2(j, 
1828,  without  the  name  of  the  translator.  There 
is  no  other  evidence  that  it  was  written  by 
Shelley,  and  it  is  rejected  by  Dowden. 

THE    MAGIC    HORSE  :    TRANSLATED  FROM  THE 
ITALIAN  OF  CRISTOFANO  BRONZING 

This  poem  forms  a  continuous  manuscript 
with  that  of  the  preceding,  and  is  also  rejected 
by  Dowden. 

TO  THE  QUEEN  OF  MY  HEART 

Published  by  Medwin,  the  Shelley  Papers, 
181^3,  and  by  Mrs.  Shelley,  1839,  Ist  ed.,  and 
also  by  Forman  and  Dowden.  Mrs.  Shelley 
omitted  it  in  her  second  edition,  with  the  fol- 
lowing note  :  '  It  was  suggested  that  the  poem. 
To  the  Queen  of  My  Heart  was  falsely  attributed 
to  Shelley ;  and  certainly  I  find  no  trace  of  it 
among  his  papers ;  and,  as  those  of  his  intimate 
friends  whom  I  have  consulted  never  heard  of 
it,  I  omit  it.'  The  story  of  the  hoax  is  told  in 
the  Eclectic  Review,  1851  (ii.),  66  :  'It  is  curious 
to  observe  the  wisdom  and  penetration  of  those 
who  have  at  all  mingled  in  literary  society. 
They  read  an  author,  study  his  peculiarities  and 
style,  and  imagine  they  perfectly  understand 
his  whole  system  of  thought,  and  could  detect 
one  mistake  instantly.  But  to  show  that  even 
authors  themselves  are  not  always  infallible 
judges,  we  will  relate  an  anecdote  which  has 
never  yet  been  made  public,  though,  having 
received  it  from  an  undoubted  source,  we  ven- 
ture to  vouch  for  its  veracity.  Shelley,  whose 
poems  many  years  ago  were  so  much  read  and 
admired,  necessarily  excited  nmch  discussion  in 
literary  circles.  A  party  of  literary  men  were 
one  evening  engaged  in  canvassing  his  merits, 
when  one  of  them  declared  that  ne  knew  the 
turns  of  Shelley's  mind  so  well  that  amongst  a 
thousand  anonymous  pieces  he  would  detect  his, 
BO  matter  when  published.  Mr.  James  Au- 
gustus St.  John,  who  was  present,  not  liking 
the  blustering  tone  of  the  speaker,  remarked 
that  he  thought  he  was  mistaken,  and  that  it 
would,  amongst  so  many,  be  difficult  to  trace 


the  style  of  Shelley.  Every  one  present,  how- 
ever, sided  with  his  opponent,  and  agreed  that 
it  was  perfectly  impossible  that  any  one  could 
imitate  his  style.  A  few  days  after,  a  poem, 
entitled  To  the  Queen  of  My  Heart,  appeared 
in  the  London  Weekly  Review,  with  Shelley's 
signature,  but  written  by  Mr.  St.  John  himself. 
The  same  coterie  met  and  discussed  the  poem 
brought  to  their  notice,  and  prided  themselves 
much  upon  their  discrimination :  said  tliey  at 
once  recognized  the  "  style  of  Shelley,  could  not 
be  mistaken,  his  soul  breathed  through  it  —  it 
was  himself."  And  so  The  Queen  of  My  Heart 
was  settled  to  be  Shelley's  !  and  to  this  day  it 
is  numbered  with  his  poems  (see  Shelley's 
Works,  edited  by  Mrs,  Shelley,  vol.  iv.  p.  16(3. 
It  deceived  even  his  wife),  and  very  few  are  in 
the  secret  that  it  is  not  actually  his.  The  imi- 
tation was  perfect,  and  completely  deceived 
every  one,  much  to  the  discomfiture  of  all  con- 
cerned.' 


LOST    POEMS 

Horsham  Publication.  Reminiscences  of  a 
Newspaper  Editor,  Fraser''s,  June,  1841  :  '  It 
was  ms  [Sir  Bysshe  Shelley]  purse  which  snp- 
plied  young  Bysshe  with  the  means  of  printing 
many  of  his  fugitive  pieces.  These  issued  from 
the  press  of  a  printer  at  Horsham  named  Phil- 
lips ;  and  although  they  were  not  got  up  in  good 
style,  the  expense  was  much  greater  than  Shel- 
ley could  have  afforded,  if  he  had  not  received 
assistance  from  his  grandfather.'  No  examples 
are  known. 

An  Essay  on  Love.  Shelley  (from  Keswick) 
to  Godwin,  January  16,  1812  :  '  I  have  desired 
the  publications  of  my  early  youth  to  be  sent  to 
you.  You  will  perceive  that  Zastrozzi  and  St. 
Irvyne  were  written  prior  to  mj'  acquaintance 
with  your  writings  —  the  Essay  on  Love,  a  little 
poem,  since.'    Hogg,  ii.  62,    No  copy  is  known. 

A  Poetical  Essay  on  the  Existing  State  of 
Things.  The  Oxford  Herald,  March  9,  1811 : 
'  Literature.  Just  published,  Price  Two  Shil- 
lings, A  Poetical  Essay  on  the  Existing  State  of 
Things. 

And  Famine  at  her  bidding  wasted  wide 
Tlie  Wretched  Land,  till  in  the  Public  way, 

Promiscuous  where  the  dead  and  dying  lay, 
Dogs  fed  on  human  bones  in  the  opeu  liglit  of  day. 
Curse  of  EERXMii 

By  ^  Gentleman  of  the  University  of  Oxford. 
For  assisting  to  maintain  in  prison  Mr.  Peter 
Finnerty,  imprisoned  for  a  libel.  London  :  sold 
by  B.  Crosby  &  Co.,  and  all  other  book-sellers. 
1811,'  No  copy  is  known.  The  following  are 
all  the  contemporary  notices  of  it. 

The  Weekly  Messenger,  Dublin,  March  7, 
1812 :  '  Mr,  Shelley,  commiserating  the  suffer- 
ings of  our  distinguished  countr3nnan,  Mr.  Fin- 
nerty, whose  exertions  in  the  cause  of  political 
freedom  he  much  admired,  wrote  a  very  beau* 
tiful  poem,  the  profits  of  which  we  understand, 
from  undoubted  authority,  Mr.  Shelley  remitted 


S90 


UNPUBLISHED   POEMS 


to  Mr.  Finneity  :  we  have  heard  they  amounted 
to  nearly  one  hundred  pounds.'  MacCarthy, 
Shelley^ s  Early  Life,  p.  255. 

A  Diary,  Illustrative  of  the  Times  of  George 
the    Fourth.      C.    Kirkpatrick    Sharpe    (from 

Christ    Church,    Oxford)    to  March    15, 

1811:  — 

'  Talking  of  books,  we  have  lately  had  a  lit- 
erary Sun  shine  forth  upon  us  here,  before  whom 
our  former  luminaries  must  hide  their  dimin- 
ished heads  —  a  Mr.  iShelley,  of  University  Col- 
lege, who  lives  npon  arsenic,  aqua-fortis,  half- 
an-hour's  sleep  in  the  night,  and  is  desperately 
in  love  with  tlie  memory  of  Margaret  Nicholson. 
He  hath  published  what  he  terms  the  Posthu- 
mous Poems,  printed  for  the  benefit  of  Mr, 
Peter  Finnerty,  which,  I  am  grieved  to  cay, 
though  stuffed  full  of  treason,  is  extremely  dull, 
but  the  Author  is  a  great  genius,  and  if  he  be 
not  clapped  up  in  Bedlam  or  hanged,  will  cer- 
tainly prove  one  of  the  sweetest  swans  on  the 
tuneful  margin  of  the  Charwell.  .  .  .  Our 
A-PoUo  next  came  out  with  a  prose  pamphlet  in 
praise  of  atheism  .  .  .  and  there  appeared  a 
monstrous  romance  in  one  volume,  called  St. 
Ircoyne  [sic],  or  the  Rosicrucian.  Shelley's  last 
exhibition  is  a  Poem  on  the  State  of  Public  Af- 
fairs.^    Forman,  Shelley  Library,  pp.  21,  22. 

From  these  conflicting  statements  it  appears 
certain  that  Shelley  printed  some  poem  for  the 
benefit  of  Finnerty.  The  profits  (£10o)  may 
refer  to  the  public  subscription  made  for  Fin- 
nerty to  which  Shelley  was  a  contributor.  See 
The  Satire  o/lSll,  below. 

Lines  on  a  Fete  at  Carlton  House.  C.  H. 
Grove  to  Miss  Helen  Shelley,  February  25, 
1857  :  '  I  forgot  to  mention  beiore,  that  during 
the  early  part  of  the  summer  which  Bysshe 
spent  in  town  after  leaving  Oxford  the  Prince 
Regent  gave  a  splendid  f§te  at  Carlton  House, 
in  which  the  novelty  was  introduced  of  a  stream 
of  water,  in  imitation  of  a  river,  meandering 
down  the  middle  of  a  very  long  table  in  a  tem- 
porary tent  erected  in  Carlton  Gardens.  This 
•was  much  commented  upon  in  the  papers,  and 
laughed  at  by  tha  Opposition.  Bysshe  also  was 
of  tiie  number  of  those  who  disapproved  of  the 
fgte  and  its  accompaniments.  He  wrote  a 
poem  on  the  subject  of  about  fifty  lines,  which 
ne  published  immediately,  wherein  he  apostro- 
phized the  Prince  as  sitting  on  the  bank  of  his 
tiny  river :  and  he  amused  himself  with  throw- 
ing copies  into  the  carriages  of  persons  going  to 
Carlton  House  after  the  fSte.'  Hogg,  ii.  55(), 
557. 

No  copy  of  this  poem  is  known,  but  some 
lines  from  it  will  be  found  in  Juvenilia.  A 
burlesque  letter  from  Shelley  to  Graham,  no 
date,  is  connected  with  this  poem  by  Forman, 
Shelley  Library,  p.  24,  and  by  Dowden,  i.  1.%, 
137,  but  it  seems  doubtful  whether  the  Ode, 
there  mentioned,  is  not  the  translation  of  the 
Marseillaise  Hymn,  of  which  one  stanza  is  there 
given. 

Satire:  1811.  Shelley  (from  Field  Place)  to 
Hoj?5,  Dpcember  20, 1810 :  '  I  am  composing  a 
tatincal  poem :  I  shall  print  it  at  Oxford,  unless 


I  find  on  visiting  him  that  R[obinson]  is  ripe 
for  printing  whatever  will  sell.  In  case  of  that 
he  is  my  man.'     Hogg,  i.  143. 

Thornton  Hunt :  note  on  The  Autobiography 
of  Leigh  Hunt,  ii.  21:  'Mr.  Rowland  Hunter, 
who  first  brought  Leigh  Hunt  and  his  most 
valued  friend  personally  together.  Shelley  had 
brought  a  manuscript  poem,  which  proved  by 
no  means  suited  to  the  publishing  house  in  St. 
Paul's  Churchyard.  But  Mr.  Hunter  sent  tlie 
young  reformer  to  seek  the  counsel  of  Leigh 
Hunt.' 

Forman  suggests  that  the  manuscript  poem 
offered  to  Hunter  was  the  same  mentioned  in 
the  letter  to  Hogg  :  and  he  conjectures,  that  a 
poem  entitled  ''Lines  addressed  to  His  Royal 
Highness,  the  Prince  of  Wales,  on  his  being  ap- 
pointed Regent,^  by  Philopatria,  Jr.,  and  printed 
in  London  by  Sherwood,  Neely  &  Jones  (later 
connected  with  the  publication  of  Laon  and 
Cythna)  1811,  is  the  missing  satire.  Dowden 
rejects  the  conjecture. 

_  MacCarthy  (Shelley's  Early  Life,  102-lOC)  con- 
jectures that  the  Poi.tical  Essay  on  the  Existing 
State  of  Things  is  the  missing  satire. 

The  Creator.  Shelley  (from  the  Baths  of  San 
Giuliano)  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gisborne  June  5, 
1821 :  *  My  unfortunate  box  !  ...  If  the  idea 
of  The  Creator  had  been  packed  up  with  them  it 
would  have  shared  the  same  fate  ;  and  that,  I 
am  afraid,  has  undergone  another  sort  of  ship- 
wreck.' Mrs.  Shelley,  Essays  and  Letters,  ii. 
294. 

Mrs.  Shelley  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gisborne,  June 
30,  1821 :  '  The  Creator  has  not  yet  made  himself 
heard.'     Dowden,  ii.  413. 

Possibly  connected  with  the  plans  of  this  sum- 
mer, vaguely  alluded  to  in  letters  to  Oilier,  or 
with  the  drama  on  the  Book  of  Job,  and  hardly 
begun.  There  is  no  other  reference  to  it,  but  a 
familiar  quotation  of  Shelley's  from  Tasso,  — 
'  non  c'  6  in  mondo  chi  merita  nome  di  creatore 
che  Dio  ed  il  Poeta,'  —  (Shelley  to  Peacock, 
August  16,  1818),  may  be  connected  -with  the 
title. 


UNPUBLISHED  POEMS 

Shelley  to  Graham.  A  poetical  epistle  de- 
scribed by  Forman  (Aldine  edition  i.  xix.),  who 
gives  from  it  the  following  lines,  referring  to 
Shelley's  younger  brother  John. 

'  I  liave  been 
With  little  Jack  upon  the  ffreen  — 
A  dear  delightful  red-faced  brute, 
And  setting  up  a  parachute.' 

Esdaile  Manuscript,  A  manuscript  book 
containinfj  poems,  which  Shelley  intended  to 
publish  simultaneously  with  Queen  Mab,  in  the 
possession  of  his  grandson,  Mr,  Esdaile,  is  partly 
described  by  Dowden.  Shelley's  references  to 
this  volume  are  as  follows :  — 

Shelley  (from  Tanyrallt)  to  Hookham,  January 
2, 1813 :  '  My  poems  will,  I  fear,  little  stand  thi 


UNPUBLISHED   POEMS 


591 


criticism  even  of  friendship :  some  of  the  later 
ones  have  the  merit  of  conveying  a  meaning  in 
every  word,  and  all  are  faithful  pictures  of  my 
feelings  at  the  time  of  writing  them.  But  they 
are  in  a  great  measure  abrupt  and  obscure  —  all 
breathing  hatred  to  government  and  religion, 
but  I  think  not  too  openly  for  publication.  One 
fault  they  are  indisputably  exempt  from,  that 
of  being  a  volume  of  fashionable  literature.  I 
doubt  not  but  that  your  friendly  hand  will  clip 
the  wings  of  my  Pegasus  considerably.'  Dow- 
den,  i.  .'544.  [Shelley  Memorials,  pp.  50,  51, 
omits  some  parts.] 

Shelley  (from  Tanj-rallt)  to  Hookham,  Febrn- 
ary  19,  1813  :  '  You  will  receive  it  [Queen  Mab] 
with  the  other  poems.  I  think  that  the  whole 
should  form  one  volume.'  Shelley  Memorials, 
p.  52.     [Hogg,  ii.  183,  modifies  the  text.] 

Shelley  (from  Tanyrallt)  to  Hookham,  De- 
cember 17,  1812 :  '  I  am  also  preparing  a  volume 
of  minor  poems,  respecting  whose  publication  I 
shall  expect  your  judgment,  both  as  publisher 
and  friend.  A  very  obvious  question  would  be  — 
Will  they  sell  or  not  ? '   Shelley  Memorials,  p.  48. 

Shelley  (from  Tanyrallt)  to  Hookham,  Janu- 
ary 26,  1813 :  '  Queen  Mab  .  .  .  will  contain 
about  twenty-eight  hundred  lines ;  the  other 
poems  contain  probably  as  much  more.'  Hogg, 
ii.l82. 

Shelley  (from  Keswick)  to  Miss  Hitchener, 
January  26,  1812 :  '  I  have  been  busily  engaged 
in  the  Address  to  the  Irish  people,  which  will 
be  printed  as  Paine's  works  were,  and  posted 
on  the  walls  of  Dublin.  My  poems  will  be 
printed  there.'  MacCarthj',  Shelley^s  Early 
LiU,  p.  133. 

The  contents  of  this  volume  are  described  by 
Dowden,  i.  345-349.  The  poems  appear  to  be  as 
follows :  — 

Dedication  :  To  Harriet.  Printed,  revised, 
as  the  Dedication  of  Queen  Mab. 

Falsehood  and  Vice:  A  Dialogue.  Printed 
va.  Shelley's  notes  to  Queen  Mab. 

On  Death  ('  The  pale,  the  cold  and  the  moony 
smile  ').     Printed,  revised,  with  Alastoi-. 

The  Tombs.  Dowden  quotes  the  following 
lines :  — 

'  Courage  and  charity  and  truth 
And  high  devotedness.' 

On  Robert  EmmeVs  Grave.  Seven  stanzas,  of 
Avhich  Dowden  prints  vi.,  vii. 

The  Retrospect :  Cwm  Elan,  1812.  A  poem 
contrasting  the  landscape  as  it  appeared  then 
with  the  same  scene  the  year  before.  Dowden 
prints  the  greater  portion. 

Sonnet :  To  Harriet,  August  1, 1812.  Dowden 
prints  four  lines. 

To  Harriet.  Partly  printed  (58-69)  by  Shelley, 
notes  to  Qfueen  Mab  ;  partly  (5-13)  by  Garnett 
from  the  Boscombe  manuscript,  and  entire  by 
Dowden. 

Sonnet :  To  a  Balloon  Laden  with  Knowledge. 
Printed  by  Dowden. 

Sonnet  :  on  Launching  some  Bottles  Mled  with 
Knowledge  into  the  Bristol  Channel.  Printed  by 
Dowden. 


Sonnet :  Farewell  to  North  Devon.  Dowden 
prints  six  lines. 

On  Leaving  London  for  Wales.  Eight  stanzas, 
of  which  Dowden  prints  four. 

A  Tale  of  Society  as  it  is  from  i'^arts,  1811. 
Published,  except  three  stanzas,  by  Kossetti 
from  the  Hitchener  MS. 

Marseillaise  Hymn,  translated.  Forman  prints 
the  second  stanza  from  Locker-Iiarapson  Mb. 

Henry  and  Louisa.  Dowden,  i.  347.  A  nar- 
rative poem  in  two  parts,  the  scene  changing 
from  England  in  the  first  part  to  Egypt  in  the 
second.  Dowden  describes  the  catastrophe  as 
follows:  'Henry,  borne  from  his  lover's  arms 
by  the  insane  lust  of  conquest  and  of  glory,  is 
pursued  by  Louisa,  who  finds  him  dying  on  the 
bloody  sands,  and,  like  Shakespeare's  Juliet,  is 
swift  to  pursue  her  beloved  through  the  portals 
of  the  grave.'  Shelley  notes  on  this  poem : 
'  The  stanza  of  this  poem  is  radically  that  of 
Spenser,  although  I  suffered  myself  at  the  tinie 
of  writing  it  to  be  led  into  occasional  devia- 
tions.' 

Zeinab  and  Kathema.  A  tragedy  in  six-line 
stanzas,  possibly  suggested  by  Miss  Owenson's 
novel,  The  Missionary.  Dowden,  i.  347-368,  de- 
scribes as  follows  :  '  From  this  may  have  come 
the  suggestion  to  choose  as  the  heroine  of  his 
poem  the  maiden  of  Cashmire,  borne  away  from 
her  native  home  by  Christian  guile  and  rapine. 
Kathema  follows  his  betrothed  Zeinab  to  Eng- 
land. 

"  Meanwhile  through  calm  and  storm,  through  night  and 
<iay> 
Unvarying  in  her  aim  the  vessel  went, 
As  if  some  inward  spirit  ruled  her  way, 

And  her  tense  sails  were  conscious  of  intent. 
Till  Albion's  cliffs  gleamed  o'er  her  plunging  bow, 
And  Albion's  river  floods  bright  sparkled  round  her 
prow." 

But  Zeinab  had  been  flnng  to  perish  upon  the 
streets  by  her  betrayers,  had  risen  in  crime 
against  those  who  caused  her  ruin,  and  had  suf- 
fered death  by  the  vengeance  of  indiscriminat- 
ing  and  pitiless  laws.  It  is  a  bitter  December 
evening  when  Kathema,  weary  with  vain  search 
for  his  beloved,  sinks  wearily  upon  the  heath. 
At  the  moment  of  his  awaking,  the  winter 
moonbeams  fall  upon  a  dead  and  naked  female 
form,  swinging  in  chains  from  a  gibbet,  while 
her  dark  hair  tosses  in  the  wind,  and  ravenous 
birds  of  prey  cry  in  the  ear  of  night.  The  lover 
recognizes  his  Zeinab  and  is  seized  with  mad- 
ness ;  he  scales  the  gibbet,  and,  twining  the 
chains  about  his  neck,  leaps  forward  "  to  meet 
the  life  to  come."  Here  is  romantic  ghastliness, 
as  imagined  by  a  boy,  in  extravagant  profusion  ; 
but  at  heart,  each  of  the  two  poems  is  designed 
less  as  a  piece  of  romantic  art  than  as  an  indict- 
ment of  widespread  evils  —  the  one,  a  setting 
forth  of  the  criminal  love  of  glory  and  conquest ; 
the  otherj  a  setting  forth  of  the  cruelty  of  sen- 
sual passion  and  the  injustice  of  formerly  ad- 
ministered laws.' 

The  Voyage.  Dowden,  i.  284  :  '  A  fragment 
of  some  three  hundred  lines  ...  It  tells,  in  the 
irregular  unrhymed  verse  which  Shelley  adopted 


592 


VICTOR  AND   CAZIRE 


from  Thalaba  and  employed  in  Qtieen  Mab,  of  a 
ship  returning  across  the  summer  sea  from  her 
voyage  ;  and  of  her  company  of  voyagers,  with 
their  various  passions  and  imaginings  —  two 
ardent  youths  who  have  braved  all  dangers 
side  by  side  ;  the  landsman  mean  and  crafty, 
who  bears  across  the  stainless  ocean  all  the  base 
thoughts  and  selfish  greeds  of  the  city  ;  the 
sailor  returning  to  his  cottage  home  and  wife 
and  babes,  but  seized  at  the  moment  of  his 
dearest  hope  by  minions  of  the  press-gang  and 
hurried  away  reluctant.' 

A  Eetrospect  of  Times  of  Old.  Dowden,  i. 
285 :  '  A  rhymed  piece  having  much  in  common 
with  those  earlier  pages  of  Queen  Mab,  which 
picture  the  fall  of  empires,  and  celebrate  the 
oblivion  that  has  overtaken  the  old  rulers  of 
men  and  lords  of  the  earth.' 

Soliloquy  of  the  Wandering  Jew.  Printed  by 
DobeU. 

Dowden,  i.  348,  further  describes  the  contents : 
— '  The  collection  .  .  .  opens  with  a  series  of 
poems  in  unrhymed  stanzas,  the  use  of  which 
ohelley  had  learned  from  Sou  they 's  early  vol- 
umes.   Such  lines  as  those  to  Liberty :  — 

"  And  the  spirits  of  the  brave 
Shall  start  from  every  grave, 
Whilst  from  her  Atlantic  throne 
Freedom  sanctifies  the  groan 
That  fans  the  glorious  fires  of  ita  change  —  " 

are  a  direct  reminiscence,'  etc. 

Of  other  poems  unentitled,  Dowden  prints  the 
following  fragments :  — 


'  Consigned  to  thoughts  of  holiness 
And  deeds  of  living  love.' 

n 

'  Then  may  we  hope  the  consummating  hour, 
Dreadfully,  swiftly,  sweetly  is  arriving, 
When  light  from  darlinesa,  peace  from  desolation, 
Bursts  imresisted.' 

Dowden,  i.  346:  'Having  copied  his  best 
short  pieces,  Shelley  falls  back  on  [four  of]  the 
Oxford  poems  suggested  by  the  story  of  Hogg's 
friend  Mary  and  on  the  pieces  written  in  the 
winter  of  1810, 1811,  which  are  strikingly  inferior 
both  in  form  and  feeling  to  the  poems  of  a  later 
date.' 

Dowden,  Shelley's  Poems,  p.  695 :  '  Mr.  Es- 
daile's  MS.  contains  three  poems,  To  Mary, 
with  an  advertisement  prefixed,  and  one  To  the 
Lover  of  Mary.  The  date  of  these  is  November, 
1810.  They  are  selected,  Shelley  says,  from 
many  written  during  three  weeks  or  an  en- 
trancement  caused  on  hearing  Mary's  story.' 
[See  note  on  To  Mary,  who  died  in  this  Opinion.^ 

Dowden,  i.  107 :  '  The  piteous  story  of  a  cer- 
tain Mary  —  a  real  person.  —  known  m  her  dis- 
tress to  Hogg,  had  been  related  by  his  friend  to 
Shelley ;  it  had  thrown  him  into  a  three  weeks' 
"entrancement,"  and  formed  the  occasion  of  a 
aeries  of  poems,  rapidly  produced.' 

February  28,  1805.  To  St.  Irvyne.  Dowden, 
i.  48:  'I  have  seen  an  unpublished  poem  — six 
stanzas  —  of   Shelley's,    in    Harriet   Shelley's 


handwriting,  headed  "  February  28,  1805.  To 
St.  Irvyne '  -;-  St.  Irv}'ne  the  name  of  a  place 
where  the  writer  often  sat  on  "  the  mouldering 
height "  with  "  his  Harriet "  —  and  having  the 
words  "  To  H.  Grove  "  subscribed,  also  in  Har- 
riet Shelley's  handwriting.  The  poem  can 
hardly  have  been  written  in  1805,  but  the  title 
may  refer  to  some  incident  of  February  in  that 
year,  which  might  be  viewed  as  a  starting-point 
in  the  course  oi  their  love.  A  reference  in  this 
poem  to  Strood,  the  property  of  John  Com- 
merell,  Esq.,  hard  by  Field  Place,  leads  one  to 
suppose  that  "St.  Irvyne"  may  have  been 
formed  from  the  name  of  the  proprietor  of  Hills 
Place,  also  close  to  Field  Place,  —  Lady  Irvine.' 

The  poems,  otherwise  undefined,  which  are 
mentioned  by  Dowden  as  existing  in  MS. ,  pre- 
sumably the  Esdaile,  are,  A  Dialogue,  1809  ;  To 
the  Moonbeam,  1809;  The  Solitary,  1810;  To 
Death,  1810  (twenty  unpublished  lines) ;  Lovers 
Rose,  1810 ;  Eyes,  1810  (foiir  unpublished  eight- 
line  stanzas) ;  On  an  Icicle  that  Clung  to  the 
Grass  of  a  Grave,  1809;  To  the  Republicans  of 
North  America  (one  unpublished  stanza),  1812 ; 
To  lanthe,  1813.  These  have  all  been  published, 
except  as  here  noted,  and  further  information 
regarding  them  will  be  found  under  their  titles 
in  the  Notes  or  Juvenilia. 

All  the  poems  printed  by  Dowden  from  these 
sources,  except  such  fragments  as  are  quoted 
above,  are  placed  in  this  edition  under  Juve- 
nilia. 

Ballad.  Young  Parson  Richards;  twenty- 
one  four-line  stanzas,  except  the  first,  which 
has  five  Imes,  in  the  Harvard  MS. 

To  Constantia  Singing,  an  early  draft,  in 
which  the  first  stanza  of  the  poem  as  now 
printed  stands  last.     Not  further  described. 

A  poem  sent  to  Peacock  from  Italy, 

1818,  in  a  rough  state,  and  relating  to  Words- 
worth.   Not  further  described. 

ORIGINAL    POETRY   BY  VICTOR 
AND    CAZIRE 

sm.  8vo,  pp.  64 

A  copy  of  this  volume,  previously  known  only 
by  title,  some  contemporary  notices  and  the 
account  of  it  in  Stockdale's  Budget,  was  found 
by  the  grandson  of  Charles  Henry  Grove,  the 
brother  of  Harriet  Grove,  Shelley's  cousin, 
among  the  family  books,  and  was  reprinted 
under  the  editorship  of  Dr.  Gamett,  London, 
1898.  The  book  was  printed,  in  1810,  at  Worth- 
ing, apparently  in  an  edition  of  1500  copies,  and 
taken  up  by  Stockdale,  at  Shelley's  request, 
September  17,  of  that  year.  It  was  noticed  by 
the  Poetical  Register,  1810-11,  and  the  British 
Critic,  April,  1811.  It  was  written  by  Shelley 
(Victor)  and  his  sister  Elizabeth  (Cazire),  and 
contains  seventeen  pieces,  of  which  Dr.  Gamett 
ascribes  two  certainly  and  one  other  probably  to 
Elizabeth,  ten  certamly  and  two  others  (if  not 
pla^arisms)  to  Shelley,  and  he  leaves  two  un- 
assigned.  The  last  poem  was  reprinted  as  Vic- 
toria in  St.  Irvyne.    He  classifies  the  contents 


VICTOR  AND   CAZIRE 


593 


aa  follows  :  '1.  Familiar  poems  in  the  style  of 
Anstey's  "  Bath  Guide,"  the  first  two  in  the 
volume,  already  mentioned  as  by  Elizabeth 
SheUey.  2.  A  cycle  of  little  poems  evidently 
addressed  by  Shelley  to  Harriet  Grove  in  the 
summer  of  1810  (Nos.  3-7,  12,  13).  3,  Tales  of 
terror  and  wonder  in  the  style  of  Monk  Lewis 
(Nos.  14-17).  4.  A  few  miscellaneous  pieces 
(Nos.  8-11).'  Stoekdale  states  that  he  recog- 
nized one  of  the  pieces  as  by  Monk  Lewis,  and 
that  on  his  communicating  the  fact  to  Shelley 
the  latter  '  with  all  tlie  ardor  natural  to  his 
character  expressed  the  warmest  resentment  at 
the  imposition  practised  upon  him  by  his  coad- 
jutor, and  entreated  me  to  destroy  all  the  copies, 
of  which  about  one  himdred  had  been  put  in 


circulation.'  Dr.  Gamett  is  unable  to  identify 
any  poem  as  by  Monk  Lewis,  and  suggests  that 
the  plagiarized  poem  may  be  a  song  on  Laura 
(No.  11).  Ghasta  (No.  16)  is  the  poem  men- 
tioned by  Medwin  as  containing  a  plagiarism 
from  Chatterton.  Of  the  value  of  the  volume 
as  a  whole,  Dr.  Gamett  saj  s  :  '  It  shows,  at 
all  events,  that  the  youthful  Shelley  could  write 
better  verse  than  can  be  found  in  his  novels, 
and  that  he  even  then  possessed  the  feeling  for 
melody  that  is  rarely  dissociated  from  more  or 
less  of  endowment  with  the  poetical  faculty. 
Biogrraphically,  it  contributes  something  to  illus- 
trate an  obscure  period  of  his  life,  and  strength- 
ens the  belief  that  his  attachment  for  his  fair 
cousin  was  more  than  a  passing  fancy.' 


NOTES  AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


_  1.  Queen  Mab. 
The  unusual  metrical  form  in  wMch  the  poem 
is  cast  is  described  by  Shelley  in  a  letter  to 
Hogg,  February  7, 1813:  '  I  have  not  been  able 
to  bring  myself  to  rhyme.  The  didactic  is  in 
blank  heroic  verse,  and  tlie  description  in  blank 
lyrical  meiisure.  If  an  authority  is  of  any 
■weight  in  support  of  this  singularity,  Milton's 
Samson  Agonistes,  the  Greek  choruses,  and  (you 
will  laughj  Southey's  Tkalaba  may  be  adduced.' 
The  model  of  the  lyrical  portion  is,  in  fact,  Tlia- 
laba,  the  cadences  of  which  are  closely  repro- 
duced in  general.  The  motive  of  the  poem,  as 
is  shown  by  the  motto  prefixed,  is  Lucretian ; 
Shelley  imagined  that  in  attacking  reli^^on  he 
was  performing  a  service  to  humanity  similar 
to  that  of  the  Latin  poet  in  attacking  supersti- 
tion, and  also  that  iu  his  philosophy  of  nature 
and  necessity  he  was  following  in  the  footsteps 
of  the  most  illustrious  poet  who  has  embodied 
scientific  conceptions  in  verse.  The  form  of 
the  tale  he  took  from  Volney,  Les  Raines. 
The  sources  of  his  thought,  both  with  respect 
to  his  view  of  the  system  of  nature  .and  to  his 
reflections  on  human  institutions  and  their 
operation  on  society,  are  developed  Avith  suffi- 
cient fulness  in  his  own  Notes,  which  have 
attracted  perhaps  more  attention  than  the 
poem  they  illustrate.  These,  with  a  few  excep- 
tions noted  in  the  place  of  omission,  are  given 
below,  the  text  being  revised  so  as  not  to  repro- 
duce obvious  errors ;  Shelley's  references  and 
extracts,  except  when  he  may  liave  meant  to 
paraphrase,  have  also  been  corrected  ;  tliat  is 
to  say,  the  original  editions  which  he  himself 
probably  used  have  baen  consulted,  and  the 
passages  printed  as  they  there  occur  literally; 
thus  in  the  extracts  from  the  Systeme  de  la 
Nature  par  M.  Mirahaud,  for  example,  there 
are  many  errors,  but  the  text  that  Shelley  had 
before  him  has  been  faithfully  transcribed,  in 
all  cases.  Much  of  these  Notes  had  been  pre- 
viously published  by  Shelley.  The  note, 
'There  is  no  God,' embodies  Shelley's  Oxford 
tract.  The  Necessity  of  Atheism,  published  at 
Worthing  in  1811  ;  the  note,  'I  will  beget  a 
Son,'  embodies  portions  of  the  Letter  to  Lord 
Ellenborough,  printed  at  Barnstable,  1812,  and 
the  note,  '  No  longer  now  he  slays,'  etc.,  was 
published  slightly  revised  as  A  Vindication  of 
Natural  Diet,  London,  1813.  The  fragment  of 
Ahasuerus,  referred  to  in  the  note, '  Ahasuerus, 
rise,'  was  picked  up  by  Medwin  {Life,  i.  57J, 
and  is  a  modified   translation  of    ^hubart  s 


Der  Ewige  Jude,  which  appeared  in  The  Cr«^ 
man  Museum,  vol.  iii.  1802, 

Shelley's  Notes  to  Queen  Mab. 
I.  242,  243  :  — 

The  sun's  unclouded  orb 

Rolled  through  the  black  coiicave. 

Beyond  our  atmosphere  the  sun  would  ap>- 
pear  a  rayless  orb  of  tire  in  the  midst  of  a  black 
concave.  The  equal  diffusion  of  its  light  on 
earth  is  owing  to  the  refraction  of  the  rays  by 
the  atmosphere  and  their  reflection  from  other 
bodies.  Light  consists  either  of  vibrations  pro- 
pagated through  a  subtle  medium  or  of  numer- 
ous minute  particles  repelled  in  all  directions 
from  the  luminous  body.  Its  velocity  greatly 
exceeds  that  of  any  substance  with  which  we 
are  acquainted.  Observations  on  the  eclipses 
of  Jupiter's  satellites  have  demonstrated  that 
light  takes  up  no  more  than  8'  7"  in  passing 
from  the  sun  to  the  earth,  a  distance  of  9r),000,- 
000  miles.  Some  idea  may  be  gained  of  the  im- 
mense distance  of  the  fixed  stars  when  it  is 
comptited  that  many  years  would  elapse  before 
light  could  reach  this  earth  from  the  nearest  of 
them  ;  yet  in  one  year  light  travels  5,422,400,- 
000,000  miles,  which  is  a  distance  5,707,600 
times  greater  than  that  of  the  sun  from  the 
earth. 

I.  252,  253  :  — 

■WTiilst  round  the  chariot's  way 
Innumerable  systems  rolled. 

The  plurality  of  worlds  —  the  indefinite  im- 
mensity of  the  Universe  —  is  a  most  awful  sub- 
ject of  contemplation.  He  who  rightly  feels  its 
mystery  and  grandeur  is  in  no  danger  of  seduc- 
tion from  the  falsehoods  of  religious  systems, 
or  of  deifying  the  princiT)le  of  the  universe.  It 
is  impossible  to  believe  that  the  Spirit  that  per- 
vades this  infinite  machine  begat  a  son  upon 
the  body  of  n  Jewish  -woman  ;  or  is  angered  at 
the  consequences  of  tbat  necessity  which  is  a 
synonym  of  itself.  All  tliat  miserable  tale  of 
the  Devil  and  Eve  and  an  Intercessor,  with  the 
childish  mummeries  of  the  God  of  the  Jews,  is 
irreconcilable  with  the  knowledge  of  the  stiirs. 
The  works  of  his  fingers  have  borne  witness 
against  him. 

The  nearest  of  the  fixed  stars  is  inconceivably 
distant  from  the  earth,  and  they  are  probably 
proportionably  distant  from  each  other.  By  a 
calculation  of  the  velocitv  of  light  Sirius  is  sup- 
posed to  be  at  least  54,224,000,000,000  miles 


SHELLEY'S  NOTES  TO  QUEEN  MAB 


595 


from  the  earth. ^  That  which  appears  only  like 
a  thin  and  silvery  cloud  streaking  the  heaven  is 
in  effect  composed  of  innumerable  clusters  of 
suns,  each  shining  with  its  own  light  and  illumi- 
nating imnibers  of  planets  that  revolve  around 
them.  Millions  and  millions  of  suns  are  ranged 
around  us,  all  attended  by  innumerable  worlds, 
yet  calm,  regular  and  harmonious,  all  keeping 
the  paths  of  immutable  necessity. 
IV.  178,  179:  — 

These  are  the  hired  braves  who  defend 

The  tyrant's  throue. 

To  employ  murder  as  a  means  of  justice  is  an 
idea  which  a  man  of  an  enlightened  mind  will 
not  dwell  upon  with  pleasure.  To  march  forth 
in  rank  and  file,  and  all  the  pomp  of  streamers 
and  trumpets,  for  the  purpose  of  shooting  at 
our  fellow  men  as  a  mark  ;  to  inflict  upon  them 
all  the  variety  of  wound  and  anguish  ;  to  leave 
them  weltering  in  their  blood ;  to  wander  over 
the  field  of  desolation,  and  count  the  number 
of  the  dying  and  the  dead,  —  are  employments 
which  in  thesis  we  may  maintain  to  be  neces- 
sary, but  which  no  good  man  will  contemplate 
with  gratulation  and  delight.  A  battle  we  sup- 
pose is  won  :  —  thu^  truth  is  established,  thus 
the  cause  of  justice  is  confirmed  !  It  surely  re- 
quires no  common  sagacity  to  discern  the  con- 
nection between  this  immense  heap  of  calamities 
and  the  assertion  of  truth  or  the  maintenance 
of  justice. 

'  Kings  and  ministers  of  state,  the  real  au- 
thors of  the  calamity,  sit  unmolested  in  their 
cabinet,  while  those  against  whom  the  fury  of 
the  storm  is  directed  are,  for  the  most  part, 
persons  who  have  been  trepanned  into  the  ser- 
vice, or  who  are  dragged  unwillingly  from  their 
peaceful  homes  into  the  field  of  battle.  A  sol- 
dier is  a  man  whose  business  it  is  to  kill  those 
who  never  offended  him,  and  who  are  the  inno- 
cent martyrs  of  other  men's  iniquities.  What- 
ever may  become  of  the  abstract  question  of 
the  justifiableness  of  war,  it  seems  impossible 
that  the  soldier  should  not  be  a  depraved  and 
unnatural  being. 

'  To  these  more  serious  and  momentous  con- 
siderations it  may  be  proper  to  add  a  recol- 
lection of  the  ridiculotisness  of  the  military 
character.  Its  first  constituent  is  obedience :  a 
soldier  is,  of  all  descriptions  of  men,  the  most 
completely  a  machine  ;  yet  his  profession  in- 
evitably teaches  him  something  of  dogmatism, 
swaggering  and  self -consequence  ;  he  is  like  the 
puppet  of  a  showman,  who,  at  the  very  time  he 
is  made  to  strut  and  swell  and  display  the  most 
farcical  airs,  we  perfectly  know  cannot  assume 
the  most  insignificant  gesture,  advance  either  to 
the  right  or  the  left,  but  as  he  is  moved  by  his 
exhibitor.'  —  Godwin's  Enquirer,  Essay  V. 

I  will  here  subjoin  a  little  poem,  so  strongly 
expressive  of  my  abhorrence  of  despotism  and 
falsehood  that  I  fear  lest  it  never  again  may  be 
depictured  so  vividly.  This  opportunity  is  per- 
haps the  only  one  that  ever  will  occur  of  res- 
cuing it  from  oblivion. 

*  See  Nicholson's  Encyclopedia,  art.  '  Light.' 


FALSEHOOD  AND  VICE 

A   DUXOaUE 

Wnn-ST  monarchs  laughed  upon  their  thrones 
To  Ijear  a  famished  nation's  groans, 
And  hugged  the  wealth  wrung  fiom  the  woe 
That  makes  its  eyes  and  veins  o'erflow,  — 
Those  tlirones,  high  built  upon  the  heaps 
Of  bones  where  frenzied  Famine  sleeps, 
Where  Slavery  wields  her  scourge  of  iron, 
Red  witli  mankind's  unheeded  gore, 
And  War's  mad  fiends  the  scene  environ, 
Mingling  with  shrieks  a  drunken  roar,  — 
There  Vice  and  Falsehood  took  their  stand, 
High  raised  above  the  unhappy  land. 

FALSEHOOD 

Brother !  arise  from  the  dainty  fare, 

Which  thousands  have  toiled  and  bled  to  bestow; 

A  finer  feast  for  thy  hungry  ear 

Is  the  news  that  I  bring  of  human  woe. 


And,  secret  one,  what  hast  thou  done. 
To  compare,  in  thy  tumid  pride,  with  me? 
I,  whose  career  through  the  blasted  year 
Has  been  tracked  by  despair  and  agony, 

FALSEHOOD 

What  have  I  done !  —  I  have  torn  the  robe 

From  baby  Truth's  unsheltered  form. 

And  round  the  desolated  globe 

Borne  safely  the  bewildering  charm ; 

My  tyrant-slaves  to  a  dungeon-floor 

Have  bound  the  fearless  iunocent. 

And  streams  of  fertilizing  gore 

Flow  from  her  bosom's  hideous  rent. 

Which  this  unfailing  dagger  gave  — 

I  dread  that  blood !  —  no  more  —  this  day 

Is  ours,  though  her  eternal  ray 

Must  shine  upon  our  grave. 
Tet  know,  proud  Vice,  had  I  not  given 
To  tliee  the  robe  1  stole  from  heaven. 
Thy  shape  of  ugliness  and  fear 
Had  never  gained  admission  here. 


And  know  that  had  I  disdained  to  toil, 
But  sate  in  my  loathsome  cave  the  while. 
And  ne'er  to  these  hateful  sons  of  heaven, 
GOLD,  MONARCHY  and  MURDER,  given ; 
Hadst  thou  witli  all  tliine  art  essayed 
One  of  thy  games  then  to  have  played, 
With  all  thine  overweening  boast. 
Falsehood  !     I  tell  thee  thou  hadst  lost !  — 
Yet  wherefore  this  dispute  ?  —  we  tend, 
Fraternal,  to  one  .common  end  ; 
In  this  cold  grave  beneath  my  feet 
Will  oiu:  hopes,  our  fears  and  oiur  labors  meet. 

FALSEHOOD 

I  brought  my  daugliter,  RELIGION,  on  earth  ; 
She  smothered  Reason's  babes  in  their  birth. 
But  dreaded  their  mother's  eye  severe,  — 
So  the  crocodile  slunk  off  slylj'  in  fear, 
And  loosed  her  bloodhounds  from  the  den. 
They  started  from  dreams  of  slaughtered  men, 
And,  by  the  light  of  her  poison  eye, 
Did  her  work  o'er  the  wide  earth  frightfully. 
The  dreadful  stench  of  her  torches'  fiare, 
Fed  with  human  fat,  polluted  the  air. 
The  curses,  the  shrieks,  the  ceaselesa  cries 
Of  the  many-mingling  miserlea, 


596 


NOTES  AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


As  on  she  trod,  ascended  high 
And  trumpeted  my  victory  !  — 
Brother,  tell  what  thou  hast  done. 


I  have  extinguished  the  noonday  aun 

In  the  carnage-smoke  of  battles  won. 

Famine,  murder,  hell  and  power 

Were  glutted  in  that  glorious  hour 

Which  searchless  fate  had  stamped  for  me 

With  the  seal  of  her  security ; 

For  the  bloated  wretch  on  yonder  throne 

Commanded  the  bloody  fray  to  rise  ; 

Like  me  he  joyed  at  the  stifled  moan 

Wrmig  from  a  nation's  miseries  ; 

While  tiie  snakes,  whose  slime  even  him  defiled, 

In  ecstasies  of  malice  smiled. 

They  thought 't  was  tlieirs,  — but  mine  the  deed ! 

Theirs  is  the  toil,  but  mine  the  meed  — 

Ten  thousand  victims  madly  bleed. 

They  dream  that  tyrants  goad  them  there 

With  poisonous  war  to  taint  the  air. 

These  tyrants,  on  their  beds  of  thorn. 

Swell  with  the  thouglits  of  murderous  fame, 

And  witli  their  gains  to  lift  my  name 

Restless  they  plan  from  night  to  morn ; 

I  —  I  do  all ;  without  my  aid 

Thy  daughter,  that  relentless  maid. 

Could  never  o'er  a  death-bed  urge 

The  fury  of  her  venomed  scourge. 

FALSEHOOD 

Brother,  well :  —  the  world  is  ours ; 

And  whether  thou  or  I  have  won. 

The  pestilence  expectant  lours 

On  all  beneath  yon  blasted  sun. 

Our  joys,  our  toils,  our  honors  meet 

In  the  milk-white  and  wormy  winding-sheet. 

A  short-lived  hope,  unceasing  care. 

Some  heartless  scraps  of  godly  prayer, 

A  moody  curse,  and  a  frenzied  sleep 

Ere  gapes  the  grave's  unclosing  deep, 

A  tyrant's  dream,  a  coward's  start, 

The  ice  that  clings  to  a  priestly  heart, 

A  judge's  frown,  a  courtier's  smile. 

Make  the  great  whole  for  which  we  toil. 

And,  brother,  whether  thou  or  I 

Have  done  the  work  of  misery. 

It  little  boots.    Thy  toil  and  pain. 

Without  my  aid,  were  more  than  vain ; 

And  but  for  thee  I  ne'er  had  sate 

The  guardian  of  heaven's  palace  gate. 


V.  1,2:  — 

Thus  do  the  generations  of  the  earth 

Go  to  the  grave  and  issue  from  the  womb. 

'One  generation  passeth  away,  and  another 
generation  cometh:  but  the  earth  abideth  for 
ever.  The  sun  also  ariseth,  and  the  sun  goeth 
down,  and  ha.steth  to  his  place  where  he  arose. 
The  wind  goeth  toward  the  south,  and  tumeth 
about  unto  the  north ;  it  whirleth  about  con- 
tinually, and  the  wind  retumeth  again  according 
to  his  circuits.  All  the  rivers  run  into  the  sea  ; 
yet  the  sea  is  not  full ;  unto  the  place  from 
whence  the  rivers  come,  thither  they  return 
again,' 

Ecclesiastes,  i,  4-7. 
V.  4-6:- 

Even  AS  the  leaves 
Which  the  keen  frost-wind  of  the  waning  year 
Has  scattered  on  the  forest  soil. 


OIt)  vtft  ^vXXmv  ytveri,  T0t»j5«  koX  avSpiov. 

*uAAa  rd  fiev  t  ac«/u.os  x«M<i5'r  X**''  a^Ao  Si  $'  uAi| 

TtiXetiouiaa  ^vei,  capo;  6'  iniyLverai  a>p>)' 

"fis  avSpiav  yever)  r)  fiiv  (J)u'ei  jj  6'  airoA^yet. 

lAIAA.  Z'.  146. 
V.  58:- 
The  mob  of  peasants,  nobles,  priests  and  kings. 

Suave,  marl  magiio  turbantibus  sequora  ventis, 
E  terra  magnum  alterius  spectare  laborem ; 
Non  quia  vexari  quemquam  'st  jucunda  voluptas, 
Sed  quibus  ipse  mails  careas  quia  cernere  suave  est. 
Suave  etiam  belli  certamina  magna  tueri 
Per  campos  instructa  tua  sine  parte  poricli. 
Sed  nil  dulcius  est,  bene  quam  munita  tenere 
Edita  doctrina  sapientuni  templa  serena, 
Despicere  unde  queas  alios  passimque  videre 
Errare  atque  viam  palantis  quaerere  vitse, 
Certare  iugenio,  contendere  nobilitate, 
Koctes  atque  dies  niti  priEstante  labore 
Ad  summas  emergere  opes  rerumque  potiri. 
O  miseras  homiuum  mentes  !    O  pectora  caeca  ! 

Lucretius,  ii.  1-14. 
V.  93,94:  — 

And  statesmen  boast' 
Of  wealth ! 

There  is  no  real  wealth  but  the  labor  of  man. 
Were  the  mountains  of  gold  and  the  valleys  of 
silver,  the  world  would  not  be  one  grain  of  corn 
the  richer ;  no  one  comfort  would  be  added  to 
the  human  race.  In  consequence  of  our  con- 
sideration for  the  precious  metals  one  man  is 
enabled  to  heap  to  himself  luxuries  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  necessaries  of  his  neighbor ;  a  sys- 
tem admirably  fitted  to  produce  all  the  varieties 
of  disease  and  crime  which  never  fail  to  charac- 
terize the  two  extremes  of  opulence  and  penury. 
A  speculator  takes  pride  to  himself,  as  the  pro- 
moter of  his  country's  prosperity,  who  employs 
a  number  of  hands  in  the  manufacture  of  arti- 
cles avowedly  destitute  of  use  or  subservient 
only  to  the  unhallowed  cravings  of  luxury  and 
ostentation.  The  nobleman  who  employs  the 
peasants  of  his  neighborhood  in  building  his 
palaces,  until  'jam  pauca  aratro  jugera  regies 
moles  relinquent,''  flatters  himself  that  he  has 
gained  the  title  of  a  patriot  by  yielding  to  the 
impulses  of  vanity.  The  show  and  pomp  of 
courts  adduce  the  same  apology  for  its  continu- 
ance ;  and  many  a  fete  has  been  given,  many  a 
woman  has  eclipsed  her  beauty  by  her  dress,  to 
benefit  the  laboring  poor  and  to  encourage 
trade.  Who  does  not  see  that  this  is  a  remedy 
which  aggravates  whilst  it  palliates  the  count- 
less diseases  of  society  ?  Tlie  poor  are  set  to 
labor,  —  for  what  ?  Not  the  food  for  which 
they  famish ;  not  the  blankets  for  want  of 
which  their  babes  are  frozen  by  the  cold  of 
their  miserable  hovels ;  not  those  comforts  of 
civilization  without  which  civilized  man  is  far 
more  miserable  than  the  meanest  savage,  op- 
pressed as  he  is  by  all  its  insidious  evils,  within 
the  daily  and  taunting  prospect  of  its  innumer- 
able benefits  assiduously  exhibited  before  him : 
—  no  ;  for  the  pride  of  power,  for  the  miserable 
isolation  of  pride,  for  the  false  pleasures  of  the 
hundredth  part  of  society.  No  greater  evi- 
dence is  afforded  of  the  wide  extended  and 
radioal  mistakes  of   civilized  man   than  this 


SHELLEY'S  NOTES  TO   QUEEN   MAB 


597 


fact :  those  arts  which  are  essential  to  his  very 
being  are  held  in  the  greatest  contempt ;  em- 
ployments are  lucrative  in  an  inveise  ratio  to 
their  usefulness  ;  ^  the  jeweller,  the  toyman, 
the  actor  gains  fame  and  wealth  by  the  exercise 
of  his  useless  and  ridiculous  art ;  whilst  the  cul- 
tivator of  the  earth,  he  without  whom  society 
must  cease  to  subsist,  struggles  through  con- 
tempt and  penurj',  and  perishes  by  that  famine 
which,  but  for  his  unceasing  exertions,  would 
annihilate  the  rest  of  mankind. 

I  will  not  insult  common  sense  by  insisting  on 
the  doctrine  of  the  natural  equality  of  man. 
The  question  is  not  concerning  its  desirableness, 
but  its  practicability  ;  so  far  as  it  is  practicable, 
it  is  desirable.  That  state  of  human  society 
which  approaches  nearer  to  an  equal  partition 
of  its  benefits  and  evils  should,  cceteris  paribus, 
be  preferred  ;  but  so  long  as  we  conceive  that  a 
wanton  expenditure  of  human  labor,  not  for  the 
necessities,  not  even  for  the  luxuries  of  the  mass 
of  society,  but  for  the  egotism  and  ostentation 
of  a  feAV  of  its  members,  is  defensible  on  the 
ground  of  public  justice,  so  long  we  neglect 
to  approximate  to  the  redemption  of  the  hu- 
man race. 

Labor  is  required  for  physical,  and  leisure 
for  moral  improvement ;  from  the  former  of 
these  advantages  the  rich,  and  from  the  latter 
the  poor,  by  the  inevitable  conditions  of  their 
respective  situations,  are  precluded.  A  state 
which  should  combine  the  advantages  of  both 
would  be  subjected  to  the  evils  of  neither.  He 
that  is  deficient  in  firm  health  or  vigorous  in- 
tellect is  but  half  a  man.  Hence  it  follows  that 
to  subject  the  laboring  classes  to  unnecessary 
labor  is  wantonly  depriving  them  of  any  oppor- 
timities  of  intellectual  improvement ;  and  that 
the  rich  are  heaping  up  for  their  own  mischief 
the  disease,  lassitude  and  ennui  by  which  their 
existence  is  rendered  an  intolerable  burden. 

English  reformers  exclaim  against  sinecures, 
but  the  true  pension  list  is  the  rent-roll  of  the 
landed  proprietors.  Wealth  is  a  power  usurped 
by  the  few,  to  compel  the  many  to  labor  for 
their  benefit.  The  laws  which  support  this 
system  derive  their  force  from  the  ignorance  and 
credulity  of  its  victims  ;  they  are  the  result  of 
a  conspiracy  of  the  few  against  the  many  who 
are  themselves  obliged  to  purchase  tliis  pre- 
eminence by  the  loss  of  all  real  comfort. 


'  The  commodities  that  substantially  contrib- 
ute to  the  subsistence  of  the  human  species 
form  a  very  short  catalogue  ;  they  demand  from 
us  but  a  slender  portion  of  industry.  If  these 
only  were  produced,  and  sufficiently  produced, 
the  species  of  man  would  be  continued.  If  the 
labor  necessarily  required  to  produce  them  were 
equitably  divided  among  the  poor,  and,  still 
more,  if  it  were  equitably  divided  among  all, 
each  man's  share  of  labor  would  be  light,  and 
his  portion  of  leisure  would  be  ample.  There 
was  a  time  when  this  leisure  would  have  been 

■  See  Rousseau,  De  VIn&g(dUi  parmi  les  Mommei, 
note  7. 


of  small  comparative  value :  it  is  to  be  hoped 
that  the  time  will  come  when  it  will  be  applied 
to  the  most  important  purposes.  Those  hours 
wliich  are  not  required  for  the  production  of 
the  necessaries  of  life  may  be  devoted  to  the 
cultivation  of  the  understanding,  the  enlarging 
our  stock  of  knowledge,  the  refining  our  taste, 
and  thus  opening  to  us  new  and  more  exquisite 
sources  of  enjoyment. 

'  It  was  perhaps  necessary  that  a  period  of 
monopoly  and  oppression  should  subsist  before 
a  period  of  cultivated  equality  could  subsist. 
Savages  perhaps  would  never  have  been  excited 
to  the  discovery  of  truth  and  the  invention  of 
art  but  by  the  narrow  motives  which  such  a 
period  affords.  But  surely,  after  the  savage 
state  has  ceased  and  men  have  set  out  in  the 
glorious  career  of  discovery  and  invention, 
mon(jpoly  and  oppression  cannot  be  necessary 
to  prevent  thena  from  returning  to  a  state  of 
barbarism.'  —  Godwin's  Enquirer,  Essay  II. 
See  also  Political  Justice,  book  VIII.,  chap.  ii. 

It  is  a  calculation  of  this  admirable  author 
that  all  the  conveniences  of  civilized  life  might 
be  produced,  if  society  would  divide  the  labor 
equally  among  its  members,  by  each  individual 
being  employed  in  labor  two  hours  during  the 
day. 

V.  112, 113  :  — 

or  religion 
Drives  his  wife  raving  mad. 

I  am  acquainted  with  a  lady  of  considerable 
accomplishments  and  the  mother  of  a  numerous 
family,  whom  the  Christian  religion  has  goaded 
to  incurable  insanity.  A  parallel  case  is,  I  be- 
lieve, within  the  experience  of  every  physician. 
Nam  jam  stepe  homines  patriam  carosque  parentis 
Prodiderunt,  vitare  Acherusia  templa  petentes. 

Lucretius,  iii.  85. 

V.  189:  — 

Even  love  is  sold. 

Not  even  the  intercourse  of  the  sexes  is  ex- 
empt from  the  despotism  of  positive  institution. 
Law  pretends  even  to  govern  the  indiseiplinable 
wanderings  of  passion,  to  put  fetters  on  the 
clearest  deductions  of  reason,  and,  by  appeals 
to  the  will,  to  subdue  the  involuntary  affections 
of  our  nature.  Love  is  inevitably  consequent 
upon  the  perception  of  loveliness.  Love  withers 
under  constraint ;  its  very  essence  is  liberty  ;  it 
is  compatible  neither  with  obedience,  jealousy 
nor  fear ;  it  is  there  most  pure,  perfect  and 
unlimited,  where  its  votaries  live  in  confidence, 
equality  and  unreserve. 

How  long  then  ought  the  sexual  eonnection 
to  last  ?  what  law  ought  to  specify  the  extent 
of  the  grievances  which  should  limit  its  dura- 
tion ?  A  husband  and  wife  ought  to  continue 
so  long  united  as  they  love  each  other ;  any  law 
which  should  bind  them  to  cohabitation  for  one 
moment  after  the  decay  of  their  affection  would 
be  a  most  intolerable  tyranny  and  the  most  un- 
worthy of  toleration.  How  odious  an  usurpa- 
tion of  the  right  of  private  judgment  should 
that  law  be  considered  which   should  make 


598 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


the  ties  of  friendship  indissoluhle,  in  spite  of 
the  caprices,  the  inconstancy,  the  fallibility 
and  capacity  for  improvement  of  the  human 
mind  !  And  by  so  much  would  the  fetters  of 
love  be  heavier  and  more  unendurable  than 
those  of  friendship  as  love  is  more  vehement  and 
capricious,  more  dependent  on  those  delicate 
peculiarities  of  imagiuation,  and  less  capable  of 
reduction  to  the  ostensible  merits  of  the  object. 

The  state  of  society  in  which  we  exist  is  a 
mixture  of  feudal  savageness  and  imperfect 
civilization.  The  narrow  and  unenlightened 
morality  of  the  Christian  religion  is  an  aggra- 
vation of  these  evils.  It  is  not  even  until  lately 
that  mankind  have  admitted  that  happiness  is 
the  sole  end  of  the  science  of  ethics  as  of  all 
other  sciences  ;  and  that  the  fanatical  idea  of 
mortifying  the  flesh  for  the  love  of  God  has 
been  discarded.  I  have  heard,  indeed,  an  ig- 
norant collegian  adduce,  in  favor  of  Christian- 
ity, its  hostility  to  every  worldly  feeling!  ^ 

Bat  if  happiness  be  the  object  of  morality,  of 
all  human  unions  and  disunions  ;  if  the  worthi- 
ness of  every  action  is  to  be  estimated  by  the 
quantity  of  pleasurable  sensation  it  is  calcu- 
lated to  produce ;  then  the  connection  of  the 
sexes  is  so  long  sacred  as  it  contributes  to  the 
comfort  of  the  parties,  and  is  naturally  dis- 
solved when  its  evils  are  greater  than  its  bene- 
fits. There  is  nothing  immoral  in  this  separa- 
tion. Constancy  has  nothing  virtuous  in  itself, 
independently  of  the  pleasure  it  confers,  and 
partakes  of  the  temporizing  spirit  of  vice  in 
proportion  as  it  endures  tamely  moral  defects  of 
magnitude  in  the  object  of  its  indiscreet  choice. 
Love  is  free ;  to  promise  forever  to  love  the 
same  woman  is  not  less  absurd  than  to  pro- 
mise to  believe  the  same  creed ;  such  a  vow, 
in  both  cases,  excludes  us  from  all  inquiry ; 
The  language  of  the  votarist  is  this.  '  The 
woman  I  now  love  may  be  infinitely  inferior  to 
many  others  ;  the  creed  I  now  profess  may  be  a 
mass  of  errors  and  absurdities ;  but  I  exclude 
myself  from  all  future  information  as  to  the 
amiability  of  the  one  and  the  truth  of  the  other, 
resolving  blindly,  and  in  spite  of  conviction,  to 
adhere  ta  them.'  Is  this  the  language  of  deli- 
cacy and  reason  ?  Is  the  love  of  such  a  frigid 
heart  of  more  worth  than  its  belief  ? 

The  present  sjfstem  of  constraint  does  no 
more,  in  the  majority  of  instances,  than  make 
hypocrites  or  open  enemies.  Persons  of  deli- 
cacy and  virtue,  unhappily  united  to  one  whom 
they  find  it  impossible  to  love,  spend  the  love- 
liest season  of  their  life  in  unproductive  efforts 
to  api>ear  otherwise  than  they  are,  for  the  sake 
of  the  feelings  of  their  partner  or  the  welfare 
of  their  mutual  offspring  ;  those  of  less  generos- 
ity and  refinement  openly  avow  their  dis.ap- 
pointment,  and  linger  out  the  remnant  of  that 
union,  which  onlj'  death  can  dissolve,  in  a  state 

*  The  first  Cliristian  emperor  made  a  law  by  which 
■eduction  was  punished  with  deatli :  if  the  female 
pleaded  her  onm  consent,  she  also  was  punished  with 
death  ;  if  the  parents  endeavored  to  screen  the  criminals, 
they  were  haiUHlied  aud  tlieir  estates  were  confiscated  ; 
the  slaves  who  might  be  acceaaory  were  burned  alive, 


of  incurable  bickering  and  hostility.  The  early 
education  of  their  children  takes  its  color  from 
the  squabbles  of  the  parents  ;  they  are  nui-sed 
in  a  systematic  school  ot  ill  humor,  violence, 
and  falsehood.  Had  they  been  suffered  to  part 
at  the  moment  when  indifference  rendered  their 
union  irksome,  they  would  have  been  spared 
many  years  of  misery  ;  they  would  have  con- 
nected themselves  more  suitably  and  would 
have  found  that  happiness  in  the  society  of 
more  congenial  partnere  which  is  forever  denied 
them  by  the  despotism  of  marriage.  They 
would  have  been  separately  useful  and  happy 
merabei-s  of  society,  who,  whilst  united,  were 
miserable,  and  rendered  misanthropical  by 
misery.  The  conviction  that  wedlock  is  indis- 
soluble holds  out  the  strongest  of  all  tempta- 
tions to  the  perverse  ;  they  indulge  without 
restraint  in  acrimony,  and  all  the  little  tyran- 
nies of  domestic  life,  when  they  know  that  their 
victim  is  without  appeal.  If  this  comiectiou 
were  put  on  a  rational  basis,  each  woiild  be 
assured  that  habitual  ill  temper  would  termi- 
nate in  separation,  and  would  check  this  vicious 
and  dangerous  propensity. 

Prostitution  is  the  legitimate  offspring  of 
marriage  and  its  accompanying  errors.  Women, 
for  no  other  crime  than  having  followed  the 
dictates  of  a  natural  appetite,  are  driven  with 
fury  from  the  comforts  and  sympathies  of  soci- 
ety. It  is  less  venial  than  murder ;  and  the 
punishment  which  is  inflicted  on  her  who  de- 
stroys her  child  to  escape  reproach  is  lighter  than 
the  life  of  agony  and  disease  to  which  the  pro- 
stitute is  irrecoverably  doomed.  Has  a  woman 
obej^ed  the  impulse  of  unerring  Nature  ?  soci- 
ety declares  war  against  her,  pitiless  and  eter- 
nal  war  ;  she  must  be  the  tame  slave,  she  must 
make  no  reprisals  ;  theirs  is  the  right  of  perse- 
cution, hers  the  duty  of  endurance.  She  lives 
a  life  of  infamy  ;  the  loud  and  bitter  laugh  of 
scorn  scares  her  from  all  return.  She  dies  of 
long  and  lingering  disease ;  yet  she  is  in  fault, 
she  is  the  criminal,  she  the  froward  and  untam- 
able child,  —  and  society,  forsooth,  the  pure 
and  virtuous  matron,  who  casts  her  as  an  abor- 
tion from  her  undefiled  bosom  !  Society  avenges 
herself  on  the  criminals  of  her  own  creation ; 
she  is  employed  in  anathematizing  the  vice  to- 
day which  yesterday  she  was  the  most  zealous 
to  teach.  Thus  is  formed  one  tenth  of  the 
population  of  London.  Meanwhile  the  evil  is 
twofold.  Young  men,  excluded  by  the  fanati- 
cal idea  of  chastity  from  the  society  of  modest 
and  accomplished  women,  associate  with  these 
vicious  and  miserable  beings,  dastroying  there- 
by all  those  exquisite  and  delicate  sensibilities 
whose  existence  cold-hearted  worldlings  have 
denied ;  annihilating  all  genuine  passion,  and 
debasing  that  to  a  selfish  feeling  which  is  the 
excess  of  generosity  and  devotedness.    Their 

or  forced  to  swallow  melted  lead.  The  very  offspring 
of  an  illegal  love  were  involved  in  the  cfinseqiiences  ol 
the  sentence.  —  Gibbon's  Decline  and  Fall,  vol.  ii.  p. 
210.  See  also,  for  the  hatred  of  the  primitive  Chris 
tiaus  to  love  and  even  marriage,  p.  269. 


SHELLEY'S   NOTES  TO   QUEEN   MAB 


599 


body  and  mind  alike  crumble  into  a  hideous 
wreck  of  humanity  ;  idiocy  and  disease  become 
perpetuated  in  their  miserable  offspring,  and 
distant  generations  suffer  for  the  bigoted  mo- 
rality of  their  forefathers.  Chastity  is  a  monk- 
ish and  evangelical  superatition,  a  greater  foe 
to  natural  temperance  even  than  unintellectual 
sensuality  ;  it  strikes  at  the  root  of  all  domestic 
happiness,  and  consigns  more  than  half  of  the 
human  race  to  misery  that  some  few  may  mono- 
polize according  to  law.  A  system  could  not 
well  have  been  devised  more  studiously  hostile 
to  hiiman  happiness  than  marriage. 

I  conceive  that  from  the  abolition  of  mar- 
riage the  fit  and  natural  arrangement  of  sexual 
connection  would  result.  1  by  no  means  assert 
that  the  intercourse  would  be  promiscuous  ;  on 
the  contrary  it  appears  from  the  relation  of 
parent  to  child  that  this  union  is  generally  of 
long  duration,  and  marked  above  all  others 
with  generosity  and  self-devotion.  But  this  is 
a  subject  wixich  it  is  perhaps  premature  to  dis- 
cuss. That  which  will  result  from  the  aboli- 
tion of  marriage  will  be  natural  and  right, 
because  choice  and  change  will  be  exempted 
from  restraint. 

In  fact,  reUgion  and  morality,  as  they  now 
stand,  compose  a  practical  code  of  misery  and 
servitude  ;  the  genius  of  human  happiness  must 
tear  every  leaf  from  the  accui-sed  book  of  God 
ere  man  can  read  the  inscription  on  his  heart. 
How  would  Morality,  dressed  up  in  stiff  stays 
and  finery,  start  from  her  own  disgusting  image, 
should  she  look  in  the  mirror  of  Nature  ! 


VI.  45,  46 :  — 

To  the  red  and  baleful  son 
That  faintly  twinkles  there. 

The  north  polar  star  to  which  the  axis  of  the 
earth  in  its  present  state  of  obliquity  points. 
It  is  exceedingly  probable  from  many  consider- 
ations that  this  obliquity  will  gradually  dimin- 
ish until  the  equator  coincides  with  the  ecliptic  ; 
the  nights  and  days  will  then  become  equal  on 
the  earth  throughout  the  year,  and  probably 
the  seasons  also.  There  is  no  great  extrava- 
gance in  presuming  that  the  progress  of  the 
perpendicularity  of  the  poles  may  be  as  rapid 
as  the  progress  of  intellect ;  or  that  there  should 
be  a  pprfect  identity  between  the  moral  and 
physical  imiirovement  of  the  human  species. 
It  is  certain  that  wisdom  is  not  compatible  with 
disease,  and  that,  in  the  present  state  of  the 
climates  of  the  earth,  health,  in  the  true  and 
comprehensive  sense  of  the  word,  is  out  of  the 
reach  of  civilized  man.  Astronomy  teaches  us 
that  the  earth  is  now  in  its  progress,  and  that 
the  poles  are  every  year  becoming  more  and  more 
perpendicular  to  the  ecliptic.  The  strong  evi- 
dence afforded  by  the  history  of  mythology  and 
geological  researches  that  some  event  of  this  na- 
ture has  taken  place  already  affords  a  strong 
presumption  that  this  progress  is  not  merely  an 
oscillation,  as  has  been  surmised  by  some  late 
astronomers.!  Bones  of  animals  peculiar  to 
1  Laplace,  Sysleme  du  Monde. 


the  torrid  zone  have  been  found  in  the  north  of 
Siberia  and  on  the  banks  of  the  river  Ohio. 
Plants  have  been  found  in  the  fossil  state  in  the 
interior  of  Germany,  which  demand  the  present 
climate  of  Hindostan  for  their  production.* 
The  researches  of  M.  Bailly  ^  establish  the  ex- 
istence of  a  people  who  inhabited  a  tract  in 
Tartary  49°  north  latitude,  of  greater  antiquity 
than  either  the  Indians,  the  Chinese,  or  the 
Chaldeans,  from  whom  these  nations  derived 
their  sciences  and  theology.  We  find  from  the 
testimony  of  ancient  writers  that  Britain,  Ger- 
many, and  France  were  much  colder  than  at 
present,  and  that  their  great  rivers  were  an- 
nually frozen  over.  Astronomy  teaches  us 
also  that  since  this  period  the  obliquity  of  the 
earth's  position  has  been  considerably  dimiu' 
ished. 

VI.  171-173:  — 

Ko  atom  of  this  turbulence  fulfils 
A  vague  and  luinecessitated  task, 
Or  acts  but  as  it  must  and  ought  to  act. 

Deux  exemples  serviront  k  nous  rendre  plus 
sensible  le  principe  qui  vient  d'etre  pos^  ;  nous 
emprunterons  Tune  du  physique  et  Tautre  du 
moral.  Dans  un  tourbillon  de  jxjussi^re  qu'^l^ve 
un  vent  imp^tueux,  quelque  eonf  us  qu'il  paraisse 
k  nos  yeux  ;  dans  la  plus  affreuse  tempete  ex- 
cit^e  par  des  vents  opposes  qui  soul^vent  les 
f^ots,  il  n'y  a  pas  une  seule  molecule  de  pous- 
si^re  ou  d'eau  qui  soit  plac^e  an  hazard^  qui 
n'ait  sa  cause  suffisante  pour  occuper  le  lieu  ofl 
elle  se  trouve,  et  qui  n'agisse  rigoureusement 
de  la  manifere  dont  elle  doit'  agir.  Une  g^o- 
m6tre  qui  connaitrait  exactement  les  diff^ren- 
tes  forces  qui  ag^ssent  dans  ces  deux  cas,  et  les 
propri^t^s  des  molecules  qui  sont  mues,  demon- 
trerait  que  d'apr^s  des  causes  donn^es.  chaque 
molecule  agit  pr^cis^ment  comme  elle  doit  agir, 
et  ne  pent  agir  autreraent  qu'elle  ne  fait. 

Dans  les  convulsions  terribles  qui  agitent 
quelquefois  les  soci^t^s  politiques,  et  qui  pro- 
duisent  souvent  le  renversement  d'un  empire,  i) 
n'y  a  pas  une  seule  action,  une  seule  parole,  une 
seule  pens4e,  une  seule  volont^,  une  seule  pas- 
sion dans  les  agens  qui  concourent  h,  la  revolution 
comme  destructeurs  ou  comme  victimes,  qui  ne 
8oitn4cessaire,  qui  n'agisse  comme  elle  doit  agir, 
qui  n'op^re  infalliblement  les  effets  qu'elle  doit 
op^rer,  suivant  la  place  qu'occupent  ces  agens 
dans  ce  tourbillon  moral.  Cela  paraitrait  Evi- 
dent pour  une  intelligence  qui  serait  en  ^tat  de 
saisir  et  d'appr^cier  toutes  les  actions  et  r6- 
actions  des  esprits  et  des  corps  de  ceux  qui  con- 
tribuent  h.  cette  revolution. 

Systeme  de  la  Nature,  vol.  i.  p.  44. 

VI.  198:  — 

Necessity,  thou  mother  of  the  world  ! 

He  who  asserts  the  doctrine  of  Necessity 
means  that,  contemplating  the  events  which 
compose  the  moral  and  material  universe,  he 
beholds  only  an  immense  and  uninterrupted 

'  Cabanis,  Rapports  du  Physique  et  du  Moral  dt 
VHomme,  vol.  ii.  p.  400. 
»  Bailly,  Letires  sur  les  Sciences,  b,  Voltairt. 


6oo 


NOTES   AND  ILLUSTRATIONS 


chain  of  causes  and  effects,  no  one  of  which 
could  occupy  any  other  place  than  it  does  occupy, 
or  act  in  any  other  place  than  it  does  act.  The 
idea  of  Necessity  is  obtained  by  our  experience 
of  the  connection  between  objects,  the  uniform- 
ity of  the  operations  of  Nature,  the  constant 
conjunction  of  similar  events,  and  the  conse- 
quent inference  of  one  from  the  other.  Man- 
kind are  therefore  agreed  in  the  admission  of 
Necessity  if  they  admit  that  these  two  circum- 
stances take  place  in  voluntary  action.  Motive 
is  to  voluntary  action  in  the  human  mind  what 
cause  is  to  effect  in  the  material  universe.  The 
■word  liberty,  as  applied  to  mind,  is  analogous  to 
the_  word  chance  as  applied  to  matter ;  they 
spring  from  an  ignorance  of  the  certainty  of  the 
conjunction  of  antecedents  and  consequents. 

Every  human  being  is  irresistibly  impelled  to 
act  precisely  as  he  does  act;  in  the  eternity 
which  preceded  his  birth  a  chain  of  causes  was 
generated,  which,  operating  under  the  name  of 
motives,  make  it  impossible  that  any  thought 
of  his  mind  or  any  action  of  his  life  should  be 
otherwise  than  it  is.  Were  the  doctrine  of 
Necessity  false,  the  human  mind  would  no 
longer  be  a  legitimate  object  of  science  ;  from 
like  causes  it  would  be  in  vain  that  we  should 
expect  like  effects ;  the  strongest  motive  would 
no  longer  be  paramount  over  the  conduct ;  all 
knowledge  would  be  vague  and  undeterminate  ; 
we  could  not  predict  with  any  certainty  that  we 
might  not  meet  as  an  enemy  to-morrow  him 
with  whom  we  have  parted  in  friendship  to- 
night ;  the  most  probable  inducements  and  the 
clearest  reasonings  would  lose  the  invariable 
influence  they  possess.  The  contrary  of  this  is 
demonstrably  the  fact.  Similar  circumstances 
produce  the  same  unvariable  effects.  The  pre- 
cise character  and  motives  of  any  man  on  any 
occasion  being  given,  the  moral  philosopher 
could  predict  his  actions  with  as  much  certainty 
as  the  natural  philosopher  could  predict  the 
effects  of  the  mixture  of  any  particular  chemi- 
cal substances.  Why  is  the  aged  husbandman 
more  experienced  than  the  young  beginner  ? 
Because  there  is  a  uniform,  undeniable  Neces- 
sity in  the  operations  of  the  material  universe. 
Why  is  the  old  statesman  more  skilful  than  the 
raw  politician  ?  Because  relying  on  the  neces- 
sary conjunction  of  motive  and  action,  he  pro- 
ceeds to  produce  moral  effects  by  the  application 
of  those  moral  causes  which  experience  has 
shown  to  be  effectual.  Some  actions  may  be 
found  to  which  we  can  attach  no  motives,  but 
these  are  the  effects  of  causes  with  which  we  are 
unacquainted.  Hence  the  relation  which  motive 
bears  to  voluntary  action  is  that  of  cause  to 
effect ;  nor,  placed  in  this  point  of  view,  is  it, 
or  ever  has  it  been,  the  subject  of  popular 
or  philosophical  dispute.  None  but  the  few 
fanatics  who  are  engaged  in  the  herculean  task 
of  reconciling  the  justice  of  their  God  wth  the 
misery  of  man  will  longer  outrage  common  sense 
by  the  supposition  of  an  event  without  a  cause, 
a  voluntary  action  without  a  motive.  History, 
politics,  morals,  criticisms,  all  grounds  of  rea- 
jonings,  all  prisciples  of  science,  alike  assume 


the  truth  of  the  doctrine  of  Necessity.  No 
farmer  carrj'ing  his  corn  to  market  doubts  the 
sale  of  it  at  the  market  price.  The  master  of  a 
manufactory  no  more  doubts  that  he  can  pur- 
chase the  human  labor  necessary  for  his  pur- 
poses than  that  his  machinery  will  act  as  wiey 
have  been  accustomed  to  act. 

But,  whilst  none  have  scrupled  to  admit 
Necessity  as  influencing  matter,  many  have  dis- 
puted its  don)inion  over  mind.  Independently 
of  its  militating  with  the  received  ideas  of  the 
justice  of  God,  it  is  by  no  means  obvious  to  a 
superficial  inquiry.  When  the  mind  observes  its 
own  operations,  it  feels  no  connection  of  motive 
and  action  :  but  as  we  know  '  nothing  more  of 
causation  than  the  constant  conjunction  of  ob- 
jects and  the  consequent  inference  of  one  from 
the  other,  as  we  find  that  these  two  circum- 
stances are  universally  allowed  to  have  place  in 
voluntary  action,  we  may  be  easily  led  to  own 
that  they  are  subjected  to  the  necessity  common 
to  all  causes.'  The  actions  of  the  will  have  a 
regular  conjunction  with  circumstances  and 
characters  ;  motive  is  to  voluntary  action  what 
cause  is  to  effect.  But  the  only  idea  we  can 
form  of  causation  is  a  constant  conjunction  of 
similar  objects,  and  the  consequent  inference  of 
one  from  the  other ;  wherever  this  is  the  case 
Necessity  is  clearly  established. 

The  idea  of  liberty,  applied  metaphorically  to 
the  will,  has  sprung  from  a  misconception  of 
the  meaning  of  the  word  power.  What  is 
power?  — ia  quod  potest,  that  which  can  pro- 
duce any  gfiven  effect.  To  deny  power  is  to 
say  that  nothing  can  or  has  the  power  to  be  or 
act.  In  the  only  true  sense  of  the  word  power 
it  applies  with  equal  force  to  the  lodestone  as 
to  the  human  will.  Do  you  think  these 
motives,  which  I  shall  present,  are  powerful 
enough  to  rouse  him  ?  is  a  question  just  as  com- 
mon as,  Do  you  think  this  lever  has  the  power 
of  raising  this  weight  ?  The  advocates  of  free- 
will assert  that  the  will  has  the  power  of  re- 
fusing to  be  determined  by  the  strongest 
motive  ;  but  the  strongest  motive  is  that  which, 
overcoming  all  others,  ultimately  prevails  ;  this 
assertion  therefore  amoimts  to  a  denial  of  the 
will  being  ultimately  determined  by  that  motive 
which  does  determine  it,  which  is  absurd.  But 
it  is  equally  certain  that  a  man  cannot  resist 
the  strongest  motive  as  that  he  cannot  overcome 
a  pliysicai  impossibility. 

The  doctrine  of  Necessity  tends  to  introduce 
a  great  change  into  the  established  notions  of 
morality  and  utterly  to  destroy  relipnon.  Re- 
ward and  punishment  must  be  considered  by 
the  Necessarian  merely  as  motives  which  he 
wonld  employ  in  order  to  procure  the  adoption 
or  abandonment  of  any  given  line  of  conduct. 
Desert,  in  the  present  sense  of  the  word,  would 
no  longer  have  any  meaning  ;  and  he  who  should 
inflict  pain  upon  another  for  no  better  reason 
than  that  he  deserved  it  would  only  gratify  his 
revenge  under  pretence  of  satisfying  justice.  It 
is  not  enough,  says  the  advocate  of  free-will, 
that  a  criminal  should  be  prevented  from  a  re- 
petition of  his  crime  ;  he  should  feel  pain,  and 


SHELLEY'S   NOTES  TO   QUEEN   MAB 


6oi 


hia  torments,  when  justly  inflicted,  ought  pre- 
cisely to  be  proportioned  to  his  fault.  13ut 
utility  is  morality  ;  that  which  is  incapable  of 
producing  happiness  is  useless  ;  and  though  the 
crime  of  Damieus  must  be  condemned,  yet 
the  frightful  torments  which  revenge,  under 
the  name  of  justice,  inflicted  on  this  unhappy 
man,  cannot  be  supposed  to  have  augmented, 
even  at  the  long  run,  the  stock  of  pleasurable 
sensation  in  the  world.  At  the  same  time  the 
doctrine  of  Necessity  does  not  in  the  least 
diminish  our  disapprobation  of  vice.  The  con- 
viction which  all  feel  that  a  viper  is  a  poisonous 
animal,  and  that  a  tiger  is  constrained  by  the 
inevitable  condition  of  his  existence  to  devour 
men,  does  not  induce  us  to  avoid  them  less 
sedulously,  or,  even  more,  to  hesitate  in  destroy- 
ing them  ;  but  he  would  surely  be  of  a  hard 
heart,  who,  meeting  with  a  serpent  on  a  desert 
island  or  in  a  situation  where  it  was  incapable 
of  injury,  should  wantonly  deprive  it  of  exist- 
ence. A  Necessarian  is  inconsequent  to  his  own 
principles  if  he  indulges  in  hatred  or  contempt ; 
the  compassion  which  he  feels  for  the  criminal 
is  unmixed  with  a  desire  of  injuring  him  ;  he 
looks  with  an  elevated  and  dreadless  composure 
upon  the  links  of  the  universal  chain  as  they 
pass  before  his  e3'es  ;  whilst  cowardice,  curios- 
ity and  inconsistency  only  assail  him  in  propor- 
tion to  the  feebleness  and  indistinctness  with 
which  he  has  perceived  and  rejected  the  delu- 
sions of  free-will. 

Religion  is  the  perception  of  the  relation  in 
which  we  stand  to  the  principle  of  the  universe. 
But  if  the  principle  of  the  universe  be  not  an 
organic  being,  the  model  and  prototype  of  man, 
the  relation  between  it  and  human  beings  is 
absolutely  none.  Without  some  insight  into  its 
will  respecting  our  actions  religion  is  nugatory 
and  vain.  But  will  is  only  a  mode  of  animal 
mind ;  moral  qualities  also  are  such  as  only  a 
human  being  can  possess  ;  to  attribute  them  to 
the  principle  of  the  universe  is  to  annex  to  it 
properties  incompatible  with  any  possible  defi- 
nition of  its  nature.  It  is  probable  that  the 
word  God  was  originally  only  an  expression 
denoting  the  unknown  cause  of  the  known 
events  which  men  perceived  in  the  universe. 
By  the  vulgar  mistake  of  a  metaphor  for  a 
real  being,  of  a  word  for  a  thing,  it  became  a 
man  endowed  with  human  qualities  and  gov- 
erning the  universe  as  an  earthly  monarch 
governs  his  kingdom.  Their  addresses  to  this 
imaginary  being,  indeed,  are  much  in  the  same 
style  as  those  of  subjects  to  a  king.  They 
acknowledge  his  benevolence,  deprecate  his 
anger  and  supplicate  his  favor. 

But  the  doctrine  of  Necessity  teaches  us  that 
in  no  case  could  any  event  have  happened  other- 
wise than  it  did  happen,  and  that,  if  God  is  the 
author  of  good,  he  is  also  the  author  of  evil ; 
that,  if  he  is  entitled  to  our  gratitude  for  the 
one,  he  Ls  entitled  to  our  hatred  for  the  other  ; 
that,  admitting  the  existence  of  this  hypothetic 
being,  he  is  also  subjected  to  the  dominion  of  an 
immutable  Necessity.  It  is  plain  that  the  same 
arg^aments  which  prove  that  God  is  the  author 


of  food,  light  and  life,  prove  him  also  to  be  tha 
author  of  poison,  darkness  and  death.  The 
wide- wasting  earthquake,  the  storm,  the  battle 
and  the  tyranny  are  attributable  to  this  hypo- 
thetic being  in  the  same  degree  as  the  fairest 
forms  of  Nature,  sunshine,  liberty  and  peace. 

But  we  are  taught  by  the  doctrine  of  Neces- 
sity that  there  is  neither  good  nor  evil  in  the 
universe  otherwise  than  as  the  events  to  which 
we  apply  these  epithets  have  relation  to  our 
own  peculiar  mode  of  being.  Still  less  than 
with  the  hypothesis  of  a  God  will  the  doctrine 
of  Necessity  accord  with  the  belief  of  a  future 
state  of  punishment.  God  made  man  such  as 
he  is  and  then  damned  him  for  being  so  ;  for  to 
say  that  God  was  the  author  of  all  good,  and 
man  the  author  of  all  evil,  is  to  say  that  one 
man  made  a  straight  line  and  a  crooked  one, 
and  another  man  made  the  incongruity. 

A  Mahometan  story,  much  to  the  present 
purpose,  is  recorded,  wherein  Adam  and  Moses 
are  introduced  disputing  before  God  in  the  fol- 
lowing manner.  '  Thou,'  says  Moses,  *  art 
Adam,  whom  God  created  and  animated  with 
the  breath  of  life  and  caused  to  be  worshipped 
by  the  angels,  and  placed  in  Paradise,  from 
whence  mankind  have  been  expelled  for  thy 
fault.'  Whereto  Adam  answered,  '  Thou  art 
Moses,  whom  God  chose  for  his  apostle  and  en- 
trusted with  his  word  by  giving  thee  the  tables 
of  the  law  and  whom  he  vouchsafed  to  admit 
to  discourse  with  himself.  How  many  years 
dost  thou  find  the  law  was  written  before  I  was 
created?'  Says  Moses,  'Fortj\'  'And  dost 
thou  not  find,'  replied  Adam,  '  these  words 
therein,  —  "And  Adam  rebelled  against  his 
Lord  and  transgressed  "  ?  '  Which  Moses  con- 
fessing, '  Dost  thou  therefore  blame  me,'  con- 
tinued he,  '  for  doing  that  which  God  wrote  of 
me  that  1  should  do,  forty  years  before  I  was 
created,  nay,  for  what  was  decreed  concerning 
me  fifty  thousand  years  before  the  creation  of 
heaven  and  earth?'  —  Sale's  Preliminary  Dis- 
course, to  the  Koran,  p.  164. 

VII.  13 :  — 

There  is  no  God! 

This  negation  must  be  understood  solely  to 
affect  a  creative  Deity.  The  hypothesis  of  a 
pervading  Spirit,  coetemal  with  the  universe, 
remains  unshaken. 

A  close  examination  of  the  validity  of  the 
proofs  adduced  to  suppport  any  proposition  is 
the  only  secure  way  of  attaining  truth,  on  the 
advantages  of  which  it  is  unnecessary  to  des- 
cant ;  our  knowledge  of  the  existence  of  a 
Diety  is  a  subject  of  such  importance  that  it 
cannot  be  too  minutely  investigated  ;  in  conse- 
quence of  this  conviction  we  proceed  briefly  and 
impartially  to  examine  the  proofs  which  have 
been  adduced.  It  is  necessary  first  to  consider 
the  nature  of  belief. 

When  a  proposition  is  offered  to  the  mind,  it 
perceives  the  agreement  or  disagreement  of  the 
ideas  of  which  it  is  composed.  A  perception 
of  their  agreement  is  termed  belief.  Many 
obstacles  frequently  prevent  this  perception  from 


6o3 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


being  immediate  ;  these  the  mind  attempts  to 
remove  in  order  that  the  perception  may  be  dis- 
tinct. The  mind  is  active  in  the  investigation 
in  order  to  perfect  tlie  state  of  perception  of  the 
relation  which  the  component  ideas  of  the  pro- 
position bear  to  each,  which  is  passive  ;  the  in- 
vestigation being  confused  with  the  perception 
has  induced  many  falsely  to  imagine  that  the 
mind  is  active  in  belief,  —  that  belief  is  an  act 
of  volition,  —  in  consequence  of  which  it  may 
be  regulated  by  the  mind.  Pursuin„',  continu- 
ing this  mistake,  they  have  attached  a  degree 
of  criminality  to  disbelief,  of  which  in  its 
nature  it  is  incapable ;  it  is  equally  incapable 
of  merit. 

Belief,  then,  is  a  passion,  the  strength  of 
■which,  like  every  other  passion,  is  in  precise 
proportion  to  the  degrees  of  excitement. 

The  degrees  of  excitement  are  three. 

The  senses  are  the  sources  of  all  knowledge 
to  the  mind  ;  consequently  their  evidence  claims 
the  strongest  assent. 

The  decision  of  the  mind,  founded  upon  our 
own  experience,  derived  from  these  sources, 
claims  the  next  deg^ree. 

The  experience  of  others,  which  addresses 
itself  to  the  former  one,  occupies  the  lowest 
degree. 

(A  graduated  scale,  on  which  should  be 
marked  the  capabilities  of  propositions  to  ap- 
proach to  the  test  of  the  senses,  would  be  a  just 
barometer  of  the  belief  which  ought  to  be  at- 
tached to  them.) 

Consequently  no  testimony  can  be  admitted 
which  is  contrary  to  reason  ;  reason  is  founded 
on  the  evidence  of  onr  senses. 

Every  proof  may  be  referred  to  one  of  these 
three  divisions.  It  is  to  be  considered  what  ar- 
guments we  receive  from  each  of  them,  which 
should  convince  us  of  the  existence  of  a  Deity, 

Ist.  The  evidence  of  the  senses.  If  the  Deity 
should  appear  to  us,  if  he  should  convince  our 
senses  of  his  existence,  this  revelation  would 
necessarily  command  belief.  Those  to  whom 
the  Deity  has  thus  appeared  have  the  strongest 
possible  conviction  of  his  existence.  But  the 
God  of  theologians  is  incapable  of  local  visi- 
bility. 

2nd.  Raason.  It  is  urged  that  man  knows 
that  whatever  is  must  either  have  had  a  begin- 
ning, or  have  existed  from  all  eternity  ;  he  also 
knows  that  whatever  is  not  eternal  must  have 
had  a  cause.  When  this  reasoning  is  applied  to 
the  universe,  it  is  necessary  to  prove  that  it  was 
created  ;  until  that  is  clearly  demonstrated,  we 
may  reasonably  supposa  that  it  has  endured 
from  all  eternity.  We  must  prove  design  be- 
fore we  can  infer  a  designer.  The  only  idea 
which  we  can  form  of  causation  is  derivable 
from  the  constant  conjunction  of  objects,  and 
the  consequent  inference  of  one  from  the  other. 
In  a  case  where  two  propositions  are  diametri- 
cally opposite,  the  mind  believes  that  which  is 
least  incomprehensible :  it  is  easier  to  suppose 
that  the  universe  has  existed  from  all  eternity 
than  to  conceive  a  being  beyond  its  limits  ca- 
pable of  creating  it ;  if  the  mind  sinks  beneath 


the  weight  of  one,  is  it  an  alleviation  to  increase 
the  intolerability  of  the  burden  ? 

The  other  argument,  which  is  founded  on  a 
man's  knowledge  of  his  own  existence,  stands 
thus.  A  man  knows  not  only  that  ha  now  is, 
but  that  once  he  was  not ;  consequently  there 
must  have  been  a  cause.  But  our  idea  of  causa- 
tion is  alone  derivable  from  the  constant  con- 
junction of  objects  and  tiie  consequent  infer- 
ence of  one  from  the  other ;  and,  reasoning 
experimentally,  we  can  only  infer  from  effects 
causes  exactly  adequate  to  those  effects.  But 
there  certainly  is  a  generative  power  which  is 
effected  by  certain  instruments ;  we  cannot 
prove  that  it  is  inherent  in  these  instruments ; 
nor  is  the  contrary  hypothesis  capable  of  de- 
monstration. We  admit  that  the  generative 
power  is  incomprehensible  •  but  to  suppose  that 
the  same  effect  is  produced  by  an  eternal,  om- 
niscient, onmipotent  being  leaves  the  cause  in 
the  same  obscurity,  but  renders  it  more  incom- 
prehensible. 

3rd.  Testimony.  It  is  required  that  testi- 
mony should  not  be  contrary  to  reason.  The 
testimony  that  the  Deity  convinces  the  senses 
of  men  of  his  existence  can  only  be  admitted  by 
us,  if  our  mind  considers  it  less  probable  that 
these  men  should  have  been  deceived  than  that 
the  Deity  should  have  appeared  to  them.  Our 
reason  can  never  admit  the  testimony  of  men 
who  not  only  declare  that  they  were  eye-wit- 
nesses of  miracles,  but  that  the  Deity  was  irra- 
tional ;  for  he  commanded  that  he  should  be 
believed,  he  proposed  the  highest  rewards  for 
faith,  eternal  punishments  for  disbelief.  We 
can  only  command  voluntary  actions  ;  belief  is 
not  an  act  of  volition  ;  the  mind  is  even  passive, 
or  involuntarily  active  ;  from  this  it  is  evident 
that  we  have  no  sufficient  testimony,  or  rather 
that  testimony  is  insufficient  to  prove  the  being 
of  a  God.  It  has  been  before  shown  that  it 
cannot  be  deduced  from  reason.  They  alone, 
then,  who  have  been  convinced  by  the  evidence 
of  the  senses,  can  believe  it. 

Hence  it  is  evident  that,  having  no  proofs 
from  either  of  the  three  sources  of  conviction, 
the  mind  cannot  believe  the  existence  of  a  crea- 
tive God ;  it  is  also  evident  that,  as  belief  is  a 
passion  of  the  mind,  no  degree  of  cnminality  is 
attachable  to  disbelief  ;  and  that  they  only  are 
reprehensible  who  neglect  to  remove  the  false 
medium  through  which  their  mind  views  any 
subject  of  discussion.  Every  reflecting  mind 
must  acknowledge  that  there  is  no  proof  of  the 
existence  of  a  Deity. 

God  is  an  hypothesis,  and,  as  such,  stands  in 
need  of  proof ;  the  onus  probavdi  rests  on  the 
theist.  Sir  Isaac  Newton  says:  '  Hypotheses 
non  lingo,  quicauid  enim  ex  phaenomenis  non 
deducitur  hypotliesis  vocanda  est,  et  hypothesis 
vel  metaphysicje,  vel  physicse,  vel  qualitatum 
occultamm,  sen  mechanicae,  in  philosophia  lo- 
cum non  habent.'  To  all  proofs  of  the  exist- 
ence of  a  creative  God  apply  this  valuable  rnle. 
We  see  a  variety  of  bodies  possessing  a  variety 
of  powers  ;  we  merely  know  their  effects  ;  we 
are  in  a  state  of  ignorance  with  respect  to  their 


SHELLEY'S   NOTES   TO   QUEEN   MAB 


603 


essences  and  causes.  These  Newton  calls  the 
phenomena  of  things ;  but  the  pride  of  philos- 
ophy is  unwilling  to  admit  its  ignorance  of  their 
causes.  From  the  phenomena,  which  are  the 
objects  of  our  senses,  we  attempt  to  infer  a 
cause,  which  we  call  God,  and  gratuitously  en- 
dow it  with  all  negative  and  contradictory 
qualities.  From  this  hypothesis  we  invent  this 
general  name  to  conceal  our  ignorance  of  causes 
and  essences.  The  being,  called  God,  by  no 
means  answers  with  the  conditions  prescribed 
by  Newton  ;  it  bears  every  mark  of  a  veil 
woven  by  philosophical  conceit  to  hide  the  ig- 
norance of  philosophei-s  even  from  themselves. 
They  borrow  the  threads  of  its  texture  from  the 
anthropomorphism  of  the  vulgar.  Words  have 
been  used  by  sophists  for  the  same  purposes, 
from  the  *  occult  qualities '  of  the  Peripatetics 
to  the  ejjiuvium  of  Boyle  and  the  crinities  or 
nebulce  of  llerschel.  God  is  represented  as  in- 
finite, eternal,  incomprehensible ;  he  is  con- 
tained under  every  predicate  in  non  that  the 
logic  of  ignorance  could  fabricate.  Even  his 
worshippers  allow  that  it  is  impossible  to  form 
any  idea  of  him  ;  they  exclaim  with  the  French 
poet, 

Pour  dire  ce  quHl  est,  ilfaui  itre  lui-mime. 


Lord  Bacon  says,  that  '  atheism  leaves  to 
man  reason,  philosoph3',  natural  piety,  laws, 
reputation,  and  everything  that  can  serve  to 
conduct  him  to  virtue ;  but  superstition  de- 
stroys all  these,  and  erects  itself  into  a  tyranny 
over  the  understandings  of  men :  hence  atheism 
never  disturbs  the  government,  but  renders 
man  more  elear-sighted,  since  he  sees  nothing 
beyond  the  boundaries  of  the  present  life.' 

Bacon's  Moral  Essays. 

[Here  a  lonsr  passage  from  Systeme  de  la  Na- 
ture par  M.  Mirabaud  (Baron  d'Holbach),  Lon- 
don, 1781,  is  omitted  by  the  advice  of  the  general 
editor.] 

The  enlightened  and  benevolent  Pliny  thas 
pnblicl}'  professes  himself  an  atheist :  '  Qua- 
propter  effigiem  Dei  formamque  quserere  im- 
becillitatis  huraanse  reor.  Quisquis  est  Dens  (si 
modo  est  alius)  et  quacunque  in  parte,  totus  est 
sensus,  totus  est  visus,  totus  auditus,  totus  an- 
imae,  totus  animi,  totus  sui.  .  .  .  Iraperfectae 
vero  in  homine  naturae  praecipua  solatia  ne  denm 
quidem  posse  omnia.  Namque  nee  sibi  potest 
mortem  consciscere,  si  velit,  quod  homini  dedit 
optimum  in  tantis  vitae  poenis:  nee  raortales 
aetemitate  donare,  aut  revoeare  defunctos  ;  nee 
facere  ut  qui  vixit  non  vixerit,  qui  honores  ges- 
sit  non  gesserit,  nuUumqne  habere  in  praeterita 
jus  praeterquam  oblivionis,  atque  (ut  facetis 
quoque  argumentis  societas  haec  cum  deo  copu- 
letur)  »t  bis  dena  viginta  noa  sint  aut  multa 
similiter  efficere  non  posse,  per  quae  declaratur 
hand  dubie  naturae  potentia  idque  esse  quod 
Deum  Tocemus.'  —  Plin.  Nat.  Hist.  ii.  cap.  7. 

The  consistent  Newtonian  is  necessarily  an 
atheist.  See  Sir  W.  Drummond's  Academical 
Questions,  chap.  iii.  —  Sir  W.  seems  to  consider 


tlie  atheism  to  which  it  leads,  as  a  sufficient 
presumption  of  the  falseho(»d  of  the  system  of 
gravitation  ;  but  surely  it  is  more  consistent 
with  the  good  faith  of  philosophy  to  admit  a 
deduction  from  facts  than  an  hypothesis  inca- 
pable of  proof,  although  it  might  militate  with 
the  obstinate  preconceptions  of  the  mob.  Had 
this  author,  instead  of  inveighing  against  the 
guilt  and  absurdity  of  atheism,  demonstrated 
its  falsehood,  his  conduct  would  have  been  more 
suited  to  the  modesty  of  the  sceptic  and  the 
toleration  of  the  philosopher. 


Omnia  enim  per  Dei  potentiam  facta  sunt. 
Imo  quia  Naturae  potentia  nulla  est  nisi  ipsa 
Dei  potentia,  certum  est  nos  eatenus  Dei  poten- 
tiam non  intelligere,  quatenus  causas  naturales 
ignoramus  ;  adeoqne  stulte  ad  eandem  Dei  po- 
tentiam recurritur,  quando  rei  alicujus  causam 
naturalem,  hoc  est  ipsam  Dei  potentiam,  igno- 
ramus. 

Spinoza,  Tract.  Tkeologico-Pol ,  cap.  i.  p.  14. 

VIL67:- 

Ahasnenis,  rise  t 

'  Ahasuems  the  Jew  crept  forth  from  the 
dark  cave  of  Mount  Carmel.  Near  two  thou- 
sand years  have  elapsed  since  he  was  first  goaded 
by  nevei^ending  restlessness  to  rove  the  globe 
from  pole  to  pole.  When  our  Lord  was  wearied 
with  the  burden  of  his  ponderous  cross  and 
wanted  to  rest  before  the  door  of  Ahasuems,  the 
unfeeling  wretch  drove  him  away  with  brutality. 
The  Saviour  of  mankind  staggered,  sinking 
under  the  heavy  load,  but  uttered  no  com- 
plaint. An  angel  of  death  appeared  before 
Ahasuems,  and  exclaimed  indignantly,  "  Bar- 
barian I  thou  hast  denied  rest  to  the  Son  of 
Man ;  be  it  denied  thee  also,  until  he  comes  to 
judge  the  world." 

'  A  black  demon,  let  loose  from  hell  upon 
Ahasuerus,  goads  him  now  from  country  to 
country  ;  he  is  denied  the  consolation  which 
death  affords  and  precluded  from  the  rest  of 
the  peaceful  grave. 

'  Ahasuerus  crept  forth  from  the  dark  cave 
of  Mount  Carmel ;  he  shook  the  dust  from  his 
beard,  and  taking  up  one  of  the  skulls  heaped 
there  hurled  it  down  the  eminence  ;  it  rebounded 
from  the  earth  in  shivered  atoms.  "  This  was 
my  father!"  roared  Ahasuerus.  Seven  more 
skulls  rolled  down  from  rock  to  rock,  while 
the  infuriate  Jew,  following  them  with  ghastly 
looks,  exclaimed — "And  these  were  my 
wives  1  "  He  still  continued  to  hurl  down  skull 
after  skull,  roaring  in  dreadful  accents  — 
"And  these,  and  these,  and  these,  were  my 
children !  They  could  die,  but  I,  reprobate 
wretch,  alas  1  I  cannot  die  I  Dreadful  beyond 
conception  is  the  judgment  that  han»s  over  me. 
Jerusalem  fell  —  I  crushed  the  sucking  babe, 
and  precipitated  myself  into  the  destructive 
flames.  I  cursed  the  Romans  —  but,  alas  I 
alas  !  the  restless  curse  held  me  by  the  hair,  — 
and  I  could  not  die  ! 

'  "  Rome,  the  giantess,  fell ;  I  placed  mjself 
before  the  fallen  statue  ;  she  fell,  and  did  not 


6o4 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


crash  me.  Nations  sprung  up  and  disappeared 
before  rae  ;  but  I  remained  and  did  not  die. 
From  cloud-encircled  cliifs  did  I  precipitate 
myself  into  the  ocean  ;  but  the  foaming  billows 
cast  me  upon  the  shore,  and  the  burning:  arrow 
of  existence  pierced  my  cold  heart  again.  I 
leaped  into  Etna's  flaming  abyss,  and  roared 
with  the  giants  for  ten  long  months,  polluting 
with  ray  g^roans  the  Mount's  sulphureous  mouth 
—  ah  !  ten  long  months  1  The  volcano  fer- 
mented, and  in  a  fiery  stream  of  lava  cast  me 
up.  I  lay  torn  by  the  torture-snakes  of  hell 
amid  the  glowing  cinders,  and  yet  continued  to 
exist.  A  forest  was  on  fire  ;  I  darted  on  wing^s 
of  fury  and  despair  into  the  crackling  wood. 
Fire  dropped  upon  me  from  the  trees,  but  the 
flames  only  singed  my  limbs  :  alas  !  it  could  not 
consume  them.  I  now  mixed  with  the  butchers 
of  mankind  and  plunged  in  the  tempest  of  the 
raging  battle.  I  roared  defiance  to  the  infuri- 
ate Gaul,  defiance  to  the  victorious  German  ; 
but  arrows  and  spears  rebounded  in  shivers 
from  my  body.  The  Saracen's  flaming  sword 
broke  upon  my  skull ;  balls  in  vain  hissed  upon 
me ;  the  lightnings  of  battle  glared  harmless 
around  my  loins ;  in  vain  did  the  elephant 
trample  on  me,  in  vain  the  iron  hoof  of  the 
wrathful  steed  I  The  mine,  big  with  destruc- 
tive power,  burst  under  me,  and  hurled  me 
lugh  in  the  air.  I  fell  on  heaps  of  smoking 
limbs,  but  was  only  singed.  The  giant's  steel 
club  rebounded  from  my  body,  the  executioner's 
hand  could  not  strangle  me,  the  tiger's  tooth 
could  not  pierce  rae,  nor  would  the  hungry  lion 
in  the  circus  devour  rae.  I  cohabited  with 
poisonous  snakes,  and  pinched  the  red  crest  of 
the  dragon.  The  serpent  stung,  but  could  not 
destroy  me.  The  dragon  tormented,  but  dared 
not  to  devour  me.  I  now  provoked  the  fury  of 
tyrants.  I  said  to  Nero,  '  Thou  art  a  blood- 
bound  ! '  I  said  to  Christiern, '  Thou  art  a  blood- 
hound ! '  I  said  to  Muley  Ismael, '  Thou  art  a 
bloodhound ! '  The  tyrants  invented  cruel  tor- 
ments, but  did  not  kill  me.  —  Ha !  not  to  be  able 
to  die  —  not  to  be  able  to  die  —  not  to  be  permit- 
ted to  rest  after  the  toils  of  life  —  to  be  doomed 
to  be  imprisoned  forever  in  the  clay-formed  dun- 

feon  —  to  be  forever  clogged  with  this  worthless 
ody,  its  load  of  diseases  and  infirmities  —  to 
be  condemned  to  hold  for  millenniums  that 
yawning  monster  Sameness,  and  Time,  that 
nungrj-  hyena,  ever  bearing  children  and  ever 
devouring  again  her  offspring !  —  Ha !  not  to  be 
permitted  to  die  !  Awful  avenger  in  heaven, 
Last  thou  in  thine  arraory  of  wrath  a  punish- 
ment more  dreadful  ?  then  let  it  thunder  upon 
me  :  command  a  hurricane  to  sweep  me  down 
to  the  foot  of  Carmel  that  I  there  may  lie  ex- 
tended ;  may  pant,  and  writhe,  and  die  I  "  ' 

This  fragment  is  the  translation  of  part  of 
some  German  work,  whose  title  I  have  vainly 
endeavored  to  discover.  I  picked  it  up.  dirty 
and  torn,  some  years  ago,  in  Lincoln's-Inn 
Fields. 
VII.  135,1.36:  — 

I  will  beget  a  Son,  and  he  shall  bear 
The  sius  of  all  the  world. 


A  book  is  put  into  our  hands  when  children, 
called  the  Bible,  the  purport  of  whose  history 
is  briefly  this.  That  God  made  the  earth  in  six 
days,  and  there  planted  a  delightful  garden,  in 
which  he  placed  the  first  pair  of  human  beings. 
In  the  midst  of  the  garden  he  planted  a  tree, 
whose  fruit,  although  within  their  reach,  they 
were  forbidden  to  touch.  That  the  Devil,  in  the 
shape  of  a  snake,  persuaded  them  to  eat  of  this 
fruit ;  in  consequence  of  which  God  condemned 
both  them  and  their  posterity  yet  unborn  to 
satisfy  his  justice  by  their  eternal  misery. 
That  four  thousand  years  after  these  events 
(the  human  race  in  the  meanwhile  having  gone 
unredeemed  to  perdition)  God  engendered  with 
the  betrothed  wife  of  a  carpenter  in  Judea 
(whose  virginity  was  nevertheless  uninjured), 
and  begat  a  Son,  whose  name  was  Jesus  Christ ; 
and  who  was  crucified  and  died,  in  order  that 
no  more  men  might  be  devoted  to  hell-fire,  he 
bearing  the  burden  of  his  Father's  displeasure 
by  proxy.  The  book  states,  in  addition,  that 
the  soul  of  whoever  disbelieves  this  sacrifice 
will  be  burned  with  everlasting  fire. 

During  many  ages  of  misery  and  darkness  this 
story  gained  implicit  belief  ;  but  at  length  men 
arose  who  suspected  that  it  was  a  fable  and  im- 
posture, and  that  Jesus  Christ,  so  far  from  be- 
ing a  God,  was  only  a  man  like  themselves. 
But  a  numerous  set  of  men,  who  derived  and 
still  derive  immense  emoluments  from  this 
opinion  in  the  shapye  of  a  popular  belief,  told 
the  vulgar  that  if  they  did  not  believe  in  the 
Bible,  they  would  be  daraned  to  all  eternity ; 
and  burned,  imprisoned  and  poisoned  all  the 
unbiassed  and  unconnected  inqiiirers  who  occa- 
sionally arose.  They  still  oppress  them,  so  far 
as  the  people,  now  become  more  enlightened, 
will  allow. 

The  belief  in  all  that  the  Bible  contains  is 
called  Christianity.  A  Roman  governor  of 
Judea,  at  the  instance  of  a  priest-led  mob, 
crucified  a  man  called  Jesus  eighteen  centuries 
ago.  He  was  a  man  of  pure  hfe,  who  desired 
to  rescue  his  countrymen  from  the  tyranny  of 
their  barbarous  and  degrading  superstitions. 
The  common  fate  of  all  who  desire  to  benefit 
mankind  awaited  him.  The  rabble  at  the  in- 
stigation of  the  priests  demanded  his  death, 
although  his  very  judge  made  pubhc  acknow- 
ledgment of  his  innocence.  Jesus  was  sacri- 
ficed to  the  honor  of  that  God  with  whom  he 
was  afterwards  confounded.  It  is  of  importance, 
therefore,  to  distinguish  between  the  pretended 
character  of  this  being  as  the  Son  of  God  and 
the  Saviour  of  the  world,  and  his  real  charac- 
ter as  a  man,  who  for  a  vain  attempt  to  reform 
the  world  paid  the  forfeit  of  his  life  to  that 
overbearing  tyranny  which  has  since  so  long 
desolated  the  universe  in  his  name.  Whilst 
the  one  is  a  hjrpocritical  demon,  who  announces 
himself  as  the  God  of  compassion  and  peace 
even  whilst  he  stretches  forth  his  blood-red 
hand  with  the  sword  of  discord  to  waste  the 
earth,  having  confessedly  devised  this  scheme 
of  desolation  from  eternity ;  the  other  stands 
in  the  foremost  list  of  those  true  heroes  who 


SHELLEY'S  NOTES  TO  QUEEN  MAB 


605 


have  died  in  the  glorious  martyrdom  of  liberty 
aud  have  braved  torture,  contempt  and  poverty 
in  the  cause  of  suffering  humanity.' 

The  vulgar,  ever  in  extremes,  became  per- 
suaded that  the  crucifixion  of  Jesus  was  a  super- 
natural event.  Testimonies  of  miracles,  so  fre- 
quent in  unenlightened  ages,  were  not  wanting 
to  provfe  that  he  was  something  divine.  This 
belief,  rolling  through  the  lapse  of  ages,  met 
with  the  reveries  of  Plato  and  the  reasonings  of 
Aiistotle,  and  acquired  force  and  extent,  until 
tlie  divinity  of  Jesus  became  a  dogma,  which  to 
dispute  was  death,  which  to  doubt  was  infamy. 

Christianitj-  is  now  the  established  religion. 
He  who  attempts  to  impugn  it  must  be  con- 
tented to  behold  murderers  and  traitors  take 
precedence  of  him  in  public  opinion  ;  though, 
if  his  genius  be  equal  to  his  courage  and  assisted 
by  a  peculiar  coalition  of  circumstances,  future 
ages  maj'  exalt  him  to  a  divinity  and  persecute 
others  in  his  name,  as  he  was  persecuted  in  the 
name  of  his  predecessor  in  the  homage  of  the 
world. 

The  same  means  that  have  supported  every 
other  popular  belief  have  supported  Christian- 
ity. War,  imprisonment,  assassination  and 
falsehood,  deeds  of  unexampled  aud  incompar- 
able atrocity,  have  made  it  what  it  is.  The 
blood,  shed  by  the  votaries  of  the  God  of 
mercy  and  peace  since  the  establishment  of  his 
religion,  would  probably  suffice  to  drown  all 
oth»r  sectaries  now  on  the  habitable  globe. 
We  derive  from  our  ancestors  a  faith  thus  fos- 
tered and  supported  ;  we  quarrel,  persecute  and 
hate  for  its  maintenance.  Even  under  a  gov- 
ernment which,  whilst  it  infringes  the  very  right 
of  thought  and  speech,  boasts  of  permitting  the 
liberty  of  the  press,  a  man  is  pilloried  and  im- 
prisoned because  be  is  a  deist,  and  no  one  raises 
Lis  voice  in  the  indignation  of  outraged  human- 
ity. But  it  is  ever  a  proof  that  the  falsehood 
of  a  proposition  is  felt  by  those  who  use  co- 
ercion, not  reasoning,  to  procure  its  admission  ; 
and  a  dispassionate  observer  would  feel  himself 
more  powerfully  interested  in  favor  of  a  man 
who,  depending  on  the  truth  of  his  opinions, 
simply  stated  his  reasons  for  entertaining  them, 
than  in  that  of  his  aggressor  who,  daringly 
avowing  his  unwillingness  or  incapacity  to  an- 
swer them  by  artfument,  proceeded  to  repress 
the  energies  and  break  the  spirit  of  their  pro- 
mulgator by  that  torture  and  imprisonment 
whose  infliction  he  could  command. 

Analogy  seems  to  favor  the  opinion  that,  as 
like  other  systems,  Christianity  has  arisen  and 
augmented,  so  like  them  it  will  decay  and  per- 
ish ;  that,  as  violence,  darkness  and  deceit,  not 
reasoning  and  pereuasion,  have  procured  its  ad- 
mission among  mankind,  so,  when  enthusiasm 
has  subsided,  and  time,  that  infallible  contro- 
verter  of  false  opinions,  has  involved  its  pre- 
tended evidences  in  the  darkness  of  antiquity, 
it  will  become  obsolete ;  that  Milton's  poem 
alone  will  give  permanency  to  the  remembrance 

1  Since  writing  tliis  note  I  have  seen  reason  to  suspect 
that  Jesus  was  an  ambitious  man  who  aspired  to  the 
throne  cf  Judea. 


of  its  absurdities ;  and  that  men  will  laugh  as 
heartily  at  grace,  faith,  redemption  and  original 
sin,  as  they  now  do  at  the  metamorphoses  of 
Jupiter,  the  miracles  of  Romish  saints,  the  effi- 
cacy of  witchcraft,  and  the  appearance  of  de- 
parted spirits. 

Had  the  Christian  religion  commenced  and 
continued  by  the  mere  force  of  reasoning  and 
persuasion,  the  preceding  analogy  would  be  in- 
admissible. We  should  never  speculate  on  the 
future  obsoleteness  of  a  system  perfectly  con- 
formable to  Nature  and  reason  ;  it  would  en- 
dure so  long  as  they  endured ;  it  would  be  a 
truth  as  indisputable  as  the  light  of  the  sun, 
the  criminality  of  murder,  and  other  facts 
whose  evidence,  depending  on  our  organization 
and  relative  situations,  must  remain  acknow- 
ledged as  satisfactory  so  long  as  man  is  man. 
It  is  an  incontrovertible  fact,  the  considera- 
tion of  which  ought  to  repress  the  hasty  con- 
clusions of  credulity  or  moderate  its  obsti- 
nacy in  maintaining  them,  that,  had  the  Jews 
not  been  a  fanatical  race  of  men,  had  even  the 
resolution  of  Pontius  Pilate  been  equal  to  his 
candor,  the  Christian  religion  never  could  have 
prevailed,  it  could  not  even  have  existed  ;  on 
so  feeble  a  thread  hangs  the  most  cherished 
opinion  of  a  sixth  of  the  human  race  !  When 
will  the  vulgar  learn  humility  ?  When  will  the 
pride  of  ignorance  blush  at  having  believed  be- 
fore it  could  comprehend  ? 

Either  the  Christian  religion  is  true,  or  it  is 
false ;  if  true,  it  comes  from  God  and  its  au- 
thenticity can  admit  of  doubt  and  dLspute  no 
further  than  its  omnipotent  author  is  willing  to 
allow.  Either  the  power  or  the  goodness  of 
God  is  called  in  question  if  he  leaves  those  doc- 
trines most  essential  to  the  well  being  of  man 
in  doiibt  and  dispute  ;  the  only  ones  which, 
since  their  promulgation,  have  been  the  subject 
of  unceasing  cavil,  the  cause  of  irreconcilable 
hatred.  '  If  God  has  spoken,  why  is  the  uni- 
verse not  convinced  ? ' 

There  is  this  passage  in  the  Christian  Scrip- 
tures :  '  Those  who  obey  not  God  and  believe 
not  the  Gospel  of  his  Son,  shall  be  punished 
with  everlasting  destruction.'  This  is  the 
pivot  upon  which  all  religrions  turn  ;  they  all 
assume  that  it  is  in  our  power  to  believe  or  not 
to  believe ;  whereas  the  mind  can  only  believe 
that  which  it  thinks  true.  A  human  being  can 
only  be  supposed  accountable  for  those  actions 
which  are  influenced  by  his  will.  But  belief  is 
utterly  distinct  from  and  unconnected  with 
volition ;  it  is  the  apprehension  of  the  agree- 
ment or  disagreement  of  the  ideas  that  com- 
pose any  proposition.  Belief  is  a  passion,  or  in- 
voluntarj'  operation  of  the  mind,  and,  like  other 
passions,  its  intensity  is  precisely  proportionate 
to  the  degrees  of  excitement.  Volition  is  es- 
sential to  merit  or  demerit.  But  the  Christian 
religion  attaches  the  highest  possible  degrees 
of  merit  and  demerit  to  that  which  is  worthy  of 
neither  and  which  is  totally  unconnected  with 
the  peculiar  faculty  of  the  mind  whose  presence 
is  essential  to  their  being. 

Christianity    was    intended   to    reform    the 


6o6 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


•world.  Had  an  all-wise  Being  planned  it, 
nothing  is  more  improbable  than  that  it  should 
have  failed  ;  omniscience  wonld  infallibly  have 
foreseen  the  inv.tility  of  a  scheme  which  ex- 
perience demonstrates,  to  this  age,  to  have  been 
utterly  unsuccessful. 

Christianity  inculcates  the  necessity  of  sup- 
plicating the  Deitj'.  Praj-er  may  be  considered 
under  two  points  of  view  ;  — as  an  endeavor  to 
change  the  intentions  of  God,  or  as  a  formal 
testimony  of  our  obedience.  But  the  former 
case  supposes  that  the  caprices  of  a  limited  in- 
telligence can  occasionally  instruct  the  Creator 
of  the  world  how  to  regulate  the  universe  ;  and 
the  latter,  a  certain  degree  of  servility  analo- 
gous to  the  loyalty  demanded  by  earthly  ty- 
rants. Obedience  indeed  is  only  the  pitiful  and 
cowardly  egotism  of  him  who  thinks  that  he 
can  do  somethin^r  better  than  reason. 

Christianity,  like  all  other  religions,  rests 
upon  miracles,  prophecies  and  martyrdoms. 
No  religion  ever  existed  which  had  not  its 
prophets,  its  attested  miracles,  and,  above 
all,  crowds  of  devotees  who  would  bear  pa- 
tiently the  most  horrible  tortures  to  prove  its 
authenticity.  It  should  appear  that  in  no  case 
can  a  discriminating  mind  subscribe  to  the 
genuineness  of  a  miracle.  A  miracle  is  an  in- 
fraction of  Nature's  law  bj'  a  supernatural 
cause  ;  by  a  cause  acting  beyond  that  eternal 
circle  within  which  all  things  are  included. 
God  breaks  through  the  law  of  Nature  that  he 
may  convince  mankind  of  the  truth  of  that 
revelation  which,  in  spite  of  his  precautions, 
has  been  since  its  introduction  the  subjeet  of 
unceasing  schism  and  cavil. 

Miracles  resolve  themselves  into  the  follow- 
ing question  :  ^  —  Whether  it  is  more  probable 
the  laws  of  Nature,  hitherto  so  immntably  har- 
monious, should  have  undergone  violation,  or 
that  a  man  should  have  told  a  lie  ?  Whether 
it  is  more  probable  that  we  are  ignorant  of  the 
natural  cause  of  an  event  or  that  we  know  the 
supernatural  one?  That,  in  old  times,  when 
the  powers  of  Nature  were  less  known  than  at 
present,  a  certain  set  of  men  were  themselves 
deceived  or  had  some  hidden  motive  for  de- 
ceiving others ;  or  that  God  begat  a  son  who 
in  his  legislation,  measuring  merit  by  belief, 
evidenced  himself  to  be  totally  ignorant  of  the 
powers  of  the  hiiman  mind  —  of  what  is  volun- 
tarv.  and  what  is  the  contrary  ? 

We  have  many  instances  of  men  tilling  lies  ; 
none  of  an  infraction  of  Nature's  laws,  those 
laws  of  whose  government  alone  we  have  any 
knowledge  or  experience.  The  records  of  all 
nations  afford  innumerable  instances  of  men 
deceiving  others  either  from  vanity  or  interest, 
or  themselves  being  deceived  by  the  limited- 
ness  of  their  views  and  their  ignorance  of  natu- 
ral causes  ;  but  where  is  the  accredited  case  of 
God  having  come  upon  earth,  to  give  the  lie  to 
his  own  creations  ?  There  would  be  something 
truly  wonderful  in  the  appearance  of  a  ghost ; 
bnt  the  assertion  of  a  child  that  he  saw  one  as 

1  See  Hume's  Euayt,  vol.  ii.  p.  121. 


he  passed  through  the  churchyard  is  universally 
admitted  to  be  less  miraculous. 

But  even  supposing  that  a  man  should  raise 
a  dead  body  to  life  before  our  eyes,  and  on  this 
fact  rest  his  claim  to  being  considered  the  son  of 
God  ;  —  the  Humane  Society  restores  drowned 
persons,  and  because  it  makes  no  mystery  of 
the  method  it  employs  its  members  are  not  mis- 
taken for  the  sons  of  God.  All  that  we  have  a 
right  to  infer  from  our  ignorance  of  the  cause 
of  any  event  is  that  we  do  not  know  it.  Had 
the  Mexicans  attended  to  this  simple  rule  when 
they  heard  the  cannon  of  the  (Spaniards,  they 
would  not  have  considered  them  as  gods.  The 
experiments  of  modem  chemistry  would  have 
defied  the  wisest  philosophers  of  ancient  Greece 
and  Rome  to  have  accounted  for  them  on 
natural  principles.  An  author  of  strong  com- 
mon sense  has  observed  that  '  a  miracle  is  no 
miracle  at  second-hand  ;  '  he  might  have  added 
that  a  miracle  is  no  miracle  in  any  ease ;  for 
until  we  are  acquainted  with  all  natural  causes 
we  have  no  reason  to  imagine  others. 

There  remains  to  be  considered  another  proof 
of  Christianity  —  Prophecy.  A  book  is  written 
before  a  certain  event,  in  which  this  event  is 
foretold  ;  how  could  the  prophet  have  fore- 
known it  without  inspiration?  how  could  he 
have  been  inspired  without  God  ?  The  greatest 
stress  is  laid  on  the  prophecies  of  Moses  and 
Hosea  on  the  dispersion  of  the  Jews,  and  that 
of  Isaiah  concerning  the  coming  of  the  Messiah. 
The  prophecy  of  Moses  is  a  collection  of  every 
possible  cursing  and  blessing ;  and  it  is  so  far 
from  being  marvellous  that  the  one  of  disper- 
sion should  have  been  fulfilled  that  it  would 
have  been  more  surprising  if,  out  of  all  these, 
none  should  have  taken  effect.  In  Deuteronomy, 
chap,  xxviii.  v.  ()4,  where  Moses  explicitly  fore- 
tells the  dispersion,  he  states  that  they  shall 
there  serve  gods  of  wood  and  stone :  '  And  the 
Lord  shall  scatter  thee  among  all  people,  from 
the  one  end  of  the  earth  even  unto  the  other, 
and  there  thou  shall  serve  other  gods,  which  neither 
thou  nor  thy  fathers  have  known,  even  qodsofwood 
and  stone.''  The  Jews  are  at  this  day  remark- 
ably tenacious  of  their  religion.  Moses  also 
declares  that  they  shall  be  subjected  to  these 
curses  for  disobedience  to  his  ritual :  '  And  it 
shall  come  to  pass  if  thou  wilt  not  hearken  unto 
the  voice  of  the  Lord  thy  God,  to  observe  to  do 
all  the  commandments  and  statutes  which  I 
command  you  this  day,  that  all  these  curses  shall 
come  upon  thee  and  overtake  thee."  Is  this 
the  real  reason  ?  The  third,  fourth  and  fifth 
chapters  of  Hosea  are  a  piece  of  immodest  con- 
fession. The  indelicate  type  might  apply  in  a 
hundred  senses  to  a  hundred  things.  The  fifty- 
third  chapter  of  Isaiah  is  more  explicit,  yet  it 
does  not  exceed  in  clearness  the  oracles  oi  Del- 
phos.  The  historical  proof  that  Moses,  Isaiah 
and  Hosea  did  write  when  they  are  said  to  have 
written,  is  far  from  being  clear  and  circumstan- 
tial. 

Bnt  prophecy  requires  proof  in  its  character 
as  a  miracle ;  we  have  no  right  to  suppose  that 
a  man  foreknew  future  events  from  God,  until 


SHELLEY'S   NOTES   TO   QUEEN   MAB 


607 


it  is  demonstrated  that  lie  neither  could  know 
them  by  his  own  exertions,  nor  that  the  writings 
which  contain  the  prediction  could  possibly  have 
been  fabricated  after  the  event  pretended  to 
be  foretold.  It  is  more  probable  that  writ- 
ing's, pretending  to  divine  inspiration,  should 
have  been  fabricated  after  the  fulfilment  of 
their  pretended  prediction,  than  that  they 
should  have  really  been  divinely  inspired,  when 
■we  consider  that  the  latter  supposition  makes 
God  at  once  the  creator  of  the  human  mind  and 
ignorant  of  its  primary  powers,  particularly  as 
we  have  numberless  instances  of  false  religions 
and  forged  prophecies  of  things  long  past,  and 
no  accredited  case  of  God  having  conversed 
with  men  directly  or  indirectly.  It  is  also  pos- 
sible that  the  description  of  an  event  might  have 
foregone  its  occurrence  :  but  this  is  far  from  be- 
ing a  legitimate  proof  of  a  divine  revelation,  as 
many  men,  not  pretending  to  the  character  of  a 
prophet,  have  nevertheless,  in  this  sense,  pro- 
phesied. 

Lord  Chesterfield  was  never  yet  taken  for  a 
prophet,  even  by  a  bishop,  yet  he  uttered  this 
remarkable  prediction  :  '  The  despotic  govern- 
ment of  France  is  screwed  up  to  the  highest 
pitch  ;  a  revolution  is  fast  approaching ;  that 
revolution,  I  am  convinced,  will  be  radical  and 
sanguinary.'  This  appeared  in  the  letters  of 
the  prophet  long  before  the  accomplishment  of 
this  wonderful  prediction.  Now,  have  these 
particulars  come  to  pass,  or  have  they  not  ?  If 
they  have,  how  could  the  Earl  have  foreknown 
them  without  inspiration  V  If  we  admit  the 
truth  of  the  Christian  religion  on  testimony  such 
as  this,  we  must  admit,  on  the  same  strength 
of  evidence,  that  God  has  affixed  the  highest 
rewards  to  belief  and  the  eternal  tortures  of 
the  never-dying  worm  to  disbelief ;  both  of 
which  have  been  demonstrated  to  be  involun- 
tarv. 

The  last  proof  of  the  Christian  religion  de- 
pends on  the  influence  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 
Theologians  divide  the  influence  of  the  Holy 
Ghost  into  its  ordinary  and  extraordinary  modes 
of  operation.  The  latter  is  supposed  to  be  that 
which  inspired  the  Prophets  and  Apostles  ;  and 
the  former  to  be  the  grace  of  God.  which  sum- 
marily makes  known  the  truth  of  his  revelation 
to  those  whose  mind  is  fitted  for  its  reception 
by  a  submissive  perusal  of  his  word.  Persons 
convinced  in  this  manner  can  do  anything  but 
account  for  their  conviction,  describe  the  time 
at  which  it  happened  or  the  manner  in  which  it 
came  upon  tl;em.  It  is  supposed  to  enter  the 
mind  by  other  channels  than  those  of  the  senses, 
and  therefore  professes  to  be  superior  to  reason 
founded  on  their  experience. 

Admitting,  however,  the  usefulness  or  possi- 
bility of  a  divine  revelation,  unless  we  demolish 
the  foundations  of  all  human  knowledge,  it  is 
requisite  that  our  reason  should  previously 
demonstrate  its  genuineness ;  for,  before  we 
extinguish  the  steady  ray  of  reason  and  common 
sense,  it  is  fit  that  we  should  discover  whether 
we  cannot  do  without  their  assistance,  whether 
or  no  there  be  any  other  which  may  suffice  to 


guide  us  through  the  labyrinth  of  life  :  ^  for,  if 
a  man  is  to  be  inspired  upon  all  occasions,  if  he 
is  to  be  sure  of  a  tning  because  he  is  sure,  if  the 
ordinary  operations  of  the  Spirit  are  not  to  be 
considered  very  extraordinai-y  modes  of  demon- 
stration, if  enthusiasm  is  to  usui-p  the  place  of 
proof,  and  madness  that  of  sanitj-,  all  reasoning 
IS  superfluous.  The  Mahometan  dies  fighting 
for  his  prophet,  the  Indian  immolates  himself 
at  the  chariot-wheels  of  Brahma,  the  Hottentot 
worships  an  insect,  the  Negro  a  bunch  of 
feathers,  the  Mexican  sacrifices  human  victims  ! 
Their  degree  of  conviction  must  certainly  be 
very  strong ;  it  cannot  arise  from  reasoning,  it 
must  from  feelings,  the  reward  of  their  prayers. 
If  each  of  these  should  affirm,  in  opposition  to 
the  strongest  possible  argruments,  that  inspira- 
tion carried  internal  evidence,  I  fear  their  in- 
spired brethren,  the  orthodox  missionaries, 
would  be  so  uncharitable  as  to  pronounce  them 
obstinate. 

Miracles  cannot  be  received  as  testimonies  of 
a  disputed  fact,  because  all  human  testimony 
has  ever  been  insufficient  to  establish  the  pos- 
sibility of  miracles.  That  which  is  incapable  of 
proof  itself  is  no  proof  of  anything  else.  Pro- 
phecy has  also  been  rejected  by  the  test  of 
reason.  Those,  then,  who  have  been  actually 
inspired,  are  the  only  true  believers  in  the 
Christian  religion. 

Mox  numine  viso 
Virginei  tumuere  einus,  innuptaque  luater 
Arcane  stupuit  complerl  viscera  partu 
Auctorem  paritura  Buum.    Mortalia  corda 
Artifioem  texere  poli,  .  .  . 

.  .  .  latuitque  sub  uno 
Pectore,  qui  totum  late  complectitur  orbem. 

Claudian,  Carmen  Paschali. 

Does  not  so  monstrous  and  disgusting  an  ab- 
surdity carry  its  own  infamy  and  refutation 
with  itself  ? 

VIII.  203-207 :  — 

Him,  still  from  hope  to  hope  the  bliss  pursuing 
Which  from  the  exhaustless  store  of  hiunan  weal 
Draws  on  the  virtuous  mind  the  thoughts  that  rise 
In  time-destroying  infiniteness  gift 
With  self-enshrined  eternity,  &c. 

Time  is  our  consciousness  of  the  succession  of 
ideas  in  our  mind.  Vivid  sensation  of  either  pain 
or  pleasure  makes  the  time  seem  long,  as  the 
common  phrase  is,  because  it  renders  us  more 
acutely  conscious  of  our  ideas.  If  a  mind  be  con- 
scious of  an  hundred  ideas  during  one  minute  by 
the  clock,  and  of  two  hundred  during  another, 
the  latter  of  these  spaces  would  actually  occupy 
so  much  greater  extent  in  the  mind  as  two  ex- 
ceed one  in  quantity.  If,  therefore,  the  human 
mind  by  any  future  improvement  of  its  sensibil- 
ity should  become  conscious  of  an  infinite  num- 
ber of  ideas  in  a  minute,  that  minute  would  be 
eternity.  I  do  not  hence  infer  that  the  actual 
space  between  the  birth  and  death  of  a  man 
will  ever  be  prolonged  ;  but  that  his  sensibility 
is  perfectible,  and  that  the  number  of  ideas 

1  See  Locke's  Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding, 
book  iv.  chap,  zix.,  on  Enthusiasm. 


6o8 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


which  his  mind  is  capable  of  receiving  is  in- 
definite. One  man  is  stretched  on  the  rack  dur- 
ing twelve  hours,  another  sleeps  soundly  in  hia 
bed ;  the  difference  of  time  perceived  by  these 
two  persons  is  immense  ;  one  hardly  will  believe 
that  half  aii  hour  has  eliipsed,  the  other  could 
credit  that  centuries  had  flown  during  his  agony . 
Thus  the  life  of  a  man  of  virtue  and  talent, 
who  should  die  in  his  thirtieth  year,  is  with  re- 
gard to  his  own  feelings  longer  than  that  of  a 
miserable  priest-ridden  slave  who  dreams  out  a 
century  of  dulness.  The  one  has  perpetually 
cultivated  his  mental  faculties,  has  rendered 
himself  master  of  liis  thoughts,  can  abstract 
and  generalize  amid  the  lethargy  of  every-day 
business  ;  the  other  can  slumber  over  the  bright- 
est moments  of  his  being  and  is  unable  to  re- 
member the  happiest  hour  of  his  life.  Perhaps 
the  perishing  ephemeron  enjoys  a  longer  life 
than  the  tortoise. 

Dark  flood  of  time  1 
Roll  as  it  liBteth  thee  —  I  measure  not 
By  months  or  moments  thy  ambiguous  course. 
Another  may  stand  by  me  on  the  brink 
And  watch  the  bubble  whirled  beyond  his  ken 
That  pauses  at  my  feet.     The  sense  of  love. 
The  thirst  for  action,  and  the  impassioned  thought, 
Prolong  my  being ;  if  I  wake  no  more. 
My  life  more  actual  living  will  contain 
Than  some  grey  veteran's  of  the  world's  cold  school, 
Whose  listless  hours  unprofitably  roll. 
By  one  enthusiast  feeling  unredeemed. 

See  Godwin's  Pol.  Jus.  vol.  i.  p.  411  ;  —  andCon- 
dorcet,  Esqui.ise  (Vun  Tableau  Historique  des 
Pi  ogres  de  V Esprit  Ifumain,  Epoque  ix. 

VIII.  211,  212  :  — 

No  longer  now 
He  slays  the  Iamb  that  looks  him  in  the  face. 

I  hold  that  the  depravity  of  the  physical  and 
moral  nature  of  man  originated  in  his  unnat- 
ural habits  of  life.  The  origin  of  man,  like 
that  of  the  universe  of  which  he  is  a  nart,  is  en- 
veloped in  impenetrable  mystery.  His  genera- 
tions either  had  a  beginning  or  they  had  not. 
The  weight  of  evidence  in  favor  of  each  cf 
these  suppositions  seems  tolerably  equal ;  and 
it  is  perfectly  unimportant  to  the  present  argu- 
ment which  is  assumed.  The  language  spoken, 
however,  by  the  mythology  of  nearly  all  reli- 
gions seems  to  prove  that  at  some  distant  period 
man  forsook  the  path  of  Nature  and  sacrificed 
the  purity  and  happiness  of  his  being  to  unnat- 
ural appetites.  The  date  of  this  event  seems 
to  have  also  been  that  of  some  great  change  in 
the  climates  of  the  earth,  with  which  it  has  an 
obvious  correspondence.  The  allegory  of  Adam 
and  Eve  eating  of  the  tree  of  evil  and  entailing 
upon  their  posterity  the  wrath  of  God  and  the 
loss  of  everlasting  life,  admits  of  no  other  ex- 
planation than  the  disease  and  crime  that  have 
flowed  from  unnatural  diet.  Milton  was  so 
well  aware  of  this  that  he  makes  Raphael  thus 
exhibit  to  Adam  the  consequence  of  his  disobe- 
dience :  — 

'  Immediately  a  place 

Before  his  eyes  appeared,  sad,  noisome,  dark; 

A  lazar-hoiise  it  seem'd,  wherein  were  laid 

Nambsrs  of  all  diseased  —  all  maladies 


Of  ghastly  spasm,  or  racking  torture,  qualma 
Of  heart-sick  agony,  all  feverous  kinds, 
Convulsions,  epilepsies,  fierce  catarrhs, 
Intestine  stone  and  ulcer,  colic  pangs, 
Dicmoniac  frenzy,  moping  melancholy. 
And  nioou-struck  madness,  i-i.iing  atrophy, 
M.-vrasjiius,  and  wide-wasting  pestilence. 
Dropsies  and  asthmas,  and  joint-racking  rheumt. 

And  how  many  thousands  more  might  not  be 
added  to  this  frightful  catalogue  ! 

The  story  of  Prometheus  is  one  likewise 
■which,  although  universally  admitted  to  be 
allegorical,  has  never  been  satisfactorily  ex- 
plained. Prometheus  stole  fire  from  heaven 
and  was  chained  for  this  crime  to  Mount  Cau- 
casus, where  a  vulture  continually  devoured 
his  liver,  that  grew  to  meet  its  hunger.  Hesiod 
says  that  before  the  time  of  Prometheus  man- 
kind were  exempt  from  suffering;  that  they 
enjoyed  a  vigorous  youth,  and  that  death,  when 
at  length  it  came,  approached  like  sleep  and 
gently  closed  their  eyes.  Again,  so  general  was 
this  opinion,  that  Horace,  a  poet  of  the  Augus* 
tan  age,  writes :  — 

Audax  omnia  perpeti, 
Oens  humana  ruit  per  vetitum  nefas ; 

Audax  lapeti  genus        • 
Ignem  fraude  mala  gentibus  intulit : 

Post  ignem  aetheria  dorao 
Subductum,  macies  et  nova  febrium 

Terris  incubuit  coliors, 
Semotique  prius  tarda  necessitas 

Lethi  corripuit  gradum. 

How  plain  a  language  is  spoken  by  all  this! 
Prometheus  (who  represents  the  human  race) 
effected  some  great  change  in  the  condition  of 
his  nature,  and  applied  fire  to  culinary  pur- 
poses ;  thus  inventing  an  expedient  for  screen- 
ing from  his  disgust  the  horrors  of  the  shambles. 
From  this  moment  his  vitals  were  devoured  by 
the  vulture  of  disease.  It  consumed  his  being 
in  every  shape  of  its  loathsome  and  infinite  va- 
riety, inducing  the  soul-quelling  sinkings  of 
premature  and  violent  death.  All  vice  arose 
from  the  ruin  of  healthful  innocence.  Tyr- 
anny, superstition,  commerce  and  inequality 
were  then  first  known  when  reason  vainly  at- 
tempted to  guide  the  wanderings  of  exacerbated 
passion.  I  conclude  this  part  of  the  subject 
with  an  extract  from  Mr.  Newton's  Defence  of 
Vegetable  Regimen,  from  whom  I  have  borrowed 
this  interpretation  of  the  fable  of  Prometheus. 
'  Making  allowance  for  such  transposition  of 
the  events  of  the  allegory  as  time  might  pro- 
duce after  the  important  truths  were  forgotten 
which  this  portion  of  the  ancient  mythology 
was  intended  to  transmit,  the  drift  of  the  fable 
appears  to  be  this  :  —  Man  at  his  creation  was 
endowed  with  the  gift  of  perpetual  youth  ;  that 
is,  he  was  not  formed  to  be  a  sickly  suffering 
creature  as  now  we  see  him,  but  to  enjoy  health, 
and  to  sink  by  slow  degrees  into  the  bosom  of 
his  parent  earth  without  disease  or  pain.  Pro- 
methens  first  taught  the  use  of  animal  food ' 
{primus  bovem  occidit  Promethetis  i) '  and  of  fire, 
with  which  to  render  it  more  digestible  ana 
>  Plin.  Nat.  Hul.  lib.  vii.  sect.  67. 


SHELLEY'S   NOTES   TO   QUEEN   MAB 


609 


pleasing  to  the  taste.  Jupiter,  and  the  rest  of 
the  gods,  foreseeing  the  consequences  of  these 
inventions,  were  amused  or  irritated  at  the 
short-sighted  devices  of  the  newly  formed  crea- 
ture, and  left  him  to  experience  the  sad  effects 
of  them.  T[iii-st,  the  necessary  concomitant  of 
a  flesh  diet,'  (perhaps  of  all  diet  vitiated  by 
culinary  preparation)  '  ensued  ;  water  was  re- 
sorted to,  and  man  forfeited  the  inestimable 
gift  of  health  wliich  he  had  received  from  hea- 
ven :  he  became  diseased,  the  partaker  of  a 
precarious  existence,  and  no  longer  descended 
slowly  to  his  grave.'  ^ 

*  But  just  disease  to  luxury  succeeds. 
And  every  death  its  own  avenger  breeds  ; 
The  fury  passions  from  that  blood  began, 
And  turned  on  man  a  fiercer  savage  —  man.' 
Man  and  the  animals  whom  he  has  infected 
•with  his  society  or  depraved  by  his  dominion 
are  alone  diseased.    The  wild  hog,  the  mouflon, 
the  bison  and  the  wolf  are  perfectly  exempt 
from  malady  and  invariably  die  either  from  ex- 
ternal violence  or  natural  old  age.     But  the 
domestic  hog,  the  sheep,  the  cow  and  the  dog 
are  subject  to  an  incredible  variety  of  distem- 

Eevs ;  and,  like  the  corrupters  of  their  nature, 
ave  physicians  who  thrive  upon  their  miseries. 
The  supereminence  of  man  is  like  Satan's,  a 
supereminence  of  pain ;  and  the  majority  of  his 
species,  doomed  to  penury,  disease  and  crime, 
have  reason  to  curse  the  untoward  event  that 
by  enabling  him  to  communicate  his  sensations 
raised  him  above  the  level  of  his  fellow  animals. 
But  the  steps  that  have  been  taken  are  irrevo- 
cable. The  whole  of  human  science  is  com- 
prised in  one  question  :  How  can  the  advantages 
of  intellect  and  civilization  be  reconciled  with 
the  liberty  and  pure  pleasures  of  natural  life  ? 
How  can  we  take  the  benefits  and  reject  the 
evils  of  the  system  which  is  now  interwoven 
with  all  the  fibres  of  our  being  ?  —  I  believe  that 
abstinence  from  animal  food  and  spirituous 
liquors  would  in  a  great  measure  capacitate  us 
for  the  solution  of  this  important  question. 

It  is  true  that  mental  and  bodily  derange- 
ment is  attributable  in  part  to  other  deviations 
from  rectitude  and  Nature  than  those  which 
concern  diet.  The  mistakes  cherished  by  so- 
ciety respecting  the  connection  of  the  sexes, 
whence  the  misery  and  diseases  of  unsatisfied 
celibacy,  unenjoying  prostitution,  and  the  pre- 
mature arrival  of  puberty,  necessarily  spriner  ; 
the  putrid  atmosphere  of  crowded  cities  ;  the 
exhalations  of  chemical  processes  ;  the  mufflinsr 
of  our  bodies  in  superfluous  apparel ;  the  absurd 
treatment  of  infants  ;  —  all  these,  and  innu- 
merable other  causes,  contribute  their  mite  to 
the  mass  of  human  evil. 

Comparative  anatomy  teaches  us  that  man 
resembles  fnigivorous  animals  in  everything 
and  carnivorous  in  nothing ;  he  has  neither 
claws  wherewith  to  seize  his  prey,  nor  distinct 
and  pointed  teeth  to  tear  the  living  fibre.  A 
Mandarin  of  the  first  class,  with  nails  two 
inches  long,  would  probably  find  them  alone 
inefficient  to  hold  even  a  hare.  After  every 
»  Betuin  to  Naiure.    Cadell,  1811. 


subterfuge  of  gluttony  the  bull  must  be  de- 
graded into  the  ox,  and  the  ram  into  the 
wether,  by  an  unnatural  and  inhuman  opera- 
tion, that  the  flaccid  fibre  may  offer  a  fainter 
resistance  to  rebellious  nature.  It  is  only  by 
softening  and  disguising  dead  flesh  by  eidinary 
preparation  that  it  is  rendered  susceptible  of 
mastication  or  digestion,  and  that  the  sight  of 
its  bloody  juices  and  raw  horror  does  not  excite 
intolerable  loathing  and  disgust.  Let  the  ad- 
vocate of  animal  food  force  himself  to  a  deci- 
sive experiment  on  its  fitness,  and,  as  Plutarch 
recommends,  tear  a  living  lamb  with  his  teeth, 
and,  plunging  his  head  into  its  vitals,  slake  his 
thirst  with  the  steaming  blood ;  when  fresh 
from  the  deed  of  hon-or,  let  him  revert  to  the 
irresistible  instincts  of  Nature  that  would  rise 
in  judg^ient  against  it,  and  say, '  Nature  formed 
me  for  such  work  as  this.'  Then,  and  then 
only,  would  he  be  consistent. 

Man  resembles  no  carnivorous  animal.  There 
is  no  exception,  unless  man  be  one,  to  the  rule 
of  herbivorous  animals  having  cellulated  co- 
lons. 

The  orang-outang  perfectly  resembles  man 
both  in  the  order  and  number  of  his  teeth. 
The  orang-outang  is  the  most  anthropomor- 
phous of  the  ape  tribe,  all  of  which  are  strictly 
frugivorous.  There  is  no  other  species  of  ani- 
mals, which  live  on  different  food,  in  which 
this  analogy  exists. ^  In  many  frugivorous  ani- 
mals, the  canine  teeth  are  more  pointed  and 
distinct  than  those  of  man.  The  resemblance 
also  of  the  human  stomach  to  that  of  the  orang- 
outang is  greater  than  to  that  of  any  other 
animal. 

The  intestines  are  also  identical  with  those 
of  herbivorous  animals,  which  pi-esent  a  larger 
surface  for  absorption  and  have  ample  and  cel- 
lulated colons.  The  caecum  also,  though  short, 
is  larger  than  that  of  carnivorous  animals  ;  and 
even  here  the  orang-outang  retains  its  accus- 
tomed similarity. 

The  structure  of  the  human  frame,  then,  is 
that  of  one  fitted  to  a  pure  vegetable  diet,  in 
every  essential  particular.  It  is  true  that  the 
reluctance  to  abstain  from  auimal  food,  in  those 
who  have  been  long  accustomed  to  its  stimulus, 
is  so  great  in  some  persons  of  weak  minds  as  to 
be  scarcely  overcome  ;  but  this  is  far  from 
bringing  any  argument  in  its  favor.  A  lamb, 
which  was  fed  for  some  time  on  flesh  by  a 
ship's  crew,  refused  its  natural  diet  at  the  end 
of  the  voyage.  There  are  numerous  instances 
of  horses,  sheep,  oxen  and  even  wood-jiigi  en ; 
having  been  taught  to  live  upon  flesh  until  they 
have  loathed  their  natural  aliment.  Young 
children  evidently  prefer  pastry,  oranges,  ap- 
ples and  other  fruit  to  the  flesh  of  animals, 
until  by  the  gradual  depravation  of  the  diges- 
tive organs  the  free  use  of  vegetables  has  for  a 
time  produced  serious  inconveniences ;  for  a 
time,  I  say,  since  there  never  was  an  instance 
wherein  a  change  from  spirituous  liquors  and 
animal  food  to  vegetables  and  pure  water  has 

*  Cuvier,  Lecons  (fAnat.  Comp.  torn,  iii.  pp.  169, 
373,  448,  4C5,  480.    Rees's  Cyclopsedia,  article  '  Man.' 


6io 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


failed  ultimately  to  invigorate  the  body  by 
rendering  its  juices  bland  and  consentaneous, 
and  to  restore  to  the  mind  that  cheerfulness 
and  elasticity  which  not  one  in  fifty  possesses 
on  the  present  system.  A  love  of  strong  liq- 
uors is  also  with  difficulty  taught  to  infants. 
Almost  every  one  remembers  the  wry  faces 
which  the  fii-st  glass  of  port  produced.  Un- 
sophisticated instinct  is  invariably  unerring ; 
but  to  decid9  on  the  fitness  of  animal  food  from 
the  perverted  appetites  which  its  constrained 
adoption  produces  is  to  make  the  criminal  a 
judge  in  his  own  eaiis3 ;  it  is  eve^i  worse,  it  is 
appealing  to  tlie  infatuated  drunkard  in  a  ques- 
tion of  the  salubrity  of  brandy. 

What  is  the  cause  of  morbid  action  in  the 
animal  system  ?  Not  the  air  we  breathe,  for 
our  fellow  denizens  of  Nature  breathe  the  same 
uninjured ;  not  the  water  we  drink  (if  remote 
from  the  pollutions  of  man  and  his  inventions  i) 
for  the  animals  drink  it  too ;  not  the  earth  we 
tread  upon  ;  not  the  unobscured  sight  of  glori- 
ous Nature,  in  the  wood,  the  field  or  the  ex- 
panse of  sky  and  ocean  ;  nothing  that  we  are  or 
do  in  common  with  the  undiseased  inhabitants 
of  the  forest.  Something  then  wherein  we 
differ  from  them :  our  habit  of  altering  our 
food  by  fire  so  that  our  appetite  is  no  longer  a 

i"iist  criterion  for  the  fitness  of  its  gratification. 
Cxcept  in  children  there  remain  no  traces  of 
that  instinct  which  determines,  in  all  other 
animals,  what  aliment  is  natural  or  otherwise  ; 
and  so  perfectly  obliterated  are  they  in  the  rea- 
soning adults  of  our  species  that  it  has  become 
necessary  to  urge  considerations  drawn  from 
comparative  anatomy  to  prove  that  we  are 
naturally  frugivorous. 

Crime  is  madness.  Madness  is  disease. 
Whenever  the  cause  of  disease  shall  be  discov- 
ered, the  root,  from  which  all  vice  and  misery 
Iiave  so  long  overshadowed  the  globe,  will  lie 
bare  to  the  axe.  All  the  exertions  of  man  from 
that  moment  may  be  considered  as  tending  to 
the  clear  profit  of  his  species.  No  sane  mind  in 
a  sane  body  resolves  upon  a  real  crime.  It  is  a 
man  of  violent  passions,  blood-shot  eyes  and 
swollen  veins,  that  alone  can  grasp  the  knife  of 
murder.  The  system  of  a  simple  diet  promises 
no  Utopian  advantages.  It  is  no  mere  reform 
of  legislation,  whilst  the  furious  passions  and 
evil  propensities  of  the  human  heart,  in  which 
it  had  its  origin,  are  still  unassuaged.  It 
strikes  at  the  root  of  all  evil  and  is  an  exx)eri- 
ment  which  may  be  tried  with  success,  not 
alone  by  nations,  but  by  small  societies,  fam- 
ilies, and  even  individuals.  In  no  cases  has  a 
return  to  vegetable  diet  produced  the  slightest 
injury  ;  in  most  it  has  been  attended  with 
changes  undeniably  beneficial.  Should  ever  a 
physician  be  bom  with  the  genius  of  Locke,  I 
am  persuaded  that  he  might  trace  all  bodily 
and  mental  derangements  to  onr  unnatural 
habits  as  clearly  as  that  philosopher  has  traced 

1  The  necessity  of  resorting  to  some  means  of  purify- 
ing water,  and  tlie  disease  which  arises  from  its  adul- 
teration in  civilized  countries,  is  sufficiently  apparent. 
.  .  .  S«e  Dr.  Lambe's  Reporlt  on  Cancer.     I  do  not 


all  knowledge  to  sensation.  What  prolifia 
sources  of  disease  are  not  those  mineral  and 
vegetable  poisons  that  have  been  introduced  for 
its  extirpation  !  How  many  thousands  have 
become  murderers  and  robbers,  bigots  and  do- 
mestic tyrants,  dissolute  and  abandoned  adven- 
turers, from  the  use  of  fermented  liquors,  who, 
had  they  slaked  their  thirst  only  with  pure 
water,  would  have  lived  but  to  diffuse  the 
happiness  of  their  own  unperverted  feelings  I 
How  many  groundless  opinions  and  absurd  in- 
stitutions have  not  received  a  general  sanction 
from  the  sottishness  and  intemperance  of  indi- 
viduals !  Who  will  assert  that,  had  the  popu- 
lace of  Paris  satisfied  their  hunger  at  the  ever- 
furnished  table  of  vegetable  nature,  they  would 
have  lent  their  brutal  suffrage  to  the  pro- 
scription-list of  Robespierre  ?  Could  a  set  of 
men,  whose  passions  were  not  perverted  by  un- 
natural stimuli,  look  with  coolness  on  an  auto 
da  fi  ?  Is  it  to  be  believed  that  a  being  of 
gentle  feelings,  rising  from  his  meal  of  roots, 
would  take  delight  in  sports  of  blood?  Was 
Nero  a  man  of  temperate  life  ?  could  you  read 
calm  health  in  his  cheek,  flushed  with  ungov- 
ernable propensities  of  hatred  for  the  human 
race  ?  Did  Muley  Ismael's  pulse  beat  evenly, 
was  his  skin  transparent,  did  his  eyes  beam 
with  healthfulness  and  its  invariable  concomi- 
tants, cheerfulness  and  benignity  ?  Though 
histoi-y  has  decided  none  of  these  questions,  a 
child  could  not  hesitate  to  answer  in  the  nega- 
tive. Surely  the  bile-suffused  cheek  of  Buona- 
parte, his  wrinkled  brow  and  yellow  eye,  the 
ceaseless  inquietude  of  his  nervous  system, 
speak  no  less  plainly  the  character  of  his  un- 
resting ambition  than  his  murdera  and  his  vic- 
tories. It  is  impossible,  had  Buonaparte  de- 
scended from  a  race  of  vegetable  feeders,  that 
he  could  have  had  either  the  inclination  or  the 
power  to  ascend  the  throne  of  the  Bourbons. 
The  desire  of  tyranny  could  scarcely  be  excited 
in  the  individual,  the  i>ower  to  tyrannize  would 
certainly  not  be  delegated  by  a  society  neither 
frenzied  by  inebriation  nor  rendered  impotent 
and  irrational  by  disease.  Pregnant  indeed 
with  inexhaustible  calamity  is  the  renunciation 
of  instinct,  as  it  concerns  our  physical  nature ; 
arithmetic  cannot  enumerate,  nor  reason  per- 
haps suspect,  the  multitudinous  sources  of 
disease  in  civilized  life.  Even  common  water, 
that  apparently  innoxious  pabulum,  when  cor- 
rupted by  the  filth  of  populous  cities,  is  a  deadly 
and  insidious  destroyer."^  ^'V^lo  can  wonder  that 
all  the  inducements  held  out  by  God  himself  in 
the  Bible  to  virtue  should  have  been  vainer 
than  a  nurse's  tale,  and  that  those  dogmas,  by 
which  he  has  there  excited  and  justified  the 
most  ferocious  propensities,  should  have  alone 
been  deemed  essential,  whilst  Christians  are  in 
the  daily  practice  of  all  those  habits  which 
have  infected  with  disease  and  crime,  not  only 
the  reprobate  sons,  but  these  favored  children 

assert  that  the  use  of  water  is  in  itself  unnatural,  but 
tliat  the  imperverted  palate  would  swallow  no  liquid 
capable  of  occasioning  disease. 
'  Lambe's  Reports  on  Cancer, 


SHELLEY'S   NOTES   TO   QUEEN  MAB 


6ii 


of  the  common  Father's  love !  Omnipotence 
itself  could  not  save  them  from  the  conse- 
quences uf  this  origiual  and  universal  sin. 

There  is  no  disease,  bodily  or  mental,  which 
adoption  uf  vegetable  diet  and  pure  water  has 
Hut  infallibly  mitigated,  wherevei  the  experi- 
ment has  been  fairly  tried.  Debility  is  gradu- 
ally converted  into  strength,  disease  into  health- 
fulness  ;  madness,  in  all  its  hideous  variety, 
from  the  ravings  of  the  fettered  maniac  to  the 
unaccountable  irrationalities  of  ill  temper  that 
make  a  hell  of  domestic  life,  into  a  calm  and 
considerate  evenness  of  temper  that  alone  might 
otfer  a  certain  pledge  of  the  future  moral  re- 
formation of  society.  On  a  natural  system  of 
diet  old  iige  would  be  our  last  and  our  only 
malady ;  the  term  of  our  existence  would 
be  protracted ;  we  should  enjoy  life  and  no 
longer  preclude  others  from  the  enjoyment  of 
it ;  all  sensational  delights  would  be  infinitely 
more  exquisite  and  perfect  ;  the  very  sense  of 
being  would  then  be  a  continued  pleasure,  such 
as  we  now  feel  it  in  some  few  and  favored 
moments  of  our  youth.  By  all  that  is  sacred 
in  our  hojjes  for  the  hu)nan  race  I  conjure  those 
who  love  happiness  and  truth  to  give  a  fair  trial 
to  the  vegetable  system.  Reasoning  is  surely 
superfluous  on  a  subject  whose  merits  an  ex- 
perience of  six  months  would  set  forever  at  rest. 
But  it  is  only  among  the  enlightened  and  bene- 
volent that  so  great  a  sacrifice  of  appetite  and 
prejudice  can  be  expected,  even  though  its  ulti- 
mate excellence  should  not  admit  of  dispute. 
It  is  found  easier  by  the  short-sighted  victims  of 
disease  to  palliate  their  torments  by  medicine 
than  to  prevent  them  by  regimen.  The  vulgar  of 
all  ranks  are  invariably  sensual  and  indocile  ;  yet 
I  cannot  but  feel  myself  persuaded  that  when 
the  benefits  of  vegetable  diet  are  mathemati- 
cally proved,  when  it  is  as  clear  tliat  those  who 
live  naturally  are  exempt  from  premature  death 
as  that  nine  is  not  one,  the  most  sottish  of  man- 
kind will  feel  a  preference  towards  a  long  and 
tranquil,  contrasted  with  a  short  and  painful 
life.  On  the  average  out  of  sixty  persons  four 
die  in  three  years.  Hopes  are  entertained  that, 
in  April,  1814,  a  statement  will  be  griven  that 
sixty  persons,  all  having  lived  more  than  three 
years  on  vegetables  and  pure  water,  are  then  in 
jierfect  health.  More  than  two  years  have  now 
elapsed ;  not  one  of  them  has  died ;  no  such  ex- 
ample will  be  found  in  any  sixty  persons  taken 
at  random.  Seventeen  persons  of  all  ages  (the 
families  of  Dr.  Lambe  and  Mr.  Newtoji)  have 
lived  for  seven  years  on  this  diet  without  a 
death  and  almost  without  the  slightest  illness. 
Surely,  when  we  consider  that  some  of  these 
were  infants  and  one  a  martyr  to  asthma  now 
nearly  subdued,  we  may  cliallenge  any  seven- 
teen persons  taken  at  random  in  this  city  to 
exhibit  a  parsillel  case.  Those  who  may  have 
been  excited  to  question  the  rectitude  of  estab- 
lished habits  of  diet  by  these  loose  remarks 
should  consult  Mr.  Newton's  luminous  and  elo- 
quent essay. 1 

>  R^vm  In  Xalvre,  or  Defence  of  Vegetable  Be^imen. 
Cadell,  ISU, 


When  these  proofs  come  fairly  before  the 
world  and  are  clearly  seen  by  aU  who  under- 
stand arithmetic,  it  is  scarcely  possible  that 
abstinence  from  aliments  demonstrably  per- 
nicious should  not  become  universal.  In  pro- 
portion to  the  number  of  proselytes,  so  will  be 
the  weight  of  evidence  ;  and  when  a  thousand 
persons  can  be  produced,  living  on  vegetables 
and  distilled  water,  who  have  to  dread  no  dis- 
ease but  old  age,  the  world  will  be  compelled 
to  regard  animal  flesh  and  fermented  liquoi-s  as 
slow  but  certain  poisons.  The  change  which 
would  be  produced  by  simpler  habits  on  politi- 
cal economy  is  sufiiciently  remarkable.  The 
monopolizing  eater  of  animal  flesh  would  no 
longer  destroy  his  constitution  by  devouring  an 
acre  at  a  meal,  and  many  loaves  of  bread  would 
cease  to  contribute  to  gout,  madness  and  apo- 
plexy, in  the  shape  of  a  pint  of  porter  or  a  dram 
of  gin,  when  appeasing  the  long-protracted 
famine  of  the  hard-working  peasant's  hungry 
babes.  The  quantity  of  imtritious  vegetable 
matter  consumed  in  fattening  the  carcase  of  an 
ox  would  afford  ten  times  the  sustenance,  unde- 
praving  indeed,  and  incapable  of  generating 
disease,  if  gathered  immediately  from  the  bosom 
of  the  earth.  The  most  fertile  districts  of  the 
habitable  globe  are  now  actually  cultivated  by 
men  for  animals  at  a  delay  and  waste  of  ali- 
ment absolutely  incapable  of  calculation.  It  is 
only  the  wealthy  that  can,  to  any  great  degree, 
even  now,  indulge  the  unnatural  craving  for 
dead  flesh,  and  they  pay  for  the  greater  license 
of  the  privilege  by  subjection  to  supernumerary 
diseases.  Again,  the  spirit  of  the  nation  that 
should  take  the  lead  in  this  great  reform, 
would  insensibly  become  agricultural ;  com- 
merce, with  all  its  vice,  selfishness  and  corruj)- 
tion,  would  gradually  decline ;  more  natural 
habits  would  produce  gentler  manners,  and  the 
excessive  complication  of  political  relations 
would  be  so  far  simplified  that  every  individual 
might  feel  and  understand  why  he  loved  his 
country  and  took  a  personal  interest  in  its  wel- 
fare. How  would  England,  for  example,  de- 
pend on  the  caprices  of  foreign  rulers,  if  she 
contained  within  herself  all  the  necessaries  and 
despised  whatever  they  possessed  of  the  luxu- 
ries of  life?  How  could  they  starve  her  into 
compliance  with  their  views  ?  Of  what  con- 
sequence would  it  be  that  they  refused  to  take 
her  woollen  manufactures,  when  large  and  fer- 
tile tracts  of  the  island  ceased  to  be  allotted  to 
the  waste  of  pasturage  ?  On  a  natural  system 
of  diet,  we  should  require  no  spices  from  India ; 
no  wines  from  Portugal,  Spain,  France  or 
Madeira  ;  none  of  those  multitudinors  articles 
of  luxury,  for  which  every  corner  of  the  globe 
is  rifled,  and  which  are  the  causes  of  so  much 
individual  rivalship.  such  calamitous  and  san- 
pruinary  national  dispiites.  In  the  history  of 
modem  times  the  avarice  of  commercial  mono- 
poly, no  less  than  the  ambition  of  weak  and 
wicked  chiefs,  seems  to  have  fomented  the  uni- 
versal discord,  to  have  added  stubbornness  to 
the  mistakes  of  cabinets  and  indocility  to  the 
infatuation  of  the  people.    Let  it  ever  be  re 


6l2 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


membered  that  it  is  the  direct  influence  of  com- 
merce to  make  the  interval  between  the  richest 
and  the  poorest  man  wider  and  more  uncon- 
querable. Let  it  be  remembered  that  it  is  a 
foe  to  everything  of  real  worth  and  excellence 
in  the  human  character.  The  odious  and  dis- 
gusting aristocracy  of  wealth  is  built  upon  the 
ruins  of  all  that  is  good  in  chivalry  or  republi- 
canism, and  luxury  is  the  forerunner  of  a  bar- 
baiisra  scarce  capable  of  cure.  Is  it  impossible 
to  realize  a  state  of  society,  where  all  the  ener- 
gies of  man  shall  be  directed  to  the  produeticm 
of  his  solid  happiness  V  Certainly,  if  this  ad- 
vantage (the  object  of  all  political  speculation) 
be  in  any  degree  attainable,  it  is  attainable 
only  by  a  community,  which  holds  out  no  fac- 
titious incentives  to  the  avarice  and  ambition  of 
the  few  and  which  is  internally  organized  for 
the  liberty,  security  and  comfort  of  the  many. 
None  must  be  entrusted  with  power  (and  money 
is  the  completest  species  of  power)  who  do  not 
stand  pledged  to  use  it  exclusively  for  the  gen- 
eral benefit.  But  the  use  of  animal  flesh  and 
fermented  liquors  directly  militates  with  this 
equality  of  the  rights  of  man.  The  peasant 
cannot  gratify  these  fashionable  cravings  with- 
out leaving  his  family  to  starve.  Without 
disease  and  war,  those  sweeping  curtailers  of 
population,  pasturage  would  include  a  waste 
too  gi-eat  to  be  afforded.  The  labor  requisite 
to  support  a  family  is  far  lighter  ^  than  is  usu- 
ally supposed.  The  peasantry  work,  not  only 
for  themselves,  but  for  the  aristocracy,  the 
army  and  the  manufacturers. 

The  advantage  of  a  reform  in  diet  is  ob- 
viously greater  than  that  of  any  other.  It 
strikes  at  the  root  of  the  evil.  To  remedy  the 
abuses  of  legislation,  before  we  annihilate  the 
propensities  by  which  they  are  produced,  is  to 
suppose  that  by  taking  away  the  effect  the 
cause  will  cease  to  operate.  But  the  efficacy 
of  tliis  system  depends  entirely  on  the  prose- 
lytism  of  individuals,  and  grounds  its  merits,  as 
a  benefit  to  the  community,  upon  the  total 
change  of  the  dietetic  habits  in  its  members. 
It  proceeds  securely  from  a  number  of  particu- 
lar cases  to  one  that  is  universal,  and  has  this 
advantage  over  the  contrary  mode,  that  one 
error  does  not  invalidate  all  that  has  gone  be- 
fore. 

Let  not  too  much,  however,  be  expected  from 
this  system.  The  healthiest  among  us  is  not 
exempt  from  hereditary  disease.  The  most 
symmetrical,  athletic,  and  long-lived  is  a  being 
inexpressibly  inferior  to  what  he  would  have 
been,  had  not  the  unnatural  habits  of  his  ances- 
tors accumulated  for  him  a  certain  portion  of 
malady  and  deformity.  In  the  most  perfect 
specimen  of  civilized  man  something  is  still  found 
wanting  by  the  physiological  critic.  Can  a  re- 
turn to  Nature,  then,  instantaneously  eradicate 

1  It  has  come  under  the  author's  experience,  that 
■ome  of  the  workmen  on  an  embauknient  lii  North 
Wales,  who.  In  consequence  of  the  inability  of  the 
proprietor  to  jiay  them,  seldom  received  their  wages, 
have  supported  large  families  by  cultivating  small  spots 
ot  sterile  grouud  by  moonlight.    In  the  notes  to  Pratt's 


predispositions  that  have  been  slowly  taking 
root  in  the  silence  of  innumerable  ages  ?  Indu- 
bitably not.  All  that  I  contend  for  is,  that 
from  the  moment  of  the  relinquishing  all  un- 
natural habits  no  new  disea.se  is  generated; 
and  that  the  predisposition  to  hereditary  mala- 
dies gradually  perishes  for  want  of  its  accus- 
tomed supply.  In  cases  of  consumption,  can- 
cer, gout,  asthma,  and  scrofula,  such  is  the 
invariable  tendency  of  a  diet  of  vegetables  and 
pure  water. 

Those  who  may  be  induced  by  these  remarks 
to  give  the  vegetable  system  a  fair  trial,  shoidd, 
in  the  first  place,  date  the  commencement  of 
their  practice  from  the  moment  of  their  convic- 
tion. All  depeuds  upon  breaking  through  a 
pernicious  habit  resolutely  and  at  once.  Dr. 
Trotter  ^  asserts  that  no  drunkard  was  ever  re' 
formed  by  grradually  relinquishing  his  dram. 
Animal  flesh  in  its  effects  on  the  human  stomach 
is  analogous  to  a  dram.  It  is  similar  in  the 
kind,  though  differing  in  the  degree,  of  its 
operation.  The  proselyte  to  a  pure  diet  must 
be  warned  to  expect  a  temporary  diminution 
of  muscular  strength.  The  subtraction  of  a 
powerful  stimulus  will  suffice  to  account  for 
this  event.  But  it  is  only  temporary  and  is 
succeeded  by  an  equable  capability  for  exertion 
fa.-  surpassing  his  former  various  and  fluctu- 
ating strength.  Above  all,  he  will  acquire  an 
easiness  of  breathing,  by  which  such  exertion  is 
performed,  with  a  remarkable  exemption  from 
that  painful  and  difficult  panting  now  felt  by 
almost  every  one  after  hastily  climbing  an 
ordinary  mountain.  He  will  be  eq\ially  capable 
of  bodily  exertion  or  mental  application  after 
as  before  his  simple  meal.  He  will  feel  none 
of  the  narcotic  effects  of  ordinary  diet.  Irrita- 
bility, the  direct  consequence  of  exhausting 
stimuli,  would  yield  to  the  power  of  natural 
and  tranquil  impulses.  He  will  no  longer  pine 
under  the  lethargy  of  ennui,  that  unconquerable 
weariness  of  life,  more  to  be  dreaded  than 
death  itself.  He  will  escape  the  epidemic  mad- 
ness which  broods  over  its  own  injurious  notions 
of  the  Deity  and  '  realizes  the  hell  that  priests 
and  beldams  feign.'  Every  man  forms  as  it 
were  his  god  from  his  own  character ;  to  the 
divinity  of  one  of  simple  liabits  no  offering 
would  be  more  acceptable  than  tlie  liappiness 
of  his  creatures.  He  would  be  incapable  of 
hating  or  persecuting  others  for  the  love  of  God. 
He  will  find,  moreover,  a  system  of  simple  diet 
to  be  a  system  of  perfect  epicurism.  He  will 
no  longer  be  incessantly  occupied  in  blunting 
and  destroying  those  organs  from  which  he  ex- 
pects liis  gratification.  The  pleasures  of  taste  to 
be  derived  from  a  dinner  of  potatoes,  beans,  peas, 
turnips,  lettuces,  with  a  dessi-rtof  apples,  goose- 
berries, strawberries,  currants,  raspberries,  and, 
in  winter,  oranges,   apples,   and   pears,   is  far 

Poem,  Bread  or  the  Poor,  is  an  account  of  an  indus- 
trious laborer  who  by  working  in  a  small  ganien  before 
and  after  his  day's  task  attained  to  an  enviable  state  of 
independence. 
*  See  Trotter  on  The  y«rvout  Temperament. 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


613 


greater  than  is  supposed.  Those  who  wait 
until  they  can  eat  this  plain  fare  with  the  sauce 
of  appetite  will  scarcely  join  with  the  hypo- 
critical sensualist  at  a  lora-mayor's  feast,  who 
declaims  against  the  pleasures  of  the  table. 
Solomon  kept  a  thousand  concubines,  and  owned 
in  despair  that  all  was  vanity.  The  man  whose 
happiness  is  constituted  by  the  society  of  one 
amiable  woman  would  find  some  diflbculty  in 
sympathizing  with  the  disappointment  of  this 
venerable  debauchee. 

1  address  myself  not  only  to  the  young  en- 
thusiast, the  ardent  devotee  of  truth  and  virtue, 
the  pure  and  passionate  moralist  yet  unvitiated 
by  the  contagion  of  the  world.  He  will  em- 
brace a  pure  system,  from  its  abstract  truth, 
its  beauty,  its  simplicity  and  its  promise  of 
wide-extended  benefit ;  unless  custom  has  turned 
poison  into  food,  he  will  hate  the  bruta.1  plea- 
sures of  the  chase  by  instinct ;  it  will  be  a  con- 
templation full  of  horror  and  disappointment 
to  his  mind  that  beings  capable  of  the  gentlest 
and  most  admirable  sympatbies  should  take  de- 
light in  the  death-pangs  and  last  convnlsions  of 
dying  animals.  The  elderly  man,  whose  youth 
has  been  poisoned  by  intemj)erance,  or  who  has 
lived  with  apparent  moderation  and  is  afflicted 
with  it  variety  of  painful  maladies,  would  find 
his  account  in  a  beneficial  change  produced 
without  the  risk  of  poisonous  medicines.  The 
mother,  to  whom  the  perpetual  restlessness  of 
disease  aad  unaccoiintable  deaths  incident  to 
her  children  are  the  causes  of  incurable  unhappi- 
ness,  would  on  this  diet  experience  the  satisfac- 
tion of  beholding  their  perpetual  healths  and 
natural  playfulness.^  The  most  valuable  lives 
are  daily  destroyed  by  diseases  that  it  is  dan- 
gerous to  palliate  and  impossible  to  cure  by 
medicine.  How  much  longer  w  ill  man  continue 
to  pimp  for  the  gluttony  of  death,  his  most  in- 
sidious, implacable  and  eternal  foe  ? 

[Four  brief  extracts  from  Plutarch,  "•epl  o-ap- 
Ko^ayiai;,  are  here  omitted,  by  advice  of  the 
general  editor.] 

NOT?38   AKD   IlLUSTKATIONS 

For  the  sources  of  Queen  Mab,  beyond  those 
indicated  in  Shelley's  notes,  the  student  should 
consult  the  Latin  authors ;  Volney's  Euins 
suggested  the  framework.  The  text  presents 
few  difficulties.  Mrs.  Shelley  made  a  few 
changes  in  the  interest  of  grammar,  and  Ros- 
setti  increased  their  number  and  added  other 
changes  in  the  interest  of  what  he  conceived  to 
be  Shelley's  sense.  Some  of  these  grammatical 
corrections  are  unnecessary,  and  those  in  the 
sense  are  usually  arbitrary.  The  most  impor- 
tant points  are  the  following : 

1  See  Mr.  Newton's  book.  Hig  children  are  tlie  most 
beautiful  and  healthy  creatures  it  is  possible  to  con- 
ceive ;  the  girls  are  perfect  models  for  a  sculptor  ;  tlieir 
dispositions  are  also  the  most  gentle  and  conciliating ; 
the  judicious  treatment,  which  they  experience  in 
other  points,  may  be  a  correlative  cause  of  this.  In  the 
first  five  years  of  their  life,  of  18,000  children  that  are 
bom  7500  die  of  various  diseases  ;  and  how  many  more 
of  those  that  survive  are  not  rendered  miserable  by 


Page  10.  Line  151.  Rossetti  reads  As  for 
Who. 

Page  13.   Line  115.  Rossetti  reads  sanctify. 

Line  140.  Dowden  accepts  Tutin's  conjecture 
in  punctuation,  reading  a  colon  after  element 
and  deleting;  the  period  after  remained  in  the 
next  line. 

Page  14.  Line  17C.  All  editors  follow  Mrs. 
Shelley  in  reading  secure. 

Page  15.  Line  9.  The  reading  of  the  text  is 
Rossetti's,  the  original  having  a  period  after 
promise. 

Page  18.   Line  219.  Rossetti  reads  his  for  its. 

Page  25.   Line  50.   Rossetti  reads  Shows. 

Page  27.  Line  182.  Rossetti  reads  his  for 
their. 

Page  28.  Line  205.  Shelley  in  quoting  the 
line  in  his  Notes  reads  Dawns  for  Draws,  which 
Rossetti  adopts. 

Page  30.  Line  139.  Rossetti  reads  future  for 
past. 

Page  31,  Alastou, 

This  poem  has  been  examined  in  a  more 
scholarly  way  than  any  other  of  Shelley's  longer 
works.  Dr.  Kichard  Ackermann  having  made 
it  in  part  the  subject  of  an  inaugural  disserta- 
tion, Quellen,  Vorbilder,  Htqffezu  SheUeifs  Poeti- 
schen  H'erke  1,  I.Alastor,  etc.  (Erlangen  &  Leip- 
zig, 1890),  and  Prof,  Al.  Beljame  having  transla- 
ted and  edited  it,  with  elaborate  notes,  Alastor, 
ou  le  ginie  de  la  solitude  (Paris,  1895).  Dr.  Acker- 
mann traces  the  influence  of  Wordsworth  and 
Coleridge  in  the  special  romantic  features  of 
the  nature-handling,  vision  element,  and  what 
might  be  called  the  psychologj'  of  the  poem  : 
and  also  that  of  Southey  and  Landor  in  some  of 
the  Oriental  coloring  and  detail  of  the  narra- 
tive ;  but,  like  Brandl  in  his  Life  of  Coleridge, 
he  pushes  the  theory  of  direct  obligation  too 
far,  inasmuch  as  what  is  common  in  subject- 
matter  and  spontaneous  to  the  method  of  any 
poetic  period  or  group  cannot  fairly  be  regarded 
as  peculiar  to  the  originality  of  even  its  earliest 
members.  Professor  Beljame  does  not  fall  into 
this  error,  and  gives  illustrative  parallelisms  of 
phrase  and  image  merely  as  such  unless  the  bor- 
rowing is  clear.  The  versification  and  diction 
recall  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth  in  their  most 
musical  blank  verse,  but  except  in  a  few  pas- 
sages (lines  4()^9,  48-_'-485,  718-720)  the  rhythm 
has  distinctly  Shelley's  rapid  and  peculiar  mod- 
ulation. The  substance  of  the  poem,  however, 
is  variously  embedded  in  Shelley's  literary  stud- 
ies and  in  his  actual  observation  of  nature, 
while  the  feeling  of  the  whole  is  a  personal 
mood.  It  is  customary  to  regard  Shelley's 
landscape  as  unreal ;  but,  though  it  is  imagina- 
tive, it  contains  elements  of  actuality,  tran- 
scripts of  scenes  as  witnessed  by  him,  to  a  far 

maladies  not  immediately  mortal  ?  The  quality  and 
quantity  of  a  woman's  milk  are  materially  injured  by 
the  use  of  dead  fiesh.  In  an  island  near  Iceland,  where 
no  vegetables  are  to  be  got,  the  children  invariably  die 
of  tetanus  before  they  are  three  weeks  old,  and  the 
population  is  supplied  from  the  mainland.  —  Sir  G. 
Mackenzie's  History  oj  Iceland.  See,  also,  £mile, 
chap.  i.  pp.  53,  64,  56. 


6i4 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


greater  extent  than  has  ever  been  acknow- 
ledged ;  in  the  present  poem,  his  own  river- 
navig-ation,  his  life  in  Wales  and  travels  abroad, 
as  well  as  the  forest  at  Windsor,  have  left 
direct  traces,  as  Dr.  Ackermaun  especially  re- 
marks. Shelley  himself  mentions  his  opportu- 
nities for  observation  as  among  his  qualifications 
for  poetrv,  in  the  preface  to  Thk  Kevolt  of 
Islam.  The  notes  that  follow  ascribe  to  each 
commentator  what  seems  to  be  his  own.  The 
meaning  of  the  title  and  its  source  are  given  in 
the  head-notes.  Tlie  motto  is  from  the  first 
chapter  of  the  third  book  of  St.  Augustine's 
Confessions,  and  the  full  text  is  given  by  Bel- 
jame  :  Veni  Carthaginem  ;  et  eircumstrepebat 
me  imdique  sartago  flagitiosorum  amorum. 
Nondum  amabam,  et  amare  amabam,  et  secre- 
tiore  indigentia  oderara  me  minus  indigentem. 
QujBrebam  quod  araarem,  amans  amare,  et 
oderam  securitatem  et  viam  sine  muscipulis. 

Line  1.  Beljame  happily  compares  the  invo- 
cation in  Ben  Jonson's  Cynthia  s  Revels,  V.  2, 
which  is  identical  in  structure.  The  substance, 
or  feeling  for  nature,  is  Wordsworthian  ;  com- 
pare, for  example.  Influence  of  natural  objects, 
jLines  composed  a  few  miles  above  Tintern  Abbey, 
and  Lines  left  upon  a  Seat  in  a  Yew-Tree. 

3,  Natural  piety,  an  example  of  Shelley's 
direct  borrowings  of  phrase  from  Wordsworth 
(My  heart  leaps  up),  of  which  others  occur  be- 
low, —  obstinate  questionings,  line  2()  {Ode  on  In- 
timations of  Immortality,  IX.  13,  and  too  deep  for 
tears,  line  713  (the  same,  XI.  17). 

13.  Ackermann  compares  Wordsworth,  The 
E rcursion,  II.  41-47,  but  the  humanitarian  feel- 
ing toward  animal  life  belongs  to  the  period, 
and  is  a  fundamental  source  of  Shelley's  inspi- 
ration. 

20-20.  Compare  Hymn  to  Intellectual 
Beauty,  V. 

30.  Brandl  {Life  of  Coleridge,  190)  compares 
the  situation  with  Coleridge's  Frost  at  Midnight, 
but  I  can  see  in  the  two  only  a  parallelism  of 
the  romantic  temperament  and  method. 

38.  Beljame  cites  the  inscription  of  the  veiled 
Isis  from  Volney,  Les  Ruines :  Je  suis  tout  ce 
qui  a  ^t^,  tout  ce  qui  est,  tout  ce  qui  sera,  et  nul 
mortel  n'a  lev6  mon  voile. 

54.  Waste  wilderness.  Forman  quotes  Blake 
for  the  phrase,  and  Beljame  follows  him,  but 
in  this  as  in  other  instances  the  attempt  to  tie 
Shelley  to  Blake  fails.  Had  he  known  Blake's 
works  he  would  have  shown  clearer  evidences 
of  it.  The  present  phrase  is,  of  course,  Mil- 
ton's, Paradise  Regained,  I.  7. 

'  And  Eden  raised  in  the  waste  wildemess.' 

83.    Volcano,  Mtaa,. 

85.  Bitumen  lakes.  Beljame  identifies  these 
■with  the  Dead  Sea,  and  notes  Sonthey's  descrip- 
tion of  Ait^s  bitumen-lake,  Thalaba,  V.  22.  It 
seems  as  likely  that  Shelley's  sole  source  is 
Sonthey,  and  that  he  bad  no  particular  local 
reference. 

87-'.»4.  Beljame  supposes  that  Shelley  here 
blends  in  one  description  the  marvels  of  the  two 
isles  Antiparos  and  Milo,  one  for  its  stalactite 


grotto,  the  other  for  its  sulphurous  exhalations. 
The  grotto  had  been  recently  described  by 
Leake,  Travels  in  Northern  Greece,  liiOG,  and 
Clarke,  Travels  in  Various  Countries,  etc.,  1814. 
From  some  such  source  Shelley  may  have  de- 
rived the  idea,  but  his  poetic  description  is 
heightened  to  the  point  of  fantasy  and  retains 
very  little  of  mere  geography.  Compare  Cole- 
ridge, A  Tombless  Epitaph,  28-32 ;  also  line  400, 
note. 

lOO-lOfi.  Ackermann  compares  Lander, 
Gebir,  II.  108 : 

*  And  as  he  passes  on,  the  little  hinds 
That  shake  for  bristly  herds  the  foodful  bough 
Wouder,  stand  still,  gaze,  and  trip  satisfied; 
Pleased  more  if  chestnut,  out  of  priclily  liusk, 
Shot  from  the  sandal,  roll  along  the  glade.' 

108.  The  background  of  the  following  pas- 
sage appears  to  be,  as  Beljame  -suggests,  Vol- 
ney's  Les  Ruines,  from  the  first  four  chaptei's 
of  which  he  quotes  to  show  a  general  sympathy, 
and  also  analogies  of  detail.  The  pilgrim  lit- 
erature, which  both  Volney  and  Chateaubri- 
and {Renf,  also  cited,  but  inconclusively)  illus- 
trate, may  well  include  Alastok  as  among  its 
kindred. 

119.  The  Zodiach  brazen  mystery,  the  Zodiac 
of  the  temple  of  Denderah  in  Upper  lEgypt. 
Beljame  refers  to  Volney,  Les  Ruines,  XXlI., 
note.  It  is  now  in  the  Biblioth^que  Nationale 
at  Paris. 

120.  Mute,  written  just  before  Charapollion'a 
labors,  as  Beljame  notes. 

129.  Arab  maiden,  Ackermann  derives  the 
character  from  Thalaba' s  Oneiza,  as  also  the 
veiled  maid  below  (line  151),  and  compares  the 
description  of  the  latter  from  point  to  point 
with  that  in  Thalaba,  III.  24,  25.  The  parallel 
is  somewhat  forced,  as  becomes  more  evident  on 
examination.  The  lines  1t>l-lh"2  have  as  the 
corresponding  passage  in  Thalaba  : 

'  Oh  !  even  with  such  a  look  as  fables  say 
The  Mother  Ostrich  fixes  on  her  egg, 
Till  that  intense  affection 
If  indie  its  ligJU  of  life,  — 
Even  in  siich  deep  and  hreaihless  tendemeiS 
Oneiza's  soul  is  centred  on  the  youth.' 

So,  too,  in  the  alleged  parallelism   for  lines 
.167, 1(58,  and  175, 176,  we  find  in  Thalaba 
'  for  a  brother's  eye 

Were  her  long  fingers  tinged, 

As  when  she  trimmed  the  lamp. 

And  through  the  veins  and  delicate  skin 

The  light  shone  rosy  ; ' 

that  is,  as  a  long  note  shows,  being  '  tinged  with 
henna  '  so  as  to  make  the  fingers  seem  in  some 
instances  '  branches  of  transparent  red  coral.' 
Shelley's  meaning  is  far  different,  and  is  tm- 
likely  to  be  in  any  way  connected  in  its  origin 
with  a  recollection  of  Southey,  in  either  of  these 
two  passages,  though  in  introd'icing  the  Arab 
maiden  he  would  naturally  recall  Oneiza.  The 
veiled  maid  is,  however,  not  an  Arabian,  but 
the  spirit  of  the  ideal. 

14(>-144.  The  background  of  the  Poet's  wan- 
dering seems  to  be  found  in  Arrian's  Expedi- 
tion of  Alexander,  and  possibly  similar  passages 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


615 


in  Quintus  Curtius  and  Dion  Cassius.  The 
wild  Carmanian  waste  is  the  Desert  of  Kernian  ; 
the  atrial  inouittains  are  the  Hindoo  Koosh,  or 
Indian  Caucasus,  where  Arrian  wrongly  places 
the  sources  of  the  Indus  and  Oxus. 

145.  The  vale  of  Caskmire,  the  earthly  para- 
dise of  that  name,  often  mentioned  in  poetry. 
The  particular  descriptions  {fiven  by  Shelley, 
both  Ijere  in  the  place  of  the  vision,  and  later  in 
the  ^len  of  the  Caspian  Caucasus,  seem  to  me  to 
recall  the  scenery  and  atmcjsphere  of  Miss  Owen- 
son's  (Lady  Morgan)  I'he  Missionary,  a  romance 
which  Shelley  read  in  1811.  See  note  on  line 
400. 

IGl.  Rossetti  reads  Himself  for  Herself  in  his 
first  edition,  and  was  defended  by  James  Thom- 
son, but  no  other  editor  has  adopted  the  conjec- 
ture, and  Rossetti  himself  has  restored  the 
original  reading  not  without  some  apologetic 
protest. 

177.  Woven  wind,  the  ventum  textilem  of  the 
ancients,  and  also  perhaps  with  a  recollection 
of  the  transparent  veils  of  Thalaha,  VI.  2G, 
note.  For  the  development  of  the  structure 
of  the  whole  vision  here  given  (lines  149-11)1) 
compare  the  passage  in  the  preface  where  Shel- 
ley states  the  elements  of  his  conception  in 
prose. 

204.  See  note  on  line  129.  This  vision  is  the 
A1.ASTOK  or  evil  genius,  the  spirit  of  solitude,  the 
embodiment  of  all  the  responses  to  his  own  na- 
ture which  the  Poet  lacked  through  his  separa- 
tion from  society,  and  was  sent  by  '  the  spirit 
of  sweet  human  love '  to  him  '  who  had 
spurned  her  choicest  gifts '  by  his  self-isolation  ; 
it  "was  sent,  as  an  Avenger,  and  leads  or  drives 
him  on  in  search  of  its  own  phantasm  till  he  dies. 
The  folly  of  devotion  to  the  idealizing  faculty 
apart  from  human  life  seems  to  be  the  moral  of 
the  allegory,  which  most  critics  have  found  a 
dark  one ;  but  the  treatment  of  the  Poet  is  so 
sympathetic,  notwithstanding  the  latter's  error, 
and  the  presentation  of  the  Destroyer  in  the 
shape  of  the  visionary  maid  is  so  alluring,  that 
the  reader  forgets  the  didactic  intent  of  the 
fable,  and  sees  only  an  adumbration  of  the  life 
of  Shelley  as  seen  by  himself  in  the  clairvoy- 
ance of  genius,  and  consciously  seen  by  him  as  a 
fate  which  he  would  avoid  by  mingling  sympa- 
thetically with  the  life  of  men.  If,  as  Dowden 
says,  the  poem  be  '  in  its  inmost  sense  a  plead- 
ing on  behalf  of  human  love,'  shown  by  the  fate 
of  tl^ose  who  reject  it,  it  is  also  not  without  a 
tragic  sense  of  the  pity  of  that  fate  in  those  in 
whose  life  such  a  rejection  is  rather  the  isola- 
tion of  a  noble  nature  and  the  result  less  of 
choice  than  of  temperament  and  circumstance. 
Compare  Shellev's  comment  in  the  preface. 

210.   Compare  jEschylus,  Agamemnon,  415. 

211-219.  The  union  of  Sleep  and  Death  in 
Shelley's  poetry  is  a  fixed  idea  ;  compare  in 
this  poem  lines  293,  .368.  The  use  of  water- 
reflections  as  a  detail  is  also  constant,  and  is  re- 
peated below  no  less  than  five  times,  lines  385, 
408,  459,  470,  501.  The  tenacity  with  which 
Shelley's  mind  clings  to  its  images  is  charac- 
terifitic,    and    shows    intensity   of  application 


rather  than  poverty  of  material,  in  a  young 
writer  ;  not  only  in  Alastou  are  there  some  of 
his  images  permanent  in  his  verse,  such  as 
Ahasuerus,  the  serpent,  and  the  boat,  but  in- 
stances of  pure  repetition  frequently  occur,  as 
above  ;  compare,  below,  the  alchemist,  31,  082, 
the  bird  and  snake,  227, 325,  the  lyre,  42,  (307,  tha 
cloud,  (j(i'6,  G87. 

219.  Conducts,  Rossetti  thus  corrects  the  ori- 
ginal reading,  conduct,  which  is,  however,  re- 
tained by  all  other  editors.  Shelley  doubtless 
wrote  conduct,  the  verb  being  attracted  into  the 
plural  by  the  number  of  details  mentioned  in 
connection  with  vault ;  other  explanations,  on 
the  ground  of  does  understood,  in  one  or  another 
way,  are  only  ingenious  excuses  ;  the  structure 
of  the  group  of  questions  is  so  continuous  that 
it  seems  best  to  make  the  change. 

227.  Compare  The  Revolt  of  Islam,  I. 
viii.-xiv. 

240.  Aornos,  'identified  by  General  Abbott 
in  1854  as  Mount  Mahabunn  near  the  right  bank 
of  the  Indus  about  sixty  miles  above  its  con- 
fluence with  the  Cabul,'  Chinnock,  Arrian's 
Anabasis,  237,  note.  Petra,  identified  as  the 
Sogdian  rock  (Arrian,  IV.  18) ;  for  the  name 
Beijame  quotes  Quintus  Curtius,  VIII.  11 ;  Una 
erat  Petra. 

242.  Balk,  Bactria  -was  the  ancient  name. 

242-244,  It  was  Caracallus  who  violated  the 
Parthian  royal  tombs  and  scattered  the  dust  of 
the  kings  to  the  four  winds.  Beijame  gives  the 
reference  Dion  Cassius,  LXXVIII.  1. 

2(i2-2()7.  Ackermann  and  Beijame  trace  the 
detail  to  Thalaba,  VIII.  1  and  IX.  17,  Shelley 
having  xmited  the  two  in  one  image. 

272.  Chorasmian  shore,  properly  the  Aral  Sea, 
but  Shelley  apparently  intends  the  Caspian 
Sea. 

299.  Shallop,  the  detail  is  from  Thalaba,  XI. 
31,  as  Ackermann  remarks,  as  is  the  general 
conception  of  the  voyage  on  the  underground 
river.    The  opening  passage  is  as  follows : 

'  A  little  boat  there  lay, 
Without  au  oar,  without  a  sail, 
One  only  seat  it  had,  one  seat.' 

Compare  also  the  boat  of  The  Witch  of 
Atlas. 

337-3.39.  Beijame  compares  the  same  image 
in  A  Summer  Evening  Churchyard,  but  it 
is  used  most  memorably  in  To  Nkjht  : 

'  Bind  with  thy  hair  the  eyes  of  Day, 
Kiss  her  till  she  be  wearied  out.' 

349.  Other  editors  retain  the  original  read- 
ing of  a  period  after  ocean ;  but  Rossetti 
changed  this  to  a  semicolon  and  dash,  which 
seems  justifiable  where  no  pretence  is  made  of 
reproducing  Shelley's  punctuation. 

3,53.    Caucasus,  the  Caspian  Caucasus. 

376.  The  cascade,  like  the  undei-ground  voy- 
age, is  from  Thalaba,  VII.  6,  quoted  by  Acker- 
mann: 

'  And  lo !  where  raving  o'er  a  hollow  course 
The  ever  flowing  flood 
Foams  iu  a  thousand  whirlpools  !    Then  adown 
The  perforated  rock 


6x6 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


Hunge  the  whole  waters :  so  precipitous, 

So  fathomless  a  fall, 
That  tlieir  earth-shakiug  roar  came  deadened  up 

Like  subterraneau  thuuder.' 

Ackermann  also  recalls  the  river  in  Kubla 
Ehan. 

400.  The  following  extracts,  from  Miss  Owen- 
son's  The  Missionary,  seem  apposite  here  : 

'  Surrounded  by  those  mighty  mountains 
whose  summits  appear  tranquil  and  luminous 
above  the  regions  of  cloud  which  float  on  their 
brow,  whose  grotesque  forms  are  brightened 
by  innumerable  rills,  and  dashed  by  foaming 
torrents,  the  valley  of  Cashmire  presented  to 
the  wandering  ej-e  scenes  of  picturesque  and 
glowing  beauty,  whose  character  varied  with 
each  succeeding  hour.  ...  It  was  evening 
when  the  missionary  reached  the  base  of  a  lofty 
mountain,  which  seemed  a  monument  of  the 
first  day  of  creation.  It  was  a  solemn  and  se- 
questered spot,  where  an  eternal  spring  seemed 
to  reign,  and  which  looked  like  the  cradle  of 
infant  Nature,  when  she  first  awoke  in  all  her 
primaeval  bloom  of  beauty.  It  was  a  glen 
screened  by  a  mighty  mass  of  rocks,  over  whose 
bold  fantastic  forms  and  variegated  hues  dashed 
the  silvery  foam  of  the  mountain  torrent,  fling- 
ing its  dewy  sprays  around.  .  .  .  He  proceeded 
through  a  path  which  from  the  long  cusa-grass 
matted  over  it  and  the  entangled  creepers  of 
the  parasite  plants,  seemed  to  have  been  rarely 
if  ever  explored.  The  trees,  thick  and  um- 
brageous, were  wedded  in  their  towering 
branches  above  his  head,  and  knitted  in  their 
spreading  roots  beneath  his  feet.  The  sound 
of  a  cascade  became  his  sole  guide  through  the 
leafy  labyrinth.  He  at  last  reached  the  pile  of 
rocks  whence  the  torrent  flowed,  pouring  its 
tributary  flood  into  a  broad  river.  .  .  .  Before 
the  altar  appeared  a  human  form,  if  human  it 
might  be  called,  which  stood  so  bright  and  so 
ethereal  in  its  look  that  it  seemed  but  a  tran- 
sient incorporation  of  the  brilliant  mists  of  the 
morning ;  so  light  and  so  aspiring  in  its  atti- 
tude that  it  appeared  already  ascending  from 
the  earth  it  scarcely  touched  to  mingle  with  its 
kindred  air.  The  resplendent  locks  of  the 
seeming  sprite  were  enwrearhed  with  beams, 
and  sparkled  with  the  waters  of  the  holy  stream 
whence  it  appeared  recently  to  have  emerged.' 
(Chap.  VI.) 

*  Not  a  sound  disturbed  the  mystic  silence, 
save  the  low  murmurs  of  a  gushing  spring,  which 
fell  with  more  than  mortal  music  from  a  mossy 
cliff,  sparkling  among  the  matted  roots  of  over- 
hanging trees,  and  gliding,  like  liquid  silver,  be- 
neath the  network  of  the  parasite  plants.  The 
flowers  of  the  mangosteen  gave  to  the  fresh  air 
a  balmy  fragrance.  The  mighty  rocks  of  the 
Pagoda,  which  rose  behind  in  endless  perspec- 
tive, scaling  the  heavens,  which  seemed  to  re- 
pose upon  their  summits,  lent  the  strong  relief 
of  their  deep  shadows  to  the  softened  twilight 
of  the  foreground.'     (Chap.  XII.) 

The  landscape  of  the  vale  of  Cashmire  as  here 
described  is,  in  efiPect,  the  same  as  that  of  the 
glen  in  Ajlastob,  and  in  the  figure  of  Luziioa 


there  is  something  sympathetic,  at  least,  with 
the  veiled  maid  of  the  vision.  In  Hilarion  (the 
missionary)  there  is  also  something  sympathetic 
with  the  Foet  of  the  poem,  as  he  has  rejected 
love,  and  now  suffers  the  penalty  of  a  great 
passion,  doomed  necessarily  to  a  tragic  conclu- 
sion, under  influences  of  solitude  and  nature. 
(See  chap.  IX.,  where  his  psychological  charac- 
ter is  developed :  '  he  resembled  the  enthusiast 
of  experimental  philosophy  who  shuts  out  the 
light  and  breath  of  heaven  to  inhale  an  arti- 
ficial atmosphere  and  enjoy  an  ideal  exist- 
ence.') It  is  interesting  to  observe  also  the 
description  of  the  subterranean  cave,  with  sta- 
lactite formation,  lit  by  blue  subterraneous 
fire,  —  the  temple  '  most  ancient  and  celebrated 
in  India,  after  that  of  Elephanta '  (chap.  XII.). 
See,  also,  for  other  traces  of  this  romance  in 
Shelley's  work,  the  notes  on  The  Revolt 
OF  Islam,  XIL,  and  The  Indlan  Sebknade. 
421,  422.  Beljame  quotes  from  Mrs.  Shelley's 
Journal,  August,  1814,  in  Dowden's  Life  of 
Shelley,  '  At  No6  [Nouaille  ?]  —  in  a  noontide  of 
intense  heat  —  whilst  our  postilion  waited,  we 
walked  into  the  forest  of  pines ;  it  was  a  scene 
of  enchantment,  where  every  sound  and  sight 
conti-ibuted  to  charm.  Our  mossy  seat  in  the 
deepest  recesses  of  the  wood  was  inclosed  from 
the  world  by  an  impenetrable  veil.' 

431-438.  Ackermaim  compares  Scott,  Eokeby, 
TV.  3 ;  but  there  are  many  forest  descriptions 
in  English  verse  as  similar,  the  original  of  all 
in  this  style  being  Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  IV. 
451-454.  Ackermann  here  again  seeks  the 
original  detail  in  Thalaba,  VI.  22 : 
'  And  oh !  what  odours  the  voluptuous  rale 

Scatters  iiom  Jasmine  bowers. 

From  yon  rose  ipildemess. 

From  clustered  henna,  and  from  orange  g^ves 

Tliat  with  such perj'umes  fill  the  breeze.' 

So  definite  an  origin  for  general  properties  seems 
to  me  most  unlikely. 

454-45fi.  Beljame  compares  A  Summer  Even- 
ing Churchyard,  V.  5,  6. 

479.  Spirit,  apparently  an  embodiment  of 
Nature  evoked  by  and  reflecting  the  mood  of 
death-melancholy  in  the  Poet ;  not  the  spirit  of 
the  vision  which  he  seeks,  which  is  '  the  light 
that  shone  within  his  sold'  (lines  4f)2,  4S)3),  but 
it  may  also  be  regarded  as  a  later  incarnation 
of  the  latter. 

502-514.  Ackermann  compares  the  very  sim- 
ilar though  more  diffuse  passage  in  Words- 
worth, The  Excursion,  III.  <ni~-\m . 

543-548.  Editors  and  commentators  have 
struggled  to  extract  the  precise  meantng  from 
these  lines,  but  without  establishing  any  likely 
emendation.  Miss  Blind  proposes  inclosed  for 
disclosed ;  Forman  suggests  amidst  precipices 
f  r)r  its  precipice ;  Madox  Brown  guesses  Hid  for 
Mid  ;  E.  S.'  would  read  their  precipice  for  its  : 
Swinburne  thinks  a  verse  has  been  dropped,  and 
an  anonymous  writer  conjectures  tliat  tlie  lost 
verse  may  be  represented  by  inserting  after  547 

*  A  cataract  descending  with  wild  roar.' 
Rossetti,  after  some   iaeffentual  wanderings, 


NOTES  AND  ILLUSTRATIONS 


617 


returned  to  the  original  text,  which  Dowden  also 
sustains.  The  interpretation,  however,  remains 
diflferent,  Rossetti  taking  precipice  as  the  sub- 
ject of  disclosed  used  for  disclosed  itself,  and 
Powdcn  taking  which  as  the  subject  of  dis- 
closed with  gulfs  and  caves  as  its  object,  and  its 
precipice  obscuring  the  ravine  as  parenthetical. 
Brooke  also  retains  the  text,  and  takes  its  as 
•quivalent  to  its  own.  The  simplest  explana- 
tion where  all  are  awkward  is  to  consider  the 
clause  beginning  and  its  precipice  as  parallel 
with  the  earlier  half  beginning  now  rose  rocks, 
and  the  sense  briefly  would  be  :  the  rocks  rose 
in  the  evening  light,  and  also  the  precipice  rose 
(shadowing  the  ravine  below),  disclosed  above 
in  the  same  light.  I  take  precipice  as  subject 
to  rose  understood  and  disclosed  as  a  participle  ; 
its  is  the  same  as  in  542,  543,  i.  e.,  the  loud 
streams  in  550.  If  this  is  rejected  I  should  pre- 
fer to  take  which  as  the  subject  of  disclosed  and 
precipice  as  its  object.  To  take  precipice  as  the 
snbiect  of  disclosed  with  gulfs  and  caves  as  its 
object,  involves  a  construction  of  line  548  so 
forced  as  to  amount  in  my  mind  to  impossi- 
bility. 

602-f)05.  Ackermann  quotes  from  Mrs.  Shel- 
ley's Journal  (Dowden's  Life  of  Shelley) :  '  The 
evening  was  most  beautiful ;  the  homed  moon 
hung  in  the  light  of  sunset,  which  threw  a  glow 
of  unusual  depth  of  redness  above  the  ^ny 
mountains  and  the  dark  deep  valleys.  .  .  .  The 
moon  becomes  yellow,  and  hangs  close  to  the 
■woody  horizon.' 

GB^-GTl.  The  passage  has  been  somewhat 
discussed,  but  Brooke's  note  settles  the  mean- 
ing easily  :  '  It  is  quite  in  Shelley's  manner  .  .  . 
to  go  back  and  bring  together  his  illustrations. 
Here  the  poet's  frame  is  a  lute,  a  bright  strearn, 
a  dream  of  youth.  The  lute  is  still,  the  stream  is 
dark  and  drj',  the  dream  is  unremembered.'  The 
practice  is  common  to  English  poetry  from  the 
early  davs.     Compare  Epipsychidion,  73-75. 

677.  The  reference  is  to  Ahasuerus,  the  wan- 
dering Jew.  Compare  Queen  Mab,  VI.  and 
Shelley's  Notes  on  the  passage.  The  char- 
acter again  appears  in  Hellas. 

Page  43.    The  Revolt  of  Islam. 

The  text  was  made  from  the  sheets  of  Laon 
a/nd  Cythna  by  the  insertion  of  2(>  cancel-leaves. 
The  copy  upon  which  Shelley  worked  in  recom- 
posing  is  Tlescribed  at  length  by  Forman,  The 
Shelley  Library,  83-86.  The  cancelled  passages 
are  as  follows : 

Canto  IL  ixi.  1 
I  had  a  little  sister  whose  fair  eyes 

XXV.  2 
To  love  in  human  life,  this  sister  sweet 

Canto  III.  i.  1 
What  thoughts  had  sway  over  my  sister's  clumber 

i.3 
As  if  they  did  ten  thousand  years  outnumber 

Canto  IV.  XXX.  6 

And  left  it  vacant  —  't  was  her  brother's  face  — 
Canto  V.  xlvii.  5 

I  bad  a  brother  once,  bat  he  is  dead  !  — 


Canto  VI.  xxiv.  8 
My  own  sweet  sister  looked,  with  joy  did  quail, 

xxxi.  6 
The  common  blood  which  ran  within  our  frames, 

xxxix.  6-9 
Witl)  such  close  sympathies,  for  to  each  other 
Had  liigh  and  solemn  hopes,  the  gentle  might 
Of  earliest  love,  and  all  the  thoughts  which  smother 
Cold  Evil's  power,  now  linked  a  sister  and  a  brother. 

xl.  1 
And  such  is  Nature's  modesty,  that  those 

Canto  VIII.  iv.  9 
Dream  ye  that  God  thus  builds  for  man  in  solitude  ? 

V.  1. 
What  then  is  God  ?    Te  mock  yourselves  and  give 

vi.  1 
What  then  is  God  ?    Some  moonstruck  sophist  stood 

vi.  8,  9 
And  that  men  say  God  has  appointed  Death 
On  all  who  scorn  his  will  to  wreak  immortal  wrath. 

vii.  1-4 
Men  say  they  have  seen  God,  and  heard  from  God, 

Or  known  from  others  who  have  known  such  things. 
And  that  his  will  is  aU  our  law,  a  rod 

To  scourge  us  into  slaves  —  that  Priests  and  Kinge 

viii.  1 
And  it  is  said,  that  God  will  punish  wrong  ; 

viii.  3,  4 
And  his  red  hell's  undying  snakes  among 

Will  bind  the  wretch  on  whom  he  fixed  a  stain 

xiii.  3,  4 
For  it  is  said  God  rules  both  high  and  low, 
And  man  is  made  the  captive  of  his  brother ; 

Canto  IX.  xiii.  8 
To  curse  the  rebels.    To  their  Gk>d  did  they 

xiv.  6 
By  God,  and  Nature,  and  Necessity. 

XV.  4-7 
There  was  one  teacher,  and  must  ever  be. 
They  said,  even  God,  who,  the  necessity 
Of  rule  and  wrong  had  armed  against  mankind, 
His  slave  and  his  avenger  there  to  be  ; 

xviii.  3-G 

And  Hell  and  Awe,  which  in  the  heart  of  man 
Is  Vjfod  itself ;  the  Priests  its  downfall  knew. 
As  day  by  day  their  altars  lovelier  grew, 

Till  they  were  left  alone  within  the  ^e; 

Canto  X.  xxii.  9 
On  fire !  Almighty  God  his  hell  on  earth  has  spread  i 

xxvi.  7,  8 
Of  their  Almighty  God,  the  armies  wind 
In  sad  procession  :  each  among  the  train. 

xxviii.  1 
O  God  Almighty  !  thou  alone  hast  power. 

xxxi.  1 
And  Oromaze,  and  Christ,  and  Mahomet. 

xxxii.  1 
He  was  a  Christian  Priest  from  whom  It  came 

xxxii.  4 
To  quell  the  rebel  Atheists;  a  dire  guest 

xxxii.  9 
To  wreak  his  fear  of  God  on  vengeance  on  manlu::;d 


6i8 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


xxxiv.  5,  6 
His  cradled  Idol,  rnd  the  sacrifice 
Of  God  to  God's  own  WTath  —  that  Islam's  creed 

XXXV.  9 

And  thrones,  which  rest  on  faith  in  God,  nigh  over- 
turned. 

xxxlx.  4 
Of  God  may  be  appeased.'    He  ceased,  and  they 

xl.  5 
With  storms  and  shadows  girt,  sate  God,  alone, 

xliv.  9 

As  '  hush  !  hark  !    Come  they  yet  ?    God, 
God,  thine  hour  is  near  ! ' 

xlv.  8 
Men  brought  their  atheist  kindred  to  appease 

xlvli.  6 
The  threshold  of  God's  throne,  and  it  was  she  ! 
Canto  XI.  xvi.  1 
Ye  turn  to  God  for  aid  in  your  distress  ; 

XXV.  7 
Swear  by  your  dreadful    God.'  —  '  We   swear,  we 
swear ! ' 

Canto  XII.  X.  9 

Truly  for  self,  thus  thought  that  Christian  Priest 
indeed, 

li.  9 
A  woman  ?    God  has  s(?nt  his  other  victim  here, 
xii.  6-8 

Will  I  stand  up  before  God's  golden  throne. 

And  cry,  O  Lord,  to  thee  did  I  betray 
An  Atheist ;  but  for  me  she  would  have  known 

xxix.  4 
In  torment  and  in  fire  have  Atheists  gone ; 

XXX.  4 
How  Atheists  and  Republicans  can  die. 

In  The  Revolt  of  Islam,  Shelley  unites 
the  landscape  and  sentiment  of  Alastok  with 
the  didactic  teaching  of  Queen  Mab.  In  po- 
litical and  social  philosophjr  he  shows  no  intel- 
lectual advance,  though  it  is  noticeable  that  in 
the  preface  he  disclaims  responsibility  for  the 
views  which  have  '  a  dramatic  propriety  in 
reference  to  the  character  they  are  designed  to 
elucidate '  and  are  '  injurious  t«  the  character ' 
of  the  '  benevolences '  of  the  Deity,  and  which  he 
says  are  '  widely  different '  from  his  own ;  and 
it  should  be  remarked  that  his  expres.sions  with 
respect  to  the  immortality  of  the  spirit  are  per- 
ceptibly more  strong  and  favorable.  It  is  rather 
on  the  poetic  side  that  he  shows  development ; 
but  here,  too,  the  didactic  element  seems  to  rae 
less  evenly  eloquent  than  in  Queen  Mab,  and 
the  imaginative  element  less  pervaded  with 
charm  than  in  Alastor.  Medwin  says  that 
Shelley  told  him  that  Keats  and  he  agreed  to 
attempt  a  long  poem,  and  that  Endymion  and 
The  Revolt  of  Islam  were  the  fruit  of  this 
friendly  rivalry.  It  can  hardly  be  doubted  that 
the  deliberate  ambition  to  compose  a  long  work 
entered  into  the  motive  which  prompted  the 
poem. 


The  new  element  which  distinguishes  Thh 
Revolt  of  Islam  from  its  predecessors  is  the 
fable,  or  story,  which  is  made  the  vehicle  of 
revolutionary  doctrine.  Shelley  asserted  that 
it  was  free  from  the  interve;ition  of  the  super- 
natural, except  at  the  beginning  and  end  ;  but 
the  machinery  and  incidents  are  of  the  roman- 
tic school,  in  the  '  Gothic '  taste,  in  which  his 
interest  in  fiction  began,  though  here  oriental- 
ized in  sympathy  with  the  literary  taste  of  a 
time  later  than  Monk  Lewis  and  the  young 
Scott.  The  tower-prison,  the  hermit's  retreat, 
the  cave  of  Laone  with  its  underground  en- 
trance, the  '  Tartarean  steed,'  are  all  in  the 
region  of  romance  ;  the  human  conduct  of  the 
characters  —  the  yielding  of  the  gaolers  to  the 
hermit's  voice  and  looks,  the  protest  of  Laon  in 
behalf  of  his  foes  and  of  the  tyrant,  the  devo- 
tion of  the  child  to  the  latter,  the  final  surren- 
der of  Laon  —  are  all  in  the  vein  of  pure  moral 
sentimentality  ;  and  though  there  are  few  such 
puerilities  as  the  '  small  knife  '  and  the  eagle 
who  could  not  be  taught  to '  bring  ropes  '  (and 
I  should  regard  the  original  scheme  by  which 
Laon  and  Laone  were  made  brother  and  sister 
merely  as  a  puerility),  yet  the  hold  on  reality, 
both  in  human  nature  at  large  and  in  the  sense 
of  the  action  of  life,  is  of  the  feeble  and  tenuous 
sort  that  belongs  to  the  fiction  of  the  opening 
of  the  century,  which  gave  to  Shelley  his  idea 
of  how  and  from  what  materials  to  construct  a 
tale.  Though  he  uses  the  Spenserian  stanza, 
and  read  Spenser  continuously  while  compos- 
ing, it  is  only  the  land  of  pseudo-romance  and 
not  Faeryland  that  he  enters  ;  and,  as  he  is 
dealing  with  political  and  social  actualities,  one 
cannot  but  be  aware  of  an  unreality  in  the 
movement  of  the  poem,  which  Spenser  himself 
did  not  escape  when  he  touched  historic  ground. 
Not  only  the  first  Canto,  in  fact,  is  allegorical ; 
the  whole  tale  is  essentially  allegory,  and  the 
sole  realities  in  it  are  moral  realities,  of  which 
the  invincible  power  of  love,  its  rightful  sover- 
eignty and  final  victory,  is  the  chief,  shown  also 
in  reverse  as  the  futility  of  force  in  all  its  forms, 
tyranny,  law,  custom,  fraud,  or  crime.  The 
characters  are  not  much  more  vital  than  the 
fable  is  real,  with  the  exception  of  Laon,  who  is 
a  reincarnation  of  the  youth  in  Alastor  (or 
Shelley's  spirit)  touched  more  with  mortal  pas- 
sion and  involved  in  human  events ;  Laone  is 
the  double  of  Laon,  set  forth  somewhat  as  the 
spirit  of  the  vision  in  Alastok,  but  made  more 
actual  through  the  facts  of  living  ;  the  hermit 
is  the  wise  old  man  ;  the  tyrant  is  the  King  of 
Queen  Mab  (a  stage  tyrant  if  ever  there  was 
one),  and  the  child  is  merely  a  property  and  has 
no  value  except  for  sentimental  effect. 

There  are  longueurs  in  the  poem,  and  some  of 
the  causes  of  them  are  contained  in  these  con= 
siderations.  A  moral  allegory  with  but  on* 
lesson,  and  that  a  lesson  in  revolution-mak' 
ing,  would  require  great  powers  of  verisimili- 
tude, of  invention  and  of  attraction,  to  maiH'* 
tain  interest  through  twelve  Cantos,  and  these 
qualities  The  Revolt  of  Islam  does  not  pot*, 
sess.    The  analysis  of  its  construction,  in  story, 


NOTES  AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


6x9 


incident  and  character,  brings  out  its  least  favor- 
able points  ;  it  has,  taken  in  the  mass,  great  ex- 
cellences, especially  power  of  description  (both 
of  scene  and  action.)  which  in  the  best  portions 
can  only  be  described  as  splendor  of  descrij)- 
tion ;  it  has  aLso  moral  elevation,  and  enthu- 
sifism  inexhanstible  in  spontaneity  and  glow  ; 
and  in  several  of  the  episodes  there  is  a  noble 
dignity  of  style.  It  is,  it  seems  to  me,  the  most 
uneven,  the  least  completely  one,  of  Shelley's 
works  ;  but  if  on  the  one  hand  it  has  affinities 
with  the  crudity  of  his  prose  fiction,  it  also  ap- 
proaches on  the  other  the  visions  of  the  Prome- 
theus Unbound;  and  it  contains  the  moral 
truth  that  burnt  in  his  own  heart. 

Page  47.  An  alexandrine.  Rossetti  points 
out  three :  IV.  xxvii.  5 ;  VIII.  xxvii.  3 ;  IX. 
XXX vi.  5. 

48.  Dedication.  The  motto  is  from  Chap- 
man's Byron's  Conspiracy,  III.  i.  (end). 

49.  To  Mary.  Mary  Wollstonecraft  Godwin, 
Shelley's  second  wife. 

Stanza  ii.  2.  See  Head-note  for  the  circum- 
stances here  put  into  verse. 

iii.  3  hour,  the  passage  is  regarded  as  auto- 
biographical, and  faithfully  represents  the  at- 
mosphere of  Shelley's  school-days,  and  his  own 
attitude  toward  the  '  tyranny '  he  then  en- 
countered. Cf.  Hymn  to  Intellectual 
Beauty.  V. 

V. !)  thirst,  the  mood  depicted  in  Alastor. 

vi.  3  despair,  referring  to  the  year  before  he 
met  with  5lary. 

vii.  5  hurst,  referring  to  the  elopement  of 
Mary  with  him,  in  disregard  of  his  marriage 
with  Harriet. 

X.  4  referring  to  his  fears  of  approaching 
death. 

9  Cf .  The  Sunset,  4. 

xii.  3  One,  Mary  Wollstonecraft,  the  author 
of  A  Vindication  of  the  Eights  of  Woman,  and 
many  other  works,  marked  by  independence 
and  strength  of  mind,  while  her  Letters  to 
Imlay  show  deep  feeling.  A  knowledge  of  her 
life  is  indispensable  to  a  true  understanding  of 
Mary's  union  with  Shelley. 

9  Sire,  William  Godwin,  author  of  Political 
Justice  and  many  other  radical  works  and 
novels,  from  whom  Shelley  derived  in  youth 
much  of  his  revolutionary  principles  and  social 
views. 

xiii.  1  One  voice,  the  voice  of  Truth. 

xiv.  4  his  pure  name,  Shelley  means  any  phi- 
lanthropist. 

Page  52.  Canto  I.  vi.  8.  The  image  may  be 
from  The  Ancient  Mariner,  pt.  iii. :  but  effects 
of  sunset  on  the  sea  are  frequent  in  the  early 
poems  and  are  reminiscences  of  Shelley's  life 
on  the  west  coast.  Cf.  below  I,  xv.  2  and 
Queen  Mab,  ii.  4 ;  also,  of  the  moon,  Prince 
Athanase,  II.  96. 

I.  xxiii.  1.    Cf .  Alastor,  299,  note. 

I.  XXV.  5.  The  myth  here  invented  by  Shelley 
to  typify  the  conflict  of  the  principles  of  Good 
and  Evil  as  sho^vn  in  man's  social  progress  is 
the  most  imaginative  and  elaborate  presentation 


of  this  ancient  idea  in  modem  literature.  The 
identification  of  the  Morning  Star,  changed  into 
the  snake,  with  the  Spirit  of  Good,  and  of  the 
liuling  Power  with  Evil,  a  not  unparalleled  re- 
vei-sal  of  Christian  symbolism,  anticipates  the 
conception  of  the  relation  of  Good  and  EvU  in 
Prometheus  Unbound. 

I.  xxxvii.  7.  Cf.  Alastor,  129.  The  moods 
of  Alastor  frequently  recur  in  the  jKjem  :  e.  g., 
below,  xliii.,  xlv.,  Ivii.  ;  H.  x.,  xi.  ;  IV.  xxx. ; 
VI.  xxviii. 

I.  Iii.  Cf .  Queen  Mab,  ii.  22  et  seq. 

Canto  II.  The  opening  stanzas  of  the  Second 
Canto  are  characteristic  of  Shelley's  autobio- 
graphical idealizations  of  his  youth.  Cf.  the 
Dedicatory  Stanzas  above  and  the  Hymn  TO 
Intellectual  Beauty. 

II.  xxxvi.  4  half  of  humankind,  women. 

III.  xxvii.  7  old  man,  the  idealized  figure  of 
Dr.  Lind,  who  also  appears  in  Prince  Atha- 
nase. 

V.  xlix.  5  three  shapes,  the  '  Giant '  is 
Equality,  the  '  Woman '  is  Love,  the  '  third 
Image  '  is  Wisdom.  Cf.  below,  stanza  iii.  1,  2. 
The  following  Hymn  is  to  be  regarded  as  the 
earliest  of  Shelley's  greater  odes,  and  is  the 
highest  lyrical  expression  that  his  political  and 
social  theories  by  themselves  ever  reached. 

VII.  xxxii.  6.   The  reference  is  to  Pythagoras. 

VIII.  V.  et  seq.  The  speech  of  Laone  is  the 
most  compact  and  full  statement  of  Shelley's 
moral  ideas  in  the  time  intermediate  between 
Queen  Mab  and  Prometheus  Unbolted,  with 
both  of  which  poems  it  may  be  closely  com- 
pared ;  especially  the  opening  passage  with 
Queen  Mab,  VII. ;  stanzas  xi.-xii.  with  Pro- 
metheus Unbound,  IV.  554-578 ;  and  the 
whole  with  the  same.  III.  iii.  130-204. 

rX.  xxi.-xxv.  An  anticipation  of  the  Ode  to 
THE  West  Wind. 

IX.  xxxvi.  5.  A  translation  of  the  famous 
epigram  of  Plato. 

X.  xviii.  5  creaked.  Cf,  Coleridge,  This 
Lime-Tree  Bower  my  Prison,  74  Flew  creeking, 
with  note :  '  Some  months  after  I  had  written 
this  line,  it  gave  me  pleasure  to  observe  that 
Bartram  had  observed  the  same  circumstance 
of  the  Savanna  crane.  "  When  these  birds 
move  their  wings  in  flight,  their  strokes  are 
slow,  moderate  and  regular,  and  even  when  at 
a  considerable  distance  or  high  above  us,  we 
plainly  hear  the  quill  feathers  :  their  shafts  and 
webs  upon  one  another  creek  as  the  joints  or 
working  of  a  vessel  in  a  tempestuous  sea."  ' 

XII.  ix.  1.  The  situation  is  parallel  to  that  in 
Miss  Owenson's  Missionary  (see  Alastor,  400, 
note).  Hilarion,  the  priest-lover  of  Luxima, 
has  been  condemned  by  the  Inquisition  at  Goa 
and  stands  at  the  pile  to  be  burnt.  The  story 
continues :  '  In  this  awful  interval,  while  the 
presiding  officers  of  death  were  preparing  to 
bind  their  victim  to  the  stake,  a  form  scarcely 
human,  darting  with  the  velocity  of  lightning 
through  the  multitude,  reached  the  foot  of  the 
pile,  and  stood  before  it  in  a  grand  and  aspir- 
ing attitude  ;  the  deep  red  flame  of  the  slowly 
kindling  fire  shone  through  a  transparent  dnir 


620 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


pery  •which  flowed  in  loose  folds  from  the  bosom 
of  the  seeming  vision,  and  tinged  with  golden 
hues  those  long  dishevelled  tresses,  which 
streamed  like  the  rays  of  a  meteor  on  the  air ; 
thus  bright  and  aerial  as  it  stood,  it  looked 
like  a  spirit  sent  from  heaven  in  the  awful  mo- 
ment of  dissolution  to  cheer  and  to  convey  to  the 
regions  of  the  blessed,  the  soul  which  would  soon 
arise  pure  from  the  ordeal  of  earthly  suffering. 

'  The  sudden  appearance  of  the  singular  phan- 
tom sti'uck  the  imanination  of  the  credulous  and 
awed  multitude  with  superstitious  wonder.  .  .  . 
Luxima,  whose  ej'es  and  hands  had  been  hith- 
erto raised  to  heaven,  while  she  murmured  the 
Gayatra,  pronounced  by  the  Indian  women  be- 
fore their  voluntary  immolation,  now  looked 
wildly  round  her,  and  catching  a  glimpse  of 
the  Missionary's  figure,  through  the  waving  of 
the  flames,  behind  which  he  struggled  in  the 
hands  of  his  guards,  she  shrieked,  and  in  a 
voice  scarcely  human,  exclaimed,  "My  beloved, 
I  come !  Brahma  receive  and  eternally  unite 
onr  spirits  !  "  She  sprang  upon  the  pile.'  The 
Missionary,  ch.  xvii.  pp.  25'.),  2(iO.  The  scene 
closes  with  a  rising  of  the  people,  and  the  es- 
cape of  the  lovers. 

rage  13(5.  Rosalind  and  Helen.  This, 
the  least  significant  of  Shelley's  longer  poems, 
was  little  valued  by  himself.  It  is  intended  as 
a  plea  in  behalf  of  natural  love  against  conven- 
tions, and  shows  how  experience  of  life  might 
reconcile  two  friends  who  had  been  parted  be- 
cause one  of  them  had  sinned  against  conven- 
tion. It  contains  Shelley's  characteristic  pre- 
possessions, such  as  the  story  of  Fenici,  the 
incident  of  brother  and  sister  parted  at  the 
altar,  and  the  cruelty  of  the  husband's  last 
will,  and  also  his  characteristic  idealizations  in 
the  two  stages  of  Lionel's  life,  the  first  in  health 
another  Laon,  and  the  second  in  illness  with 
traces  of  the  Alastor  type ;  the  moral  senti- 
mentality of  Lionel's  power  over  the  base  and 
wicked  and  the  delineations  of  febrile  passion  in 
one  whose  spirit  only  seems  vital,  are  familiar 
from  preceding  work  ;  in  the  nature  description 
there  is  nothing  novel. 

Line  22{).  Rossetti  points  out  the  inconsist- 
ency of  this  with  line  4H8. 

Line  272.  Rossetti  points  out  the  inconsist- 
ency of  this  with  line  406, 

Lines  405^10.  The  passage  is  defective,  and 
unintelligible.  Forman  suggests  while  for  which 
and  had  for  and.  Rossetti  refers  to  Peacock's 
MS.  letter  to  Oilier  noting  the  imperfection  in 
the  proof. 

Line  7(i4.  The  poem  appears  to  be  a  personal 
lyric  of  Shellev's. 

Line  894.  Cf .  To  WilItam  Shelley,  1818. 

Line  1208.  Forman  conjectures  which  for 
whilst  and  (Omits  had  in  the  next  line.  The 
meaning  is  obvious,  and  its  plainness  is  little 
heloed  by  the  change. 

Page  151.  Julian  AND  Maddalo.  The  poem 
is  the  first  in  this  style  of  verse,  which  Shelley 
made  his  own  by  the  singular  felicity  of  its  com- 
bination of  metrical  beauty  with  familiar  dic- 
tion and  tone,  and  it  stands  by  itself  by  virtue 


of  the  fact  that  his  other  work  of  this  sort  is 
fr^mentary.  The  monologue  of  the  madman 
gives  evidence  of  dramatic  power,  and  the  power 
of  description  is  matured.  For  the  rest,  the 
poem  is  most  remarkable  for  the  deeply  fslt 
pathetic  sentiment,  the  bitterness  of  suffering 
in  the  wounded  feelings,  which  pervades  the 
madman's  words.  Mrs.  Shelley's  account  of 
where  the  poem  was  written  is  interesting : 

*  1  Capuccini  was  a  villa  built  on  the  site  of 
a  Capuchin  convent,  demolished  when  the 
French  suppressed  religious  houses  ;  it  was  sit- 
uated on  the  very  overhanging  brow  of  a  low 
hill  at  the  foot  of  a  range  of  higher  ones.  The 
house  was  cheerful  and  pleasant ;  a  vine-trel- 
lised  walk,  a  pergola  as  it  is  called  in  Italian, 
led  from  the  hall  door  to  a  summer-house  at  the 
end  of  the  garden,  which  Shelley  made  his 
study,  and  in  which  he  began  the  PROMETHErs  ; 
and  here  also,  as  he  mentions  in  a  letter,  he 
wrote  Julian  and  Maddalo  ;  a  slight  ravine, 
with  a  road  in  its  depth,  divided  the  garden 
from  the  hill,  on  which  stood  the  ruins  of  the 
ancient  castle  of  Este,  whose  dark  massive  wall 
gave  forth  an  echo,  and  from  whose  ruined 
crevices  owls  and  bats  flitted  forth  at  night,  as 
the  crescent  moon  sunk  behind  the  black  and 
heavy  battlements.  We  looked  from  the  gar- 
den over  the  wide  plain  of  Lombardy,  bounded 
to  the  west  by  the  far  Apennines,  while  to  the 
east  the  horizon  was  lost  in  misty  distance. 
•After  the  picturesque  but  limited  view  of 
mountain,  ravine,  and  chestnut  wood  at  the 
Baths  of  Lucca,  there  was  something  infinitely 
gratifying  to  the  eye  in  the  wide  range  of  pro- 
spect commanded  by  our  new  abode.' 

Line  1.  Shelley  describes  his  rides  with  Byron 
in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Shelley,  August  2.3,  1818: 
'  He  [Byron]  took  me  in  his  gondol.a  across  the 
laguna  to  a  long  sandy  island,  which  defends 
Venice  from  the  Adriatis.  ^^Tien  we  disem- 
barked, we  found  his  horses  waiting  for  us,  and 
we  rode  along  the  sands  of  the  sea,  talking. 
Our  conversation  consisted  in  histories  of  his 
wounded  feelings,  and  questions  as  to  my  af- 
fairs, and  great  professions  of  friendship  and 
regard  for  me.  He  said  that  if  he  had  been  in 
England  at  the  time  of  the  Chancery  affair,  he 
would  have  moved  heaven  and  earth  to  have 
prevented  such  a  decision.  We  talked  of  liter- 
ary matters,  his  Fourth  Canto  [Childe  Harold], 
which  he  sayu  is  very  good,  and  indeed  he  re- 
peated some  stanzas  of  great  energy  to  me.' 

Line  40  poets,  Milton,  Paradise  Lost,  ii.  559. 

Line  99.  The  madhouse  is  on  San  Servolo, 
but  Rossetti  quotes  Browning  to  the  effect  that 
the  building  described  by  Shelley  was  the  peni- 
tentiary on  San  Clemente.  Rossetti  declines  to 
decide  the  point. 

Line  143  child,  Allegra. 

Page  IGO.  Prometheus  Unbound.  This 
poem,  as  a  lyrical  drama  dealing  with  the  myth 
of  Prometheus,  has  for  its  principal  poetic 
source  the  Prometheus  of  .^Eschylus.  Shelley 
wrote,  *  It  has  no  resemblance  to  the  Greek 
drama.  It  is  original ; '  and  essentially  the 
statement  is  true.    The  relation  of  Prometheus 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


621 


to  Jupiter,  as  a  sufferer  under  tyranny  because 
of  his  love  of  mankind,  the  scene  of  his  torture 
on  the  mountain  side  over  the  sea,  the  attend- 
ance of  sea  nymphs  in  the  chorus,  the  herald 
Mercury,  the  vulture,  and  the  insistence  on  the 
violent  elements  of  nature,  earthquake,  light- 
ning and  whirlwind,  in  the  imagery,  are  com- 
mon to  both  poenss ;  but  Shelley  by  his  treat- 
ment has  80  modified  all  these  as  to  recreate 
them.  The  ethical  motive  of  Shelley,  his  alle- 
gorical meanings,  his  metaphysical  suggestions, 
the  development  of  the  old  and  introduction  of 
new  characters,  the  conduct  of  the  action,  the 
interludes  of  pastoral,  music  and  landscape, 
the  use  of  new  imaginary  beings  neither  human 
nor  divine,  and  the  conception  of  universal  na- 
ture, totally  transform  the  primitive  ^schy- 
lean  myth  ;  and  in  its  place  arises  the  most 
modem  poem  of  the  century  by  virtue  of  its 
being  the  climax  of  the  Revolution,  in  imagina- 
tive literature,  devoted  to  the  ideal  of  demo- 
cracy as  a  moral  force.  The  crude  ^schylean 
matter  may  be  easily  traced  in  the  following 
notes  in  detail.  The  interpretation  of  the  mod- 
ern poem  is  more  difficult,  and  may  be  studied 
in  the  essays  of  Rossetti  in  the  Shelley  Society 
Publications,  Todhunter's  A  Study  of  Shelley, 
Thomson's  Notes,  in  the  Athenceum,  IfiSl,  and 
Miss  Scudder's  Shelley^  Prometheus  Unbound, 
as  well  as  in  numerous  biographies  and  essays. 
1  am  unable  to  follow  these  commentators  in 
giving  more  precise  meaning  to  the  characters 
and  the  plot  than  is  contained  in  Shelley's  and 
Mrs.  Shelley's  exposition  already  cited  in  the 
Head-note  to  the  poem,  and  the  preface,  sup- 
plemented by  the  statements  of  the  text  itself. 
Prometheus  m,ay  be  the  '  Hr.man  Mind,'  lone 
'Hope'  and  Panthea  'Faith,'  and  the  Semi- 
choruses  of  Act  II.  sc.  ii.  may  represent  respec- 
tively the  passage  of  '  Love  and  Faith  [Asia 
and  Panthea]  through  the  sphere  of  the  Senses 
...  of  the  Emotions  ...  of  the  Reason  and 
Will.'  and  so  on ;  but  that  Shelley  had  any 
conscious  logic  of  this  sort  in  his  poem  seems 
too  uncertain  to  be  asserted.  The  drama  is  an 
emanation  of  his  imagination,  working  out  his 
deepest  sentiments  and  convictions  in  a  form 
nearer  to  the  power  of  music  than  langxiage 
ever  before  achieved ;  it  is  haunted  by  the 
presence  of  the  inexpressible  in  the  heart  of  its 
nfiost  transcendent  iraagerj' ;  and  in  all  its 
moods  and  motions  is  far  from  the  domain  in 
■which  the  prose  of  articulated  thought  is  dis- 
cerned through  a  veil  of  figured  phrase.  The 
intellectual  skeleton,  in  any  case,  even  were  it 
discoverable,  is  not  the  soul  of  the  poem.  Cer- 
tain theories  of  Shelley,  as  to  philosophical 
problems,  are  present  in  the  verse ;  but  they 
control  only  instinctively,  and  not  by  delibfirate 
thought,  the  structure  of  character,  scene, 
event,  and  act.     They  are  noted  below. 

Page  1()5.  Dramatis  Personce.  Prometheus, 
the  Titan,  bound  to  the  icy  precipice,  suffers 
this  punishment  from  Jupiter  as  a  consequence 
of  the  grift  of  fire  and  other  benefits  to  mankind. 
Jupiter  is  the  'supreme  of  living  things,'  of 
whom  Prometheus  says,   '  I  gave  all  he  has,' 


and  '  O'er  all  things  but  thyself  I  gave  thee 
power,  and  my  own  will.'  Prometheus  pos- 
sesses the  secret  '  which  may  transfer  the  scep- 
ti'e  of  wide  heaven  '  from  Jupiter,  and  refuses 
to  divulge  it.  The  knowledge  tliat  the  reign  of 
Jupiter  will  end  sustains  him  in  his  torture, 
which  has  now  lasted  for  many  centuries.  Asia, 
a  sea  nymph,  daughter  of  Oceanus,  is  the  be- 
loved of  Prometheus,  and  separated  from  him 
in  India.  Panthea  is  the  me.ssenger  between 
the  two  ;  lone  is  her  companion  ;  both  are  sis- 
ters of  Asia.  Demogorgon  is  the  child  of  Jupi- 
ter who  overthrows  his  father,  at  the  appointed 
time,  as  Jupiter  had  dethroned  Saturn  ;  the 
foreknowledge  of  this  is  the  secret  of  Prome- 
theus. The  other  persons  of  the  drama  have 
little  or  no  part  in  tlie  action,  and  are  easily 
comprehended.  The  obvious  allegorical  mean- 
ing of  these  greater  characters  can  be  briefly 
stated.  Prometheus  is  a  type  of  mankind  suf- 
fering under  the  oppression  of  the  evil  of  the 
world.  Jupiter  is  this  incarnate  tyranny  con- 
ceived primarily  in  a  broadly  political  rather 
than  in  any  moral  sense,  the  '  one  name  of 
many  shapes'  already  described  in  The  Re- 
volt OF  Islam.  Asia  is,  in  Mrs.  Shelley's 
words,  '  the  same  as  Venus  and  Nature,'  or 
essentially  the  Aphrodite  of  Lucretius  human- 
ized by  Shelley's  imagination  and  recreated  as 
the  life  of  nature  animated  by  the  spirit  of  love. 
The  separation  of  Prometheus  from  Asia  dur- 
ing the  reign  of  Jupiter  t}-pifits  the  discordance 
between  man  and  nature  due  to  the  tyranny  of 
convention,  custom,  institutions,  laws,  and  all 
the  arbitrary  organization  of  society,  —  one  of 
the  cardinal  ideas  inherited  bj'  Shelley  from 
eighteenth  century  thought.  Tlie  fall  of  Jupi- 
ter, which  is  the  abolition  of  human  law,  is  fol- 
lowed by  the  triumph  of  love,  in  which  man  and 
nature  are  once  more  in  accord  ;  this  accord  is 
presented  doubly  in  the  drama  as  the  marriage 
of  Prometheus,  and  the  regeneration  of  the 
world  in  millennial  happiness.  For  the  inter- 
pretation of  Demogorgon,  Panthea.  and  the 
various  spirits,  see  below.  The  references  to 
^schylus  are  to  Paley's  third  edition,  London, 
1870. 

Page  16.5.  Act  I.  Scene  i.  The  landscape 
setting  of  the  Act  is  jEschylean,  and  borrows 
some  details  from  the  Greek,  but  as  mountain 
scenery  it  is  Alpine  and  directly  studied  from 
nature.  Shelley's  Journal,  March  26, 1818,  gives 
a  special  instance  of  it,  describing  Les  Echelles : 
'  The  rocks,  which  cannot  be  less  than  a  thou- 
sand feet  in  perpendicular  height,  sometimes 
overhang  the  road  on  each  side,  and  almost  shut 
out  the  sky.  The  scene  is  like  that  described 
in  the  Prometheus  of  .^schylus  :  vast  rifts 
and  caverns  in  the  granite  precipices ;  wintry 
moimtains  with  ice  and  snow  above  ;  the  loud 
sounds  of  unseen  waters  within  the  caverns,  and 
walls  of  toppling  rocks,  only  to  be  scaled  as  he 
describes,  by  the  winged  chariot  of  the  ocean 
nymphs.' 
I.  2  One,  Prometheus. 
1. 12.  Cf.  ^<?chvlus,  32,  94. 
1.22.  Cf.  .^EschyluB,  21. 


623 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


I.  23.   Cf ,  ^schylus,  98-100. 

I.  25-2J).    Cf.  ^schylus,  88-92. 

I.  34.   Cf .  ^schylus,  1043. 

I.  45,  4().    Cf.  ^schylus,  24,  25. 

I.  58.  The  pity  of  Prometheus  for  Jupiter 
and  his  wish  to  recall  the  curse  formerly  pro- 
nounced mark  the  moral  transformation  of  the 
character  from  that  conceived  by  .lEschyhis. 
This  is  the  point  of  departure  from  the  ancient 
myth,  which  is  here  left  behind.  Shelley  thus 
clothes  Prometheus  with  the  same  ideal  previ- 
ously depicted  in  Laon,  —  the  spiritual  power  of 
high-minded  and  forgiving  endurance  of  wrong, 
the  opposition  of  love  to  force,  the  victorj'  of 
the  higher  nature  of  man  in  its  own  occult  and 
inherent  right.  It  appears  to  me  that  this  per- 
fecting of  Prometheus  through  suffering,  so 
that  he  lays  aside  his  hate  of  Jupiter  for  pity, 
shown  in  his  repentance  for  the  cui-se  and  his 
withdrawal  of  it,  is  the  initial  point  of  the  ac- 
tion of  the  drama  and  marks  the  appointed 
time  for  the  overthrow  of  the  tyrant.  Ihe  ful- 
filment of  the  moral  ideal  in  Prometheus  is  the 
true  cause  of  the  end  of  the  reign  of  evil,  though 
this  is  dramatically  brought  about  by  the  in- 
strumentality of  Demogorgon. 

In  this  opening  speech,  and  in  the  remainder 
of  the  drama,  it  is  unnecessary  to  point  out  the 
echoes  of  English  poets.  It  is  enough  to  observe 
generally,  once  for  all,  that  Milton  and  Shake- 
speare have  displaced  Wordsworth  and  Cole- 
ridge as  sources  of  phrase  and  tone,  though  they 
have  not  entirely  excluded  them,  especially  the 
latter ;  just  as  Plato  has  displaced  Godwin  and 
the  eighteenth  century  philosophers  in  the 
intellectual  sphere,  though  here  again  without 
entirely  excluding  them. 

I.  74.  The  dramatic  choruses  constructed  of 
responding  voices,  both  in  Shelley  and  in  Byron, 
go  back  to  the  witch  choruses  of  Macbeth  ;  but 
they  may  be  more  immediately  derived  from 
Coleridge's  Fire,  Famine,  and  Slaughter. 

I.  132  whisper,  the  '  inorganic  voice '  of  the 
earth. 

1. 137  And  love,  i.  e.,  dost  love  (Swinburne). 
Forman  conjectures  /  love ;  Rossetti,  and  Jove. 

I.  140.  Cf.  ^schylus,  321. 

1. 150  tongue,  the  earth  has  apparently  two 
voices,  that  of  the  dialogue  and  the  '  inorganic 
voice '  above,  which  is  the  same  as  '  the  lan- 
guage of  the  dead '  above  (cf .  I.  183)  and  the 
tongue  '  known  only  to  those  who  die '  in  this 
line. 

I.  165  et  seq.  Cf.  ^Eschylus,  1064-1070,  for 
parallel  imagery ;  but  the  passage  recalls  espe- 
cially the  sorrow  of  Demeter  after  the  rape  of 
Persephone  and  th£  woes  then  visited  on  the 
earth  in  the  classic  myth. 

I.  192  et  seq.  Zoroaster.  The  story  is  not 
known  to  Zoroastrian  literature.  The  concep- 
tion of  the  double  world  of  shades  and  forms, 
with  the  reunion  of  the  two  after  death,  seems 
oriirinal  with  Shelley,  suggested  by  the  notion 
of  Plato's  world  of  ideas. 

I.  262  et  seq.     Cf.  ^Eschylus,  1010-1017. 

I.  289  robe.    The  reference  is  to  the  shirt  of 


I.  296.   Cf.  ^schylus,  93G-940. 

I.  328.  The  detail  is  borrowed  from  the  ac- 
tion of  Apollo  in  ^schylus,  Eumenides,  170. 
The  character  of  Mercury  is  developed  by  in- 
cluding in  his  mood  the  pity  shown  by  Hy- 
phasstos  in  the  Pkometiieus.  The  Furies  are 
in  character,  description,  and  language,  Shel- 
ley's creation. 

I.  345.  The  reference  is  to  Dante,  Inferno,  ix, 

I.  354.  Cf.  .^chylus,  19,  20,  66. 

I.  376.  Cf.  ^Eschylus,  382. 

I.  386.  Cf.  iEschylus,  1014. 

I.  3<)9.  The  sword  of  Damocles. 

I.  402.  Cf .  ^Eschylus,  958-960. 

I.  408.  Cf.  ^sehylus,  52,  53. 

I.  416.  Cf.  ^^schylus,  774-779. 

I.  451.  The  idea  is  Platonic,  and  frequent  in 
Shelley.  Cf.,  below,  II.  iv.  83  and  Puince 
Athaxase,  II,  2. 

I.  458.  Cf .  -^chylus,  218 ;  The  Revolt  of 
Islam,  VIII.  ix,-x.,  xxi. 

I.  471.  The  ethical  doctrine  that  each  sin 
brings  its  own  penalty  of  necessity,  and  essen- 
tially is  its  own  punishment,  is  involved  in  the 
image  that  the  Furies  are  shapeless  in  them- 
selves. 

I.  484.  The  intimacy  of  remorse  in  the  soul  is 
partly  indicated  by  the  expressions  used.  The 
nature  of  the  suffering  brought  by  sin  is  most 
trul^  conceived  and  presented  in  what  the 
Funes  say  of  themselves  throughout  the  scene. 
The  idea,  however,  is  confused  by  the  addition 
of  the  element  of  the  evil  nature  active  within 
the  soul  and  assailing  it.  The  two  notions  are 
not  incompatible,  but  the  second  has  little  per- 
tinence to  Prometheus  here. 

I.  490.  The  case  illustrated,  for  example,  in 
Tennyson's  Lucretius, 

I.  547,  The  torture  of  Prometheus,  as  was 
indicated  by  the  speeches  of  the  Furies,  ceases 
to  be  physically  rendered,  and  becomes  mental. 
He  is  shown  two  visions  of  the  defeat  of  good, 
first  the  Crucifixion,  second,  the  French  Revo- 
lution ;  the  lesson  the  Furies  draw  is  the  folly 
of  Prometheus  in  having  opened  the  higher  life 
for  man,  since  it  entails  the  greater  misery  the 
more  he  aspires,  and  is  doomed  at  each  supreme 
effort  to  increase  rather  than  alleviate  the  state 
of  man  (cf.  I,  595-597),  The  torture  inflicted 
by  the  Furies,  as  well  as  the  description  of 
their  methods  in  the  abstract  just  commented 
on,  gives  an  ethical  reality  to  them  which  takes 
them  out  of  the  morals  of  the  ancient  world 
and  transforms  them  into  true  shapes  of  modem 
imagination, 

I,  592.  Cf.  ^schylus,  710-712. 

I.  618.  Cf.  ^schylus,  759-760. 

I.  619-632.  The  state  of  mankind,  as  Shelley 
saw  it,  described  in  cold,  blunt,  hard  terms,  is 
the  climax  and  summary  of  the  torture  Prome- 
theus suffers  at  the  last  moment ;  but  his  pre- 
ference to  feel  such  pain  rather  than  be  dull  to 
it,  and  his  continuance  in  faith  that  it  shall  end, 
combined  with  his  lack  of  hatred  or  desire  for 
vengeance,  signalizes  his  perfection  of  soul  on* 
der  experience. 

I.  641.  Cf.  ^Eschylus,  772. 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


623 


I.  660.  C£.  ^schylus,  288,  289. 

I.  673.  The  torture-scene  (with  which,  in  the 
physical  sense,  the  drama  of  w^Esehylus  closes) 
being'  now  over,  the  modem  drama  goes  on  to 
develop  the  regeneration  of  man,  and  first  in- 
troduces this  counter  scene  of  the  consolation 
of  Prometheus  by  the  spirits  of  the  human 
mind,  which  inhabit  thought ;  the  voices  are 
severally  those  of  Revolution,  Self-Sacrifice, 
Wisdom,  and  Poetry. 

I.  712  Between,  between  arch  and  sea. 

I.  766  iSAape,  Love. 

I.  772.  Cf.  Plato,  Symposium,  195  :  '  For 
Homer  says  that  the  Goddess  Calamity  is  deli- 
cate, and  that  her  feet  are  tender.  "  Her  feet 
are  soft,"  he  says,  "  for  she  treads  not  upon  the 
ground,  but  makes  her  path  upon  the  heads 
of  men." '  (fcjhelley's  translation.)  The  two 
spirits  who  sing  the  passage  of  Love  followed  by 
liuin,  present  in  poetical  and  intense  imagery 
the  one  comprehensive  and  symbolic  sorrow  of 
the  state  of  man  :  love  is  not  denied,  but  its 
fruits  are  misery  to  mankind.  The  prophecy 
that  '  begins  and  ends '  in  Prometheus  is  that 
he  shall  destroy  this  death  that  follows  in  Love's 
track,  of  which  the  Crucifixion  and  the  Revolu- 
tion have  been  taken  as  the  g^eat  symbols,  but 
similar  ruin  pervades  all  life  acted  on  by  love. 

I.  832.  There  is  here  the  hint  of  philosophical 
idealism  which  makes  nature's  life  dependent 
on  man's  consciousness  ;  nature  lives  in  his  ap- 
prehension of  and  union  with  it. 

Page  178.  Act  II.  i.  Scene.  The  question 
of  the  time  of  the  drama  has  been  much  com- 
mented upon,  but  to  little  effect.  The  scheme 
which  regards  the  time  as  twelve  hours,  from 
midnight  to  high  noon,  is  perhaps  most  satis- 
factory. The  inconsistencies  which  conflict 
with  such  a  theory  are  no  greater  than  are 
usually  to  be  found  in  Shelley's  work  ;  and  it  is 
not  probable  that  he  considered  the  matter  care- 
fully. '  Morning '  at  the  beginning  of  this  Act 
is  the  same  as  the  dawn  at  the  end  of  the  pre- 
ceding Act ;  and  the  journey  of  Asia  and  Pan- 
thea  to  the  cave  of  Demogorgon  is  timeless  ;  it 
is  dawn  when  they  arrive.    The  phrase,  II.  v. 

10,  '  The  sun  will  rise  not  until  noon '  is  not 
to  be  taken  literally,  but  only  as  an  image  of 
the  amazement  in  heaven  at  the  fall  of  Jupi- 
ter. Beyond  that  point  the  drama  has  no  rela- 
tion with  time  whatsoever. 

The  character  of  Panthea  is  wholly  developed 
in  this  Act.  She  has  no  being  of  her  own,  but 
is  the  mystical  medium  of  communication  be- 
tween Prometheus  and  Asia ;  to  each  she  is  the 
other.  In  Act  I.  824,  she  tells  Prometheus  that 
she  never  sleeps  '  but  when  the  shadow  of  thy 
spirit  falls  on  her'  [i.  fe.,  herself].  She  is  ad- 
dressed by  Asia,  II.  i.  31,  as  wearing  'the 
shadow  of  that  soul  [Prometheus]  by  which  I 
live  ; '  she  describes  how  that  shadow  falls  upon 
her,  and  is  made  her  being,  in  the  dream,  II. 
i.  71-82 ;  and  in  her  ej-es,  rather  than  through 
her  words,  Asia  would  read  Prometheus'  '  soul,' 

11.  i.  110,  and  does  behold  him  as  if  present, 
II.  i.  119-126.  On  the  other  hand  Prometheus 
in  the  dream  describes  her  as  the  shadow  of 


Asia,  II.  i.  71,  '  Whose  shadow  thou  art,'  and 
Panthea  asks  of  Asia,  II.  i.  113,  what  she  can 
see  in  her  eyes  except '  thine  own  fairest  shadow 
imaged  there.'  Panthea  describes  the  double 
relation  in  saying,  II.  i.  50,  that  she  is  '  made 
the  wind  which  fails  beneath  the  music  that  I 
bear  of  thy  most  wordless  converse,'  and,  II. 
i.  52,  as  '  dissolved  into  the  sense  with  which 
love  talks ; '  and  Asia  describes  Panthea 'a 
words,  II.  iv.  39,  as  '  echoes '  of  Prometheus. 
It  has  been  suggested  that  Panthea,  in  these 
relations,  is  Faith  in  the  Ideal,  but  it  does  not 
seem  to  me  that  there  is  any  so  precise  mean- 
ing ;  her  function  is  purely  emotional,  bring- 
ing into  apparent  conjunction  the  disunited 
lovers. 

The  character  of  Demogorgon,  also,  is  suffi- 
ciently developed  in  this  Act  for  comment.  The 
name  has  been  traced  to  Lactantius,  and  occurs 
in  English  in  Spenser,  Fatrie  Queene,  I.  v.  22, 
IV.  ii.  47,  and  in  Milton,  Paradise  Lost,  II.  96,5. 
Shelley  clothes  it  with  a  new  personality.  In 
Act  III.  i.  52,  he  describes  himself  as  '  eter- 
nity.' His  dwelling-place,  before  his  ascent 
and  after  it,  is  in  the  Cave,  which  is  what  Shel- 
ley was  accustomed  to  write  of  as  the  '  caves 
of  unimagined  being.'  From  it,  II.  iii.  4, '  the 
oracidar  vapor  is  hurled  up  '  which  is  the  nur- 
ture of  enthusiastic  genius,  —  '  truth,  virtue, 
love,  genius,  or  joy,  that  maddening  wine  of 
life.'  The  spirit  that  abides  there  is,  in  its 
negative  phase,  II.  iv.  5,  '  ungazed  upon  and 
shapeless  ; '  it  can  answer  all  questions,  as  in 
the  colloquy  with  Asia,  but  a  voice  is  wanting 
to  express  the  things  of  eternity,  II.  iv.  116, 
'the  deep  truth  is  imageless,'  and  II.  iv.  123, 
'  of  such  truths  each  to  itself  must  be  the 
oracle.'  The  conceptirn  has  points  of  contact 
with  that  of  the  soul  of  being  in  the  Hymn  to 
I>TELLKCTUAL  Beauty,  and  with  numerous 
other  apprehensions  of  the  divine  element  in 
Shelley's  poetry.  It  is  more  abstract  and  gray, 
in  this  shape  of  the  genius  presiding  even  over 
Jupiter's  fate,  than  usual,  because  a  part  of  the 
cosmic  idea  it  embodies  is  transferred  to  Asia 
in  this  drama,  as  the  being  in  whom  love  kindles 
and  through  whom  creation  becomes  beautiful ; 
Demogorgon  is  thus  elemental  in  the  highest 
degree,  lying  in  a  region  back  even  of  the  great 
poetic  conceptions  of  Love  and  Beauty,  as  well 
as  of  apparently  Omnipotent  Power,  in  the  world 
of  celestial  time.  To  him,  as  the  ultimate  of 
being  conceivable  by  man's  imagination,  the 
concluding  chorus  of  the  drama  is  fitly  given. 

II.  i.  71-87.  Cf .  Rosalind  and  Helen,  1028- 
10^6. 

II.  i.  117.   Cf.  V.  53,  note. 

II.  i.  140,  written  grief,  the  Ai,  Ai,  which 
the  Greeks  fancied  they  discerned  in  the  color 
markings  of  the  hyacinth.  Cf.  Adonais,  xvi. 
5,  note. 

II.  i.  142.  It  is  noticeable  that  the  first 
dream  belongs  to  Prometheus,  and  the  second 
appears  to  be  that  of  Asia.  She  recollects  the 
dream,  as  her  own.  The  double  character  of 
Panthea,  as  the  mirror  of  both  lovers,  is  thas 
preserved. 


624 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


II.  i.  IGG.  The  Echo  songs  are  of  course 
Ariel  songs. 

II.  ii.  1.  The  commentators  who  describe 
this  chorus  as  the  journey  of  love  and  faith 
through  experience,  in  sense,  emotion,  will,  etc. 
(see  Miss  Scudder'sPromeMetts  Unbound,  p.  151), 
seem  to  me  over-subtle.  The  sequence  from 
nature  to  emotion  and  impassioned  thought 
belongs  to  many  of  Shelley's  poems,  and  is  his 
natural  lyrical  fonn j  in  each  of  these  acts,  espe- 
cially I.,  II.,  and  IV.,  it  is  exhibited  on  the 
grand  scale,  but  in  his  minor  poems  it  is  usual. 
The  significant  part  of  the  chorus  is  lines  41- 
63,  where  the  stream  of  sound,  an  image  so 
repeated  as  to  be  cardinal  in  the  drama,  is  in- 
troduced, here  as  a  symbol  of  the  force  impell- 
ing will  (perhaps  conceived  as  desire  in  love), 
controlling  it.  The  manner  of  it,  II.  ii.  48-5(), 
is  after  Plato,  as  in  the  Symposium  and  Phie- 
drus ;  the  imagery  of  the  boat  and  the  stream 
is  a  strange  and  subtle  development  of  the  voy- 
age images  in  Alastor  and  The  Revolt  of 
Islam. 

II.  ii.  ('>2  fatal  mountain,  that  at  which  Asia 
and  Panthea  arrive  in  II.  iii.  1. 

II.  ii.  64.  The  Fauns  are  after  the  character 
of  the  Attendant  Spirit  in  Mihon's  Comus. 

II.  ii.  91  songs,  cf.  Virgil,  Eclogues,  VI.  31- 
42.  Such  Virgilian  echoes  are  found,  though 
rarely,  in  Shelley. 

II.  iii.  40.  The  image  is  one  of  the  few  sub- 
lime images  in  English  poetry. 

II.  iii.  54.  The  first  and  third  stanzas  de- 
scribe the  Cave  of  Demogorgon  as  the  place  of 
increale  eternity  or  absolute  being  ;  it  is  set 
forth  necessarily  by  negatives,  except  in  the  at- 
tributes of  universality  and  unity  in  II.  iii.  80. 

II.  iii.  94  meekness,  i.  e.,  the  meekness  of 
Prometheus  in  his  mood  toward  Jupiter,  as 
shown  in  Act  I.,  and  in  his  whole  moral  charac- 
ter as  developed  at  the  end  of  that  Act.  It  is 
because  of  this  change  in  Prometheus,  as  noted 
above,  that  now  'the  Eternal,  the  Immortal' 
(Demogorgon)  'must  unloose  through  life's 
portal  that  Snake-like  Doom '  (the  Spirit  of  the 
Hour  of  Jupiter's  overthrow),  'by  that  alone,' 
i.  e.,  the  inherent  moral  power  of  Prometheus' 
spiritual  state.  It  should  be  recalled  that  Pro- 
metheus is  mankind,  to  get  the  full  force  of  the 
lesson  enunciated. 

II.  iv.  12.  Kossetti  and  Swinburne  conjec- 
.tnre  that  a  line  is  missing.  The  former  corrects 
when  into  at ;  but  this  only  avoids  the  difficulty. 
The  sense  is  plain,  and  the  text  mu;it  be  ac- 
cepted as  corrupt. 

II.  iv.  48.   Cf.  yEschylns,  2,32,  23.3. 

II.  iv.  49  et  seq.  The  speech  is  based  on 
.(Eschylus,  20.5-262,  444-514,  but  is  highly  de- 
veloped, possibly  with  some  obligation  to  Lu- 
cretius, Bk.  V. 

II.  iv.  8.3.   Cf.  I.  451,  note. 

II.  iv.  146.  Cf.  I.  471,  note. 

II.  V.  20.  The  story  of  the  birth  of  Venus. 
The  irradiation  of  Asia,  as  the  spirit  of  love 
filling  the  world  with  created  beauty  (into 
which  complex  conception  enter  so  many  myth- 
ological and  metaphysical  strands  from  xjor 


cretius,  Plato,  and  antique  legend)  is  the  high- 
est point  reached  by  Slielley  in  rendering  the 
character  dramatically,  as  the  lyrics  immedi- 
ately following  -je  the  highest  point  reached  in 
its  lyrical  expression.  The  lines  II.  iv.  40-47 
are  the  antithesis  of  I.  (ili)-632.  They  are  the 
abstract  statement  of  love,  as  the  former  of 
hatred.  The  lyrics  following  are  a  highly  im- 
aginative statement  of  love  and  parallel  with  I. 
7tV4-780. 

II.  V.  48.  The  lyric  is  an  invocation  of  Asia 
as  '  the  light  of  life,  shadow  of  beauty  unbe- 
held  '  (III.  iii.  6)  —  the  sjiirit  presiding  in  crea- 
tion, the  divine  vivida  vis,  the  invisible  power 
making  for  beauty,  through  love,  in  the  world 
of  sensible  experience.  In  the  first  two  stanzas, 
Shelley  presents  the  supernal  brightness  as  half 
revealed  in  the  breath  and  smile  of  life,  but  in- 
supportable, and  again  as  burning  through  the 
beauty  of  nature,  which  is  an  atmosphere  about 
it ;  but  in  the  third  and  fourth  stanzas  he  re- 
turns to  its  invisibilitj',  as  a  thing  heard  like 
music,  as  the  source  of  all  beauty  of  shape  and 
all  joy  of  soul.  —  but  insupportable  in  these 
modes  of  knowledge  and  experience  as  in  its 
half-visible  forms. 

II.  V.  5.3.  Forman  aptly  quotes  Shelley  to 
Peacock,  April  6,  1819:  'The  only  inferior 
part  [in  the  Roman  beauties]  are  the  eyes, 
which,  though  good  and  gentle,  want  the  ma-'y 
depth  of  color  behind  color  with  which  the  in- 
tellectual women  of  England  and  Germany 
entangle  the  heart  in  soul-inspiring  labyrinths.' 
Cf.  i.  117  ;  The  Revolt  of  Islam,  XII.  v.  2. 

II.  V.  72.  The  following  lyric  takes  up  the 
image  of  the  boat  and  the  stream  from  II.  ii.  41  - 
63  (cf.  note),  and  elaborates  it,  the  boat  being 
the  soul  of  Asia,  driven  on  the  song  of  the 
Singer ;  the  Singer  and  Asia  are  thus  unit«d 
spiritually  in  the  song  and  guided  musically 
on  the  mystic  voyage  backward  through  the 
forms  of  human  ^ife  to  the  soul's  preexistent 
eternity  (reversing  Wordsworth's  Ode  on  the  In- 
timations  of  Immortality) .  Cf .  To  Constantia, 
Singing,  and  To  One  Singing,  p.  488. 

Page  189.  Act  III.  i.  40.  Cf.  Lucan,  Phar- 
salia,  ix.  723. 

III.  i.  69.  Jupiter  acknowledges  the  red 
supremacy  of  the  moral  nature. 

III.  i.  72.  Cf.  The  Revolt  of  Islaji,  I.  vi. 
et  seq. 

III.  ii.  The  scene  is  idyllic,  not  only  by  virtue 
of  the  calm  classical  figures  of  Apollo  and 
Oceanus,  but  as  containing  the  first  of  the  mil- 
lennial descriptions  which  now  recur  to  the  end 
of  the  drama. 

III.  ii.  46.  Cf.  The  Revolt  of  Islam,  II. 
xxix.  1. 

III.  iii.  10  Cave,  the  first  of  the  caves  which 
Shelley  delighted  to  depict  as  refuges  from  the 
world.  It  is  to  be  taken  as  an  Italian  element 
in  his  verse. 

III.  iii.  15.  The  stalactite  formations  met 
with  in  Alastor. 

III.  iii.  25  mutability,  a  constant  and  charac- 
teristic word  and  thought  of  Shelley, 

III.  iii.  49-60.    This  sesthetic  theory  is  purely 


NOTES  AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


625 


Platonic.  Cf .  Plato,  especially  Symposium  and 
Phcedrus.    Cf.  Ode  to  Libekty,  xvii.  9. 

III.  iii  70  sAe//.  tjalt  quotes  from  Hogg :  'Sir 
Guyou  de  Shelley,  one  of  the  most  famous 
of  the  Paladins,  carried  about  with  him  three 
conches.  .  .  .  When  he  made  the  third  conch, 
the  golden  one,  vocal,  the  law  of  God  was 
immediately  exalted,  and  the  law  of  the  devil 
annulled  and  abrogated  wherever  the  po- 
tent sound  reached.  Was  Shelley  thinking  of 
this  golden  conch  when  he  described,  in  his 
great  poem,  that  mystic  shell  from  which  is 
sounded  the  trumpet-blast  of  universal  free- 
dom ? ' 

III.  iii.  91-9.3.  The  sympathy  of  Shelley  with 
life  in  its  humblest  forms  was  almost  Buddhistic 
in  solicitude.  Cf.  below,  III.  iv.  3G,  or  The 
Sensitive  Plant,  II.  41. 

III.  iii.  111.    Cf.  I.  150. 

III.  iii.  113.  Cf.  Sonnet,  'Lift  not  the 
painted  veil.' 

III.  iii.  124.  The  cavern  where  Prometheus 
was  born,  seemingly  the  same  as  in  III.  iii.  10, 
more  developed  in  the  description. 

III.  iii.  171.  This  line,  in  connection  with 
108-110,  intimates  a  greater  faith  in  immortal- 
ity thau  any  previous  passage  of  Shelley,  but 
it  is  a  shadowy  intimation.  Cf.  IV.  536.  The 
dead,  throughout  the  drama,  are  described  in 
the  pagan  spirit,  and  the  lot  of  man,  not  exempt 
even  in  this  millennium  from  '  chance  and  death 
and  mutability,'  is  opposed  to  the  lot  of  the  im- 
mortals as  at  a  pagan  distance  below  them  — 
the  fate  that  Lucretius  described. 

III.  iv.  The  Spirit  of  the  Earth  now  takes 
the  place  of  the  Earth  in  the  drama.  The  form 
it  wears  is  a  characteristic  SheUeyan  concep- 
tion, belonging  to  his  most  unshared  originalitj' 
in  creation.  Cf.  Pkince  Athanase,  U.  106, 
note- 

III.  iv.  54  sound,  the  shell. 

III.  iv.  76,  77.  The  ease  with  which  all 
things  '  put  their  evil  nature  off,'  and  the  '  little 
change '  the  action  involved,  are  both  charac- 
teristic of  Shelley's  ethical  scheme.  Evil  was 
conceived  as  something  that  could  be  laid  aside, 
like  a  garment,  by  the  will  of  man.  Cf.  III. 
iv.  199,  note. 

III.  iv.  104, 105.    Through  the  power  of  love. 

III.  iv.  128  change.   Cf.  III.  iv.  104,  105. 

III.  iv.  172.  Rossetti  conjectures  a  comma 
after  conquerors  and  a  period  after  round.  The 
text  of  Shelley  seems  plain  without  the  change. 
The  emblems  of  Power  and  Faith  stand  in  the 
new  world  unregarded  and  mouldering  memori- 
als of  a  dead  past,  just  as  the  Egyptian  monu- 
ments imaged  to  a  later  time  than  their  own  a 
vanished  monarchj'  and  religion  ;  the  fact  that 
these  monuments  survived  the  new  race  and 
last  into  our  still  later  time  is  an  unnecessary 
and  subordinate  incident  inserted  because  it  ap- 
pealed to  Shelley's  imagination.  Cf.  Swinburne, 
2fotes  on  the  Text  of  Skelte]/. 

III.  iv.  193,  197.  The  ideal  here  described  is 
anarchistic,  but  it  is  also  the  ultimate  of  the 
ideas  of  freedom,  fraternity,  and  equality,  and 
of  the  supremacy  of  that  inward  moral  order 


which  would  dispense  with  those  functions  of 
government  in  which  Shelley  believed  wrong 
neoessarily  resides. 

III.  iv.  199.  The  supremacy  of  the  '  will ' 
of  man,  though  less  dwelt  on  in  this  drama,  is 
conceived  in  the  same  way  as  in  The  Revolt 
OF  Islam,  VIII.  xvi.,  the  Ode  to  Libekty,  V. 
10,  Sonnet,  Poutical  Gkeatness,  11.  It  is 
f  undamentnl  in  Shelley's  beliefs. 

Page  197.  Act  IV.  This  act  was,  as  the 
Head-note  states,  an  afterthought.  It  is  to  be 
observed  that  Prometheus,  after  his  release, 
Ctsises  to  be  of  imi)ortauce.  owing  to  the  fact 
that  his  symbolic  character  as  mankind  is 
dropped,  and  liberated  and  regenerated  society 
is  directly  described  in  the  millennial  passages. 
In  this  Act  he  does  not  appear  at  all,  though 
the  true  significance  of  his  deed  closes  the 
drama.  Similarly,  Asia  disappears.  Panthea 
and  lone  are  the  spectators  and  act  as  the 
chorus,  in  the  Greek  sense,  to  the  other  partici- 
pants. The  part  of  the  chorus  has  from  the 
beginning  of  the  drama  threatened  to  over- 
whelm the  part  of  the  actors  ;  here  it  does  so 
to  such  an  extent  that  the  Act  presents  the 
anomaly  (in  form)  of  lyrical  passages  as  the 
main  interest,  with  the  chorus,  properly  speak- 
ing, in  blank  verse.  The  Act  has  three  move- 
ments :  the  paean  of  the  Hours,  the  antiphony 
of  the  Earth  and  the  Moon,  the  Invocation  of 
the  Univei'se  by  Demogorgon. 

IV.  M  One,  Prometheus. 

IV.  65-67.  These  three  lines  might  be  taken 
severallv  as  a  summary  of  the  theme  of  Acts  I., 
II.,  and  III. 

IV.  82.  A  singularly  felicitous  expression  to 
describe  the  double  aspect  of  language  as  sound 
and  color. 

IV.  186.    The  harmony  of  the  sphere. 

IV.  203.  The  image  of  the  stream  of  sound 
is  here  again  introduced.     Cf.  II.  v.  72,  note. 

IV.  210.  The  image  is  of  '  the  new  moon 
with  the  old  moon  in  her  arms.'  Cf.  The 
Triumph  of  Life,  79-85. 

IV.  213  regard,  appear. 

IV.  217.  The  sunset  image  accounts  for  the 
phrase  '  ebbing '  in  208.  Cf .  Revolt  of 
Islam,  I.  vi.  8,  note. 

IV.  2;58  sphere,  the  earth. 

IV.  247.  The  intention  seems  to  be  to  suggest 
the  incessant  operation  of  manifold  natural 
forces  and  processes  in  the  sphere,  each  in  its 
own  realm. 

IV.  265.  This  is  the  same  spirit  as  in  III. 
iii.  148. 

IV.  272,  The  reference  is  to  Harmodius  and 
Aristogeiton. 

IV.  281  valueless,  above  all  valne.  The 
speech  reveals  the  history  of  the  earth  as  the 

grevious  speech  reveals  its  physical  structure, 
helley  does  not  consider  the  chronology  of  the 
spectacle,  but  marely  presents,  first,  the  antique 
ruins  of  humanity,  and,  second,  the  fossil  pri- 
meval world. 

IV.  314  blue  globe,  the  world  of  waters. 
IV.  376.    The  construction  of  this  and  the  fol' 
lowing  stanzas  is  unusually  involved.  It  (Love), 


626 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


from  the  preceding  stanza,  is  the  subject  of 
has  arisen  ;  sea  is  in  apposition  with  world  (•■JS4) ; 
which  (3H5)  refers  to  love  ;  Leave  (388)  repeating' 
Leave  in  382,  takes  up  the  dropped  construction  ; 
and  Man  (3')4)  similarly  repeating  Man  from 
388.  introduces  a  n-jw  train  of  thought. 

IV.  400,  401.  The  most  compact  statement 
of  fcjhelley's  social  ideal,  with  its  spontaneous 
ethical  order  of  love. 

IV.  404.  The  fact  that  Shelley  did  not  ex- 
clude toil  and  suffering  from  his  millennium  of 
society  is  a  cardinal  point.  Cf.  III.  iii.  171 
note,  and  III.  iii.  201. 

IV.  40(5,     Cf.  III.  iii.  199  note. 

IV.  414.     Cf .  II.  iv.  83  note. 

IV.  423.  The  prophecy  of  scientific  progress 
is  apocalyptic  in  visionary  energy. 

I V.  444.  A  singular  instance  of  precise  sci- 
entific imagination  in  poetry.  Cf.  Epipsychi- 
DiON,  227,  Hellas,  I.  943. 

IV.  493,  494.  The  lines  are  given  by  Ros- 
setti  to  the  preceding  speech,  but  without  prob- 
ability.   Cf.  Lines,  p.  433. 

IV.  503.  The  development  of  the  image  of 
the  stream  of  sound  could  not  go  further  than  in 
this  and  the  following  lines. 

IV.  536.     Cf.  III.  iii.  171  note. 

IV.  554  Demogorgon.  The  sudden  and  com- 
plete subordination  of  all  the  beings  of  the  uni- 
verse to  the  idea  of  the  Eternal  Principle  is 
accomplished  with  sublime  effect.  The  drama 
is  thus  brought  to  an  end,  after  its  lyrical  jubi- 
lee, by  its  highest  intellectual  conception  giving 
utteranca  to  its  highest  moral  command,— 
Demogorgon,  the  voice  of  Eternity,  phrasing,  in 
the  presence  of  the  listening  Universe  of  all  be- 
ing, the  encomium  of  Prometheus  as  the  type  of 
the  soul's  wisdom  in  action  in  an  evil  world 
leading  to  the  achievement  of  such  regeneration 
on  earth  as  is  possible  to  a  mortal  race. 

IV.  553  Earth-born'' s,  Prometheus. 

IV.  557.  Love  is  here  identified  with  Prome- 
theus, in  whom  it  reigned  and  suffered. 

IV.  5(55  Eternity.  Demogorgon  is  properly 
Eternity,  but  here  speaks  of  Eternity  under 
another  conception. 

IV.  568.  The  use  of  the  serpent  image  for 
the  principle  of  evil  is  contrary  to  Shelley's 
practice. 

IV.  570.  Cf.  The  Revolt  of  Islam,  VIII. 
XI.,  xii.,  xxii.,  where  Laone's  speech  contains 
these  maxims  in  a  weaker  and  diffused  form  ; 
they  constitute  Shelley's  persistent  ideal,  and  of 
them  he  made  Prometheus  the  type ;  he  here 
identifies  this  ideal,  which  is  one  of  suffering 
under  wrong,  with  all  forms  of  the  good  and  of 
power,  thereby  affirming  the  supremacy  of  spir- 
itual moral  order  at  all  times  and  under  all  cir- 
cumstances. Neither  Platonic  nor  Christian 
faith  is  more  absolute. 

Page  20(5,  The  Cenoi.  The  narrative  of 
the  events  upon  which  The  Cenci  is  founded 
is  reprinted  in  the  Centenary  Edition,  ii,  447- 
463,  with  notes  of  other  accounts.  The  Shak- 
sperian  echoes,  mainly  from  Lear,  Macbeth,  and 
Othello,  are  easily  recognizable.  The  simile 
from  Calderon,  mentioned  in  the  Preface,  is  in 


Act  III.  i.  247,  The  passage  in  Act  II.  ii.  141, 
recalls  the  Fkagment,  page  487,  To  thikst 
AND  FIND  NO  FiLL.  The  text  offers  no  diffi- 
culty. Criticism  of  the  play  has  been  uniformly 
appreciative,  though  it  did  not  succeed  when 
privately  acted,  May  7,  188(5,  in  London.  The 
action,  owing  to  the  difficulty  of  displaying  the 
story,  is  weak ;  the  characterization  of  Cenci 
and  Beatrice  is  vigorous,  and  that  of  Oi'sino 
and  GiacMTio  is  studied  with  attention  and  in- 
genuity ;  the  other  persons  only  serve  to  carry 
on  the  scenes.  The  dignity  of  the  diction,  the 
elevation  of  the  sentiments,  and  the  adherence 
to  Italian  contemporary  habits  of  mind  as  un- 
derstood by  Shelley,  are  admirable.  The  total 
effect  is  of  intense  and  awful  gloom,  and  the 
play  is  more  powerful  as  a  whole  than  in  any 
detail,  scene,  or  act.  In  it  culminates  that 
fascination  of  horror  in  Shelley  which  was  as 
characteristic  as  his  worship  of  beauty  and 
love,  though  it  is  less  omnipresent  in  his  poe- 
try. 

Page  252.  The  Mask  of  Anakchy.  Salt 
refers,  for  the  events  giving  occasion  for  this 
poem,  to  Martineau,  History  of  the  Peace,  I. 
chaps,  xvi.,  xvii.  A  MS.  facsimile  of  the  text  in 
Shelley's  hand  was  published  by  the  Shelley 
Society,  1887. 

Stanzas  iv.,  v,  Cf ,  To  the  Lord  Chancel- 
LOK,  xiii.  ;  and  (Edipus  Tyrannus,  I.  334. 

Stanza  xxviii.  1  Shape.  Salt  identifies  the 
figure- aa  that  of  Libarty. 

Stanza  xxx.  Cf .  Prometheus  Unbound,  I. 
772  note. 

Stanza  xxxv.  The  doctrine  of  Prometheus 
Unbound  and  The  Revolt  of  Islam. 

Stanza  xlv.  Cf.  (Edipus  Tyrannus,  I.  196 
note. 

Page  258.  Peter  Bell  the  Third.  The 
poem  satirizes  Wordsworth  on  the  ground  of 
his  conservatism  in  politics  and  the  dulness  of 
much  of  his  poetry. 

Page  259  Thomas  Brown,  Esq.,  the  Younger, 
H,  F.  The  pseudonym  under  which  Moore 
published  The  Fudge  Family.  H.  F.  is  inter- 
preted by  Dr.  Garnett  as  '  Historian  of  the 
Fudges  ; '  Rossetti  suggests  JJibernia  Filius. 

The  world  of  all  of  us,  ^Vordsworth,  Prelude, 
XL  142. 

Page  260  'fo  occupy  a  permanent  station.^ 
Rossetti  compares  Wordsworth's  preface  to 
Peter  Bell. 

Shelley's  Notes  on  the  poem  are  as  fol- 
lows : 

Prologue  36.     The  oldest  scholiasts  read  — 
A  dodecagamic  Potter. 

This  is  at  once  more  descriptive  and  more 
megalophonous,  —  but  the  alliteration  of  the 
text  had  captivated  the  vulgar  ear  of  the  herd 
of  later  commentators. 

I.  ii.  3.  To  those  who  have  not  duly  appreci- 
ated the  distinction  between  Whale  and  Russia 
oil,  this  attribute  might  rather  seem  to  belong 
to  the  Dandy  than  the  Evangelic.  The  effect, 
when  to  the  windward,  is  indeed  so  similar, 
that  it  requires  a  subtle  naturalist  to  discrimi' 


NOTES  AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


€27 


nate  the  animals.  They  belong,  however,  to 
distinct  genera. 

III.  A'iii.  2.  One  of  the  attributes  in  Lin- 
naeus's  description  of  the  Cat.  To  a  similar 
cause  the  caterwauling  of  more  than  one  spe- 
cies of  this  genus  is  to  be  referred  ;  —  except, 
indeed,  that  the  poor  quadruped  is  compelled 
to  quarrel  with  its  own  pleasures,  whilst  the 
biped  is  supposed  only  to  quarrel  with  those  of 
others. 

viii.  5.  What  would  this  husk  and  excuse 
for  a  virtue  be  without  its  kernel  prostitution, 
or  the  kernel  prostitution  without  this  husk  of 
a  virtue  ?  I  wonder  the  women  of  the  town  do 
not  form  an  association,  like  the  Society  for  the 
Suppression  of  Vice,  for  the  support  of  what 
may  be  called  the  '  King,  Church,  and  Consti- 
tution '  of  their  order.  But  this  subject  is  al- 
most too  horrible  for  a  joke. 

xvi.  1.  This  libel  on  our  national  oath,  and 
this  accusation  of  all  our  countrymen  of  being 
in  the  daily  practice  of  solemnly  asseverating 
the  most  enormous  falsehood,  I  fear  deserves 
the  notice  of  a  more  active  Attorney-General 
than  that  here  alluded  to. 

VI.  xi.  .5  Vox  populi,  vox  dei.  As  Mr. 
Godwin  truly  observes  of  a  more  famous  saying, 
of  some  merit  as  a  popular  maxim,  but  totally 
destitute  of  philosophical  accuracy. 

xvi.  2.  Quasi,  Qui  valet  verba  :  —  i.  e.  all  the 
words  which  have  been,  are,  or  may  be  expended 
by,  for.  against,  with,  or  on  him.  A  sufficient 
proof  of  the  utility  of  tliis  history.  Peter's  pro- 
genitor who  selected  this  name  seems  to  have 
possessed  a  pure  anticipated  cognition  of  the  na- 
ture and  modesty  of  this  ornament  of  his  pos- 
terity. 

XXV.  5.  A  famous  river  in  the  New  Atlantis 
of  the  Dynastophylic  Pantisocratists, 

xxvi.  5.  See  the  description  of  the  beautiful 
colors  produced  during  the  agonizing  death  of  a 
number  of  trout,  in  the  fourth  part  of  a  long 
poem  in  blank  verse  \_The  Excursion,  Book 
VIII.  559-572]  published  within  a  few  years. 
That  poem  contains  curious  evidence  of  the 
gradual  hardening  of  a  strong  but  circum- 
scribed sensibility,  of  the  perversion  of  a  pene- 
trating but  panic-stricken  understanding.  The 
author  might  have  derived  a  lesson  which  he 
had  probably  forgotten  from  these  sweet  and 
sublime  verses. 

This  lesson.  Shepherd,  let  us  two  divide, 
Taught  both  by  what  she  [nature]  shows  and  what  con- 
ceals, 
Never  to  blend  our  pleasure  or  our  pride 
With  sorrow  of  the  meanest  thing  that  feels. 

[Wordsworth,  IlarCeap  Well,  II.  xii.] 

xxxviii.  fi.  It  is  curious  to  observe  how 
often  extremes  meet.  Cobbett  and  Peter  use 
the  same  language  for  a  different  purpose : 
Peter  is  indeed  a  sort  of  metrical  Cobbett. 
Cobbett  is,  however,  more  mischievous  than 
Peter,  because  he  pollutes  a  holy  and  now  un- 
conquerable cause  with  the  principles  of  legiti- 
mate murder ;  whilst  the  other  only  makes  a 
bad  one  ridiculous  and  odious.    If  either  Peter 


or  Cobbett  should  see  this  note,  each  will  feel 
more  indignation  at  being  compared  to  the  other 
than  at  any  censure  implied  in  the  moral  per- 
version laid  to  their  charge. 

Page  260,  Prologue,  line  3.  Reynolds's 
poem. 

Line  16.     Wordsworth's  poem. 

Line  22.  Shelley's  poem.  The  three  are  said 
to  present  Peter  in  the  state  before,  during,  and 
after  life. 

III.  ii.  1  Castles,  identified  by  Rossetti  as  a 
Government  spy. 

III.  xiii.  4  Alemannic,  German. 

IV.  ix.  The  stanza,  a  striking  critical  state- 
ment of  the  originality  of  a  creator  in  literature, 
seems  sincerely  meant.  Cf.  also  the  praise 
hidden  in  the  satire  of  V.  vii.-xv.  ;  The  Witch 
OF  Atlas,  iv.-vi.  ;  the  sonnet  To  Wokds- 
WORTH ;  An  Exhortation. 

IV.  xiv.  1-2.  '  A  mouth  kissed  loses  not 
charm  but  renews  as  does  the  moon.'  Rossetti 
quotes  Shelley  to  Hunt,  27  September  1819, 
where  Boccaccio  is  praised  and  these  words  re- 
ferred to. 

V.  i.  3  man,  Coleridge.  The  characteriza- 
tion is  remarkable  for  one  who  did  not  know 
the  poet ;  it  is  discriminating  and  vivid,  and  not 
unjust,  allowing  for  the  satirical  tone.  Cf. 
Letter  to  Maria  Gisborne,  202. 

VI.  xii.  The  reference  is  to  Wordsworth's 
prefaces. 

VI.  XV.  The  reference  is  to  Drummond'a 
Academical  Questions,  a  favorite  book  of 
Shelley's. 

VI.  xxix.  4.    Sheridan. 

VI.  xxxvi.  2.  Wordsworth,  Thanksgiving  Ode 
on  the  Battle  of  Waterloo,  first  version  (see 
Knight's  ed.  Poetical  Works,  Second  Ode,  iv. 
20). 

VII.  iv.  4  Oliver,  identified  by  Forman  as  a 
Government  spy  '  prominent  in  the  case  of 
Brandreth,  Turner,  and  Ludlam,  whose  execu- 
tion in  1817  inspired  Shelley  to  write  The  Ad- 
dress to  the  People  on  the  Death  of  the  Princess 
Charlotte.' 

xiv.  4  Guatimozin,  son-in-law  of  Monte- 
zuma, whom  he  succeeded  as  the  last  Aztec 
prince.     He  was  tortured  by  Cortez. 

Page  271.  The  Witch  of  Atlas.  This 
poem  derives  its  tone  from  Homer's  Hymn  to 
Mercury,  which  Shelley  had  recently  translated 
in  the  same  measure  and  literary  manner.  To 
search  for  its  meaning  is  like  plucking  the  rose 
apart ;  for  once,  it  seems  to  me,  though  with- 
out losing  the  rich  suggestiveness  inherent  in  the 
workings  of  his  mind,  Shelley  allowed  his  genius 
to  play  with  its  habitual  images  and  tendencies 
without  definite  intention,  in  pure  self-enjoy- 
ment of  its  own  beauty  and  sweetness.  No 
poem  of  his  is  so  happy,  so  free  from  the  mortal 
strain  of  life  and  effort,  so  disen^asred  from  the 
wretchedness  of  men.  In  the  earlier  stajres  one 
might  find  analogies  with  the  Hymn  to  Intel- 
lectual Beauty  and  guess  that  Shelley  was 
weaving  round  the  spirit  of  universal  life  the 
robe  of  illusion  that  should  render  it  visible  in 


628 


NOTES   AND  ILLUSTRATIONS 


transparency  of  human  form  and  activity ;  but 
as  the  verse  ilows  on,  with  the  familiar  imagery 
of  the  boat  and  its  voyage  througli  subterranean 
caverns  and  among  mountains,  and  develops 
the  wanderings  of  the  Witch  among  cities  and 
in  the  solitudes  of  far-off  nature,  it  appears  to 
me  that  Shelley  interprets  half-consciously  the 
functions  of  genius,  imagination,  and  poetry 
conceived  almost  as  interdependent  existences 
with  only  a  remote  and  dreamy  relation  to  hu- 
man life.  The  Witch,  who  cannot  die,  is  in 
the  world  of  Prometheus  and  Urania,  a  semi- 
divine  world  separated  from  the  miserable  fate 
of  men,  though  not  detached  from  the  know- 
ledge of  their  life.  I  associate  the  Herma- 
phrodite of  the  poem  with  the  imdefined  figure 
of  the  Lines  Connected  with  Epipsychi- 
DION.  Shelley  uses  the  word  '  Witch '  in  a 
similar  connection  twice :  '  In  the  still  cave  of 
the  witch  Poesy,'  Mont  Blanc,  ii.  33,  and 
'  the  quaint  witch,  Memory,'  Letter  to  Ma- 
BiA  GisBORNE,  132.  The  poem  most  analo- 
gous with  The  Witch  of  Atlas  is  The  Sen- 
sitive Plant;  the  figure  of  the  Witch,  while 
not  less  touched  with  mystery  than  the  Lady  of 
the  garden,  is  more  definite  ;  and  the  ideality  of 
the  landscape,  nowhere  in  Shelley's  verse  so 
great  as  here,  is  superior  in  the  same  propor- 
tion as  the  expanse  of  the  globe  exceeds  the 
limits  of  the  garden. 

Page  272  To  Mary,  his  wife. 

Stanza  iii.  1  winged  Vision,  The  Revolt  of 
Islam. 

Stanza  iv.  2.    Cf .  Peter  Bell,  IV.  ix.  note. 

Page  273,  stanza  ii.  Cf.  Homer's  Hymn  to 
Memory,  i.  and  Spenser's  Faerie  Queene,  III. 
vi.  7. 

vi.  Here,  and  in  the  following  stanzas,  there 
appear  to  be  reminiscences  of  Spenser's  Una. 

ix.  5.  A  variant  of  the  idea  of  Demogorgon 
in  Prometheus  Unbound. 

xi.  2  pastoral  Garamant,  Fezzan. 

xi.  8  bosom-eyed,  a  suggestion  associated  with 
Coleridge's  Witch  in  Christabel. 

xviii.  2,  Archimage,  Spenser's  magician  in 
the  Faerie  Queene,  I.  i. 

XXV.  7.  Cf.  stanza  i. ;  the  reference  is  to  the 
belief  that  the  old  divinities  passed  away  at  the 
birth  of  Christ.  Cf.  Hellas,  225-238  ;  Milton, 
Ode  on  the  Nativity,  xix.-xxi. 

xxxii.,  xxxiii.  Cf.  The  Zucca  and  Frag- 
ments OF  AN  Unfinished  Drama,  127. 

xlvii.  8  Thamandocana,  Timbuctoo. 

Ivii.  4  Axum^,  Abyssinia. 

lix.  1-4.  A  favorite  and  oft-repeated  image 
of  Shelley's.    Cf .  Ode  to  Liberty,  vi.  1  note. 

Ixiii.  The  contnist  between  the  lot  of  men 
and  that  of  the  immortals  is  the  same  as  in 
Prometheus  Unbound. 

Ixvii.  8  The  Heliad,  the  lady-witch. 

Page  283,  CEdipi's  Tykannus.  Salt  refers, 
for  the  historical  basis  of  this  grotesque  drama, 
to  Martineau's  Ilinlory  of  the  Peace,  II.  ch.  ii. 
He  suggests,  besides  the  identifications  men- 
tioned in  the  Head-note,  that  the  Leech  is  taxes, 
the  Gadfly,  slander ;  the  Rat,  espionage.  The 
Minotaur  is,  of  course,  John  Bull ;  Adiposa  (I. 


290),  Rossetti  says,  was  an  easily  identified  titled 
lady  of  the  time,  whose  name  he  allows  '  to 
sleep.'  The  example  is  rai-e  enough  to  merit 
imitation. 

Shelley's  Notes  on  the  drama  are  as  fol- 
lows : 

I.  8.  See  Universal  History  for  an  account 
of  the  number  of  people  who  died,  and  the  im- 
mense consumption  of  garlic  by  the  wretched 
Egyptians,  who  made  a  sepulchre  for  the  name 
as  well  as  the  bodies  of  their  tyrants. 

I.  153.  And  the  Lord  whistled  for  the  gad- 
fly out  of  Ethiopia,  and  for  the  bee  of  Egypt, 
etc.  —  Ezekiel,  [The  proper  reference  is  to 
Isaiah  vii.  18:  'And  it  shall  come  to  pass  in 
that  day  that  the  Lord  shall  hiss  for  the  fly  that 
is  in  the  uttermost  part  of  the  rivers  of  Egypt, 
and  for  the  bee  that  is  in  the  land  of  Assyria.'] 

I.  204.  If  one  should  many  a  gallows,  and 
beget  young  gibbets,  I  never  saw  one  so  prone. 
—  Cymheline. 

II.  173.  Rich  and  rare  were  the  gems  she 
wore.  —  See  Moore'' s  Irish  Melodies. 

Page  286,  I.  77  arch-priest,  perhaps  Malthus 
is  meant. 

I.  101.  Rossetti  notes  that  this  line  was  a 
'  de  /acio  utterance  of  Lord  Castlereagh.' 

I.  19()  Chrysaor.  Rossetti  notes  the  allusion 
to  '  paper-money  discussions.'  Cf .  The  Mask 
of  Anarchy,  xlv. 

I.  334.  Cf.  The  Mask  of  Anarchy,  iv.  note. 

II.  60-66.  Shelley  writes  to  Peacock,  No- 
vember 8,  1818:  'Every  here  and  there  one 
sees  people  employed  in  agricultural  labors,  and 
the  plough,  the  harrow,  or  the  cart,  drawn  by 
long  teams  of  milk-white  or  dove-colored  oxen 
of  immense  size  and  exquisite  beauty.  This, 
indeed,  might  be  the  country  of  Pasiphaes. 
Cf.  Lines  Written  among  the  Euganean 
Hills,  220. 

Page  297.  Epipsychidion.  This  poem  has 
been  edited,  with  a  careful  study  of  it,  by 
Rev.  Stopford  A.  Brooke,  in  the  Shelley  So- 
ciety's Publications  (Second  Series,  No.  7),  1887, 
and  its  sources  have  been  examined  by  Dr. 
Richard  Ackermann  in  his  Quellen,  Vorhilder, 
Sloffe  zu  Shelley'' s  Poetischen  Werken,  18iK).  It 
represents  the  final  outcome  of  conceptions 
which  had  been  present,  in  a  half-formed  state, 
in  Shelley's  mina  from  the  beginning  of  his  true 
poetic  career  in  1816.  They  constituted,  as  it 
were,  the  elements  of  an  unwritten  poem  in  a 
fluid  state,  and  were  suddenly  precipitated  by 
the  accident  of  his  meeting  with  Emilia  Vivi- 
ani  under  circumstances  that  made  a  romantic 
appeal  to  his  genins.  It  is  easy  to  enumerate 
these  elements.  The  conception  of  a  Spiritual 
Power  which  is  felt  in  the  loveliness  of  nature 
and  in  the  thought  of  man  is  set  forth  in  the 
Hymn  to  Intkllectttal  Beauty  (cf.  The 
Revolt  of  Islam,  VI.  xxxviii.  1),  and  to  it 
Shelley  dedicates  his  powei-s ;  the  pursuit  of 
this  spirit,  typified  under  the  form  of  woman 
and  seen  only  in  vision,  is  the  substance  of 
Alastob,  and  the  end  is  represented  as  the 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


629 


lonely  death  of  the  poet.  The  conception  of  a 
youth  in  whom  '  genius  and  death  contended  ' 
—  a  variant  of  the  youth  in  Alastob  —  occurs 
in  The  ISunset,  4,  and  in  the  Dedication  to 
The  Revolt  of  Islam,  x.  9,  and  it  is  notice- 
able that  the  figure  is  repeated  as  late  as  Ado- 
NAis,  xliv.,  in  nearly  identical  terms.  In  Thk 
Sunset,  as  in  Alastor,  ther  youth  dies.  A 
new  poem,  Prince  Athanase,  was  partly 
■written,  in  whicli  apparently  the  same  pursuit 
of  the  ideal  was  to  bo  represented  ;  but  the  con- 
duct of  the  poem  was  to  be  complicated  by  the 
error  of  Athanase  in  mistaking  the  earthly  love 
for  the  heavenly  love,  in  consequence  of  which 
Shelley  first  named  the  poem  Pandemos  and 
Urania.  The  figure  of  Urania  would  have 
appeared  at  the  deathbed  of  Athanase.  The 
pursuit  of  the  ideal  was  given  a  metaphysical 
form  in  the  prose  fragment  On  Love.  He  there 
describes  the  ideal  self  as  '  a  miniature  as  it 
were  of  our  entire  self,  yet  deprived  of  aU  that 
we  condemn  or  despise ;  the  ideal  prototype 
of  everything  excellent  or  lovely  that  we  are 
capable  of  conceiving  as  belonging  to  the  nature 
of  man.'  He  calls  it  '  a  soul  within  our  soul ; ' 
and  he  adds,  '  the  discovery  of  its  antitype 
[the  responding  being]  is  the  invisible  and  un- 
attainable point  to  which  Love  tends.'  In  the 
absence  of  this  beloved  one,  nature  solaces  us 
(of.  The  Zucca).  Shelley  had  thus  conceived 
of  the  ideal,  both  in  its  universal  and  in  a  pai-- 
ticular  form,  ^  the  latter  under  the  form  of 
woman.  In  the  Projietheus  Unbound  he 
blended  the  two  in  Asia,  but  not  so  as  to  hu- 
manize her ;  she  remains  elemental.  Titanic, 
and  divine.  He  returned  to  the  conception  of 
Prince  Athanase  in  Una  Favola,  in  which 
he  presents  the  same  subject  much  Italianized 
in  imagery  and  tone,  and  essentially  as  an  auto- 
biography. The  ideas  of  the  pursuit,  of  the 
contest  for  the  youth,  of  his  error  and  recovery, 
are  all  present.  In  the  Lines  Connected 
with  Epipsychidion,  beside  rejected  passages 
of  that  poem,  there  is  a  dedication  (possibly 
meant  for  Fiordispina)  in  which  Shelley  ad- 
dresses an  imaginary  and  nncertain  figure,  aptly 
named  '  his  Genius,'  by  Dr.  Garnett,  and  in 
this  he  develops  a  statement  of  free  love  after 
Plato's  iiymposiujn,  in  which  all  objects  of 
beauty  are  to  be  loved  in  an  ascending  series 
as  varying  and  incomplete  embodiments  of  the 
infinite  and  eternal  beauty. 

Epipsychidion  resumes  these  elements  and 
combines  them  into  one  poem.  The  '  soul 
within  the  soul '  of  the  prose  fragment  On 
Love  is  figured  to  have  left  the  poet,  and  he 
pursues  it  and  finds  it,  as  if  it  were  '  the  anti- 
type '  of  the  same  fragment,  in  Emily.  The 
Spirit  of  Beauty  and  Love,  also,  the  eternal 
soul  of  the  world,  is  represented  as  veiling  itself 
in  this  form  of  woman,  one  of  its  incarnations  ; 
and  communion  with  it  is  sought  in  her.  Thus 
under  the  form  of  Emily,  Shelley  unites  these 
cognate  and  separable  conceptions.  The  pur- 
suit of  the  ideal  after  the  manner  of  both  Alas- 
tor  and  Prince  Athanase  is  easily  recog- 
nizable, and  the  part  of  Pandemos  in  the  forest 


of  error  of  Una  Favola  is  plain.  The  autobi- 
ographical element  of  the  latter  is  mucli  more 
defined  and  more  violently  stated,  with  novel 
imagery  of  winter  and  of  the  planetary  system  ; 
but  it  remains  essentially  the  conflict,  vanously 
stated  by  fchelley  as  between '  genius  and  death,' 
'love  and  death,'  and  'life  and  love,'  over 
the  lost  youth.  The  passage  relating  to  free 
love  is  an  episode,  and  stands  by  itself.  The 
description  of  the  paradise  is  a  late  rendering  of 
that  bower  of  bliss  which  is. a  constant  element 
in  Shelley's  verse.  A  poem  made  up  of  such 
various  thoughts  and  subjects,  not  naturallj 
consistent,  could  not  fail  to  ju'esent  much  diffi- 
culty to  the  reader,  as  they  are  incapable  of  be- 
ing reduced  to  intellectual  unity,  though,  as  has 
bten  said,  they  are  cognate  and  intimately  re- 
lated matters. 

If  Shelley  had  in  mind  the  Vita  Nuova  of 
Dante  (cf.  also  Shelley's  translation  of  The 
First  Canzone  of  the  Convito)  and  would 
have  placed  Emily  in  a  relation  to  his  doctrine  of 
love  and  beauty  in  a  way  similar  to  that  which 
Dante  attempted,  his  intention  Avas  infelici- 
tous ;  for  the  lack  of  reality  is  felt  too  strongly. 
Emily  is,  at  best,  a  fiction  of  thought,  and  her 
human  personality,  where  felt,  detracts  from  the 
power  of  the  poem.  It  appears  to  me  that  a 
similar  unreality,  as  to  fact,  belongs  to  the 
autobiographical  passages.  The  spiritual  his- 
tory of  Shelley 'spui-suit  of  the  ideal  (the  'ideal- 
ized history  of  my  life  and  feelings  ')  is  clearly 
set  forth  in  the  poem,  and  can  be  verified  by 
the  succession  of  his  previous  works  as  above. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  personal  histoi-y  of 
Shelley  is  obscurely  told,  at  best,  and  except 
for  the  representation  of  Mary  arid  Emily  as  the 
moon  and  the  sun,  is  incapable  of  verification. 
How  little  essential  truth  there  was  in  the  part 
ascribed  to  Emily  is  well  known.  The  other 
passages,  which  have  been  interpreted  as  per- 
sonal, may  be  similarly  touched  with  tenuity 
as  matters  of  fact,  though  correctly  represent- 
ing in  allegory  the  moods  of  Shelley's  inner  life 
as  he  remembered  them.  The  memory  of  a 
poet,  especially  if  it  be  touched  with  pain  and 
remorse,  when  he  allows  his  eloquence  to  work 
in  images  of  sorrow  and  despair  to  express  what 
would  otherwise  remain  forever  unutterable  by 
his  lips,  is  an  entirely  untrustworthy  witness  of 
fact.  Shelley's  self-description  has  the  truth 
of  his  poetic  consciousness  at  the  time,  and  its 
moods  are  sadly  sustained  by  many  passages  of 
his  verse  ;  but  to  seek  precise  fact  and  named 
individuals  as  meant  by  his  words  is,  I  believe, 
futile,  and  may  be  misleading.  It  is  only  as  a 
poem  of  the  inner  life  that  Epipsychidion  has 
its  high  imaginative  interest.  In  the  last  move- 
ment of  the  poem,  the  voyage,  the  isle,  and  the 
passion  are  a  mystical  symbol  of  the  soul  com- 
muning with  the  ideal  object  of  its  pursuit 
under  im.ages  of  mortal  beauty  and  love  ;  the 
possession  of  the  ideal,  so  far  as  living  man  can 
in  any  way  attain  to  such  consciousness  of  it,  is 
pictured.  The  suggestion  of  Prospero's  isle  is 
very  strongly  felt,  457,  and  the  mysticism  o? 
the  intention  is  plain,  as  in  410  and  477-479.    ^t 


630 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


appears  to  me  that  the  realm  of  poetry  may  be 
th3  specific  underlying  thought  in  the  allegory, 
poetry  being  to  IShelley  what  the  isle  of  the 
Tempest  was  to  Prospero,  his  kingdom  of  en- 
chantment and  also  the  medium  through  which 
he  had  communion  with  the  Eternal  Spirit.  I 
associate  the  imagery,  so  far  as  it  is  descriptive 
of  nature  and  contains  veiled  meanings,  with 
the  similar  passages  of  The  Witch  of  Atlas, 
where  to  my  mind  the  ways  and  delights  of  Ge- 
nius, Imagfi  nation,  and  Poetry,  are  the  subject  of 
the  verse.  At  all  events,  the  poem,  in  this  sec- 
tion, is  entirely  disengaged  from  the  personality 
of  Emily,  and  of  the  others,  and  belongs  v/ith 
such  delineations  of  supersensual  being  as  The 
Witch  of  Atlas  and  The  Sensitive  Plant. 

Shelley's  Fragment,  On  Love. 

Thou  demandest  what  is  love?  It  is  that 
jwwerful  attraction  towards  all  that  we  con- 
ceive, or  fear  or  hope  beyond  ourselves,  when 
we  find  within  our  own  thoughts  the  chasm  of 
an  insufficient  void,  and  seek  to  awaken  in  all 
things  that  are,  a  community  with  what  we  ex- 
perience within  ourselves.  If  we  reason,  we 
would  be  understood  ;  if  we  imagine,  we  would 
that  the  airy  children  of  our  brain  wer'e  born 
anew  within  another's ;  if  we  feel,  we  would 
that  another's  nerves  should  vibrate  to  our  own, 
that  the  beams  of  their  eyes  should  kindle  at 
once  and  mix  and  melt  into  our  own,  that  lips 
of  motionless  ice  should  not  reply  to  lips  quiver- 
ing and  burning  with  the  heart's  best  blood. 
This  is  Love.  This  is  the  bond  and  the  sanc- 
tion which  connects  not  only  man  with  man, 
but  with  everything  which  exists.  We  are  born 
into  the  world,  and  there  is  something  within 
us  which,  from  the  instant  that  we  live,  more 
and  more  thirsts  after  its  likeness.  It  is  prob- 
ably in  correspondence  with  this  law  that  the 
infant  drains  milk  from  the  bosom  of  its  mo- 
ther; this  propensity  develops  itself  with  the 
development  of  our  nature.  We  dimly  see 
within  our  intellectual  nature  a  miniature  as  it 
were  of  our  entire  self,  yet  deprived  of  all  that 
we  condemn  or  desi)ise  ;  the  ideal  prototype  of 
everything  excellent  or  lovely  that  we  are  ca- 
pable of  conceiving  as  belonging  to  the  nature 
of  man.  Not  only  the  portrait  of  our  external 
being,  but  an  assemblage  of  the  minutest  par- 
ticles of  which  our  nature  is  composed  ;  ^  a  mii^ 
ror  whose  surface  reflects  only  the  forms  of 
purity  and  brightness ;  a  soul  within  our  soul 
that  describas  a  circle  around  its  proper  para- 
dise, which  pain,  and  sorrow,  and  evil  dure  not 
overleap.  To  this  we  eagerly  refer  all  sensa- 
tions, thirsting  that  they  should  resemble  or 
corresptmd  with  it.  The  discovery  of  its  anti- 
type ;  the  meeting  with  an  understanding  ca- 
pable of  clearly  estimating  our  own  ;  an  imagi- 
nation which  should  enter  into  and  seize  upon 
the  subtle  and  delicate  peculiarities  which  wf) 
have  delighted  to  cherish  and  unfold  in  secret ; 
with  a  frame  whose  nerves,  like  the  chords  of 

1  These  words  are  inefFectual  and  metaphorical. 
Host  words  ore  so.    No  help ! 


two  exquisite  lyres,  strung  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  one  delightful  voice,  vibrate  with  the 
vibrations  of  our  own  ;  and  of  a  combination  of 
all  these  in  such  proportion  as  the  type  within 
demands  ;  this  is  the  invisible  and  unattainable 
point  to  which  Love  tends  ;  and  to  attain  which, 
it  urges  forth  the  powers  of  man  to  arrest  the 
faintest  shadow  or  that  without  the  possession 
of  which  there  is  no  rest  nor  respite  to  the 
heart  over  which  it  rules.  Hence  in  solitude, 
or  in  that  deserted  state  when  we  are  sur- 
rounded by  human  beings,  and  yet  they  sympa- 
thize not  with  us,  we  love  the  tiowers,  the  gfrass, 
and  the  waters  and  the  sky.  In  the  motion  of 
the  very  leaves  of  spring  in  the  blue  air,  there 
is  then  found  a  secret  correspondence  with  our 
heart.  There  is  eloquence  in  the  tongueless 
wind,  and  a  melody  in  the  flowing  brooks  and 
the  rustling  of  the  reeds  beside  them,  which  by 
their  inconceivable  relation  to  something  within 
the  soul,  awaken  the  spirits  to  a  dance  of 
breathless  rapture,  and  bring  tears  of  mysteri- 
ous tenderness  to  the  eyes,  like  the  enthusiasm 
of  patriotic  success,  or  the  voice  of  one  beloved 
singing  to  you  alone.  Sterne  says  that  if  he 
were  in  a  desert  he  would  love  some  cypress. 
So  soon  as  this  want  or  power  is  dead,  man  be- 
comes the  living  sepulchre  of  himself,  and  what 
yet  survives  is  the  mere  husk  of  what  once  he 
was. 

Shelley's  Fragment,  Una  Favola  (Qar- 
nett's  trans.). 

There  was  a  youth  who  travelled  through  dis- 
tant lands,  seeking  throughout  the  world  a  lady 
of  whom  he  was  enamoured.  And  who  this 
lady  was,  and  how  this  youth  became  enamoured 
of  her,  and  how  and  why  the  great  love  he  bore 
her  forsook  him,  are  things  worthy  to  be  known 
by  every  gentle  heart. 

At  the  dawn  of  the  fifteenth  spring  of  his 
life,  a  certain  one  calling  himself  jjove  awoke 
him,  saying  that  one  whom  he  had  ofttimes  be- 
held in  his  dreams  abode  awaiting  him.  This 
Love  was  accompanied  by  a  great  troop  of 
fejnale  forms,  all  veiled  in  white,  and  crowned 
with  laurel,  ivy,  and  myrtle,  garlanded  and  in- 
terwreathed  with  violets,  roses,  and  lilies. 
They  sang  with  such  sweetness  that  perhaps 
the  harmony  of  the  spheres,  to  which  the  stars 
dance,  is  not  so  sweet.  And  their  manners  and 
words  were  so  alluring  that  the  youth  was  en- 
ticed, and,  arising  from  his  couch,  made  him- 
self ready  to  do  all  the  pleasure  of  him  who 
called  himself  Love ;  at  whose  behest  he  fol- 
lowed him  by  lonely  ways  and  deserts  and  cav- 
erns, until  the  whole  troop  arrived  at  a  solitary 
wood,  in  a  gloomy  valley  between  two  most 
lofty  mountains,  which  valley  was  planted  in 
the  manner  of  a  labyrinth,  witli  pines,  cypresses, 
cedars,  and  yews,  whose  sliadows  begot  a  mix- 
ture of  delight  and  sadness.  And  in  this  wood 
the  youth  for  a  whole  year  followed  the  uncer- 
tain footsteps  of  this  his  companion  and  guide, 
as  the  moon  follows  the  earth,  save  that  .there 
was  no  change  in  him,  and  nourished  by  the  fruit 
of  a  certain  tree  which  ;;rew  in  the  midst  of  the 


NOTES  AND  ILLUSTRATIONS 


631 


labyrinth — a  food  sweet  and  bitter  at  once, 
which  being'  cold  as  ice  to  the  lips,  appeared 
fire  in  the  veins.  The  veiled  figures  were  con- 
tinually around  him,  ministers  and  attendants 
obedient  to  his  least  gesture,  and  messengers 
between  him  and  Love,  when  Love  might  leave 
him  for  a  little  on  his  other  errands.  But  these 
fi.gures,  albeit  executing  his  every  other  com- 
mand witli  swiftness,  never  would  unveil  them- 
selves to  him,  althout;h  he  anxiously  besought 
them  ;  one  only  eseepted,  whose  name  was  Ijife, 
and  who  had  the  fame  of  a  potent  enchantress. 
She  was  tall  of  person  and  beautiful,  cheerful 
and  easy  in  her  mannei-s,  and  richly  adorned, 
and,  as  it  seemsd  from  her  ready  unveiling  of 
herself,  she  wished  well  to  this  youth.  But  he 
soon  perceived  that  she  was  more  false  than 
any  Siren,  for  by  her  counsel  Love  abandoned 
him  in  this  savage  place,  with  only  the  com- 
pany of  these  shrouded  figures,  who,  by  their 
obstinately  remaining  veiled,  had  always 
wrought  him  dread.  And  none  can  expound 
whether  these  figures  were  the  spectres  of  his 
own  dead  thoughts,  or  the  shadows  of  the  liv- 
ing thoughts  of  Love.  Then  Life,  haply  ashamed 
of  her  deceit,  concealed  herself  within  the  cav- 
ern of  a  certain  sister  of  hers  dwelling  there  ; 
and  Love,  sighing,  returned  to  his  third  heaven. 
Scarcely  had  Love  departed,  when  the 
masked  forms,  released  from  his  government, 
unveiled  themselves  before  the  astonished 
youth.  And  for  many  days  these  fig^ures  danced 
around  him  whithersoever  he  went,  alternately 
mocking  and  threatening  him  ;  and  in  the  night 
while  he  reposed  they  defiled  in  long  and  slow 
procession  before  his  couch,  each  more  hideous 
and  terrible  than  the  other.  Their  horrible 
aspect  and  loathsome  figure  so  overcame  his 
heart  with  sadness  that  the  fair  heaven,  cov- 
ered with  that  shadow,  clothed  itself  in  clouds 
before  his  eyes  ;  and  he  wept  so  much  that  the 
herbs  upon  his  path,  fed  with  tears  instead  of 
dew,  became  pale  and  bowed  like  himself. 
Weary  at  length  of  this  suffering,  he  came  to 
the  grot  of  the  Sister  of  Life,  herself  also  an 
enchantress,  and  found  her  sitting  before  a  pale 
fire  of  perfumed  wood,  sin^ring  laments  sweet  in 
their  melancholy,  and  weaving  a  white  shroud, 
upon  which  his  name  was  half  wrought,  with 
the  obscure  and  imperfect  ])eginning  of  a  certain 
other  name  ;  and  he  besought  her  to  tell  him  her 
own,  and  she  said,  with  a  faint  but  sweet  voice, 
'  Death.'  And  the  youth  said,  '  0  lovely  Death, 
I  pray  thee  to  aid  me  asrainst  these  hateful 
phantoms,  companions  of  thy  sister,  which 
cease  not  to  torment  me.'  And  Death  com- 
forted him,  and  took  his  hand  with  a  smile,  and 
kissed  his  brow  and  cheek,  so  that  every  vein 
thrilled  with  joy  and  fear,  .ind  made  him  abide 
with  her  in  a  chamber  of  her  cavern,  whither, 
she  said,  it  was  against  Destiny  that  the  wicked 
companions  of  Life  should  ever  come.  The 
youth  continually  conversing  with  Death,  and 
she,  like-minded  to  a  sister,  caressing  him  and 
showing  him  every  courtesy  both  in  deed  and 
word,  he  quicklv  b-^came  enamoured  of  her, 
and  Life  herself,  far  less  any  of  her  troop, 


seemed  fair  to  him  no  longer  ;  and  his  passion 
so  overcame  him  that  upon  his  knees  he  prayed 
Death  to  love  him  as  he  loved  her.,  and  consent  to 
do  his  pleasure.  But  Death  said,  'Audacious 
that  thou  art,  with  whose  desire  has  Deatli  ever 
complied  ?  If  thou  lovedst  me  not,  perchance 
1  might  love  thee  —  beloved  by  thee,  I  hate 
thee  and  I  fly  thee.'  Thus  saying,  she  went 
forth  from  the  cavern,  and  her  dusky  and 
ethereal  form  was  soon  lost  amid  the  inter- 
woven boughs  of  the  forest. 

From  that  moment  the  youth  pursued  the 
track  of  Death  ;  and  so  mighty  was  the  love  that 
led  him  that  he  had  encircled  the  world  and 
searched  through  all  its  regions,  and  manj'  years 
were  already  spent,  but  sorrows  rather  than 
years  had  blanched  his  locks  and  withered  the 
flower  of  his  beauty,  when  he  found  himself 
upon  the  confines  of  the  very  forest  from  which 
his  wretched  wanderings  had  begun.  He  cast 
himself  upon  the  grass  and  wept  for  many  hours, 
so  blinded  by  his  tears  that  for  much  time  he 
did  not  perceive  that  not  all  that  bathed  liis 
face  and  his  bosom  were  his  own,  but  that  a 
lady  bowed  behind  him  wept  for  pity  of  his 
weeping.  And  Ufting  up  his  eyes  he  saw  her, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  never  to  have  beheld  so 
glorious  a  vision,  and  he  doubted  much  whether 
she  were  a  human  creature.  And  his  love  of 
Death  w^as  suddenly  changed  into  hate  and  sus- 
picion, for  this  new  love  was  so  potent  that  it 
overcame  every  other  thought.  This  compas- 
sionate lady  at  fii-st  loved  him  for  mere  pity ; 
but  love  grev/  up  swiftly  with  compassion,  and 
she  loved  for  Love's  own  sake,  no  one  be- 
loved by  her  having  need  of  pity  any  more. 
This  was  the  lady  in  whose  quest  Love  had  led 
the  youth  through  that  gloomy  labyrinth  of 
error  and  suffering,  haply  for  that  he  esteemed 
him  unworthy  of  so  much  glory,  and  perceived 
him  too  weak  to  support  such  exceeding  joy. 
After  having  somewhat  dried  their  tears,  the 
twain  walked  together  in  that  same  forest,  until 
Death  stood  before  them,  and  said,  '  Whilst, 
O  youth,  thou  didst  love  me,  1  hated  thee,  and 
now  that  thou  hatest  me,  I  love  thee,  and  wish 
so  well  to  thee  and  thy  bride  that  in  my  king- 
dom, which  thou  mayest  call  Paradise,  1  have 
set  apart  a  chosen  spot,  where  ye  may  securely 
fulfil  your  happy  loves,'  And  the  lady,  of- 
fended, and  perchance  somewhat  jealous  by 
reason  of  the  past  love  of  her  spouse,  turned 
her  back  upon  Death,  saj'ing  within  herself, 
'  What  would  this  lover  of  my  husband  who 
comes  here  to  trouble  us  ? '  and  cried,  'Life  J 
Life ! '  and  Life  came,  with  a  gay  visage, 
crowned  with  a  rainbow,  and  clad  in  a  vaiious 
mantle  of  chameleon  skin  ;  and  Death  went 
,away  weeping,  and  departing  said  with  a  sweet 
voice,  '  Ye  mistrust  me,  but  I  forgive  ye,  and 
await  ye  where  ye  needs  must  come,  for  I  dwell 
with  Love  and  Eternity,  with  whom  the  souls 
whose  love  is  everlasting  must  hold  communion  ; 
then  will  ye  perceive  whether  I  have  deserved 
your  distrust.  Meanwhile  I  commend  ye  to 
Life ;  and,  sister  mine,  I  beseech  thee,  by  the 
love  of  that  Death  with  whom  thou  wert  twin 


632 


NOTES  AND  ILLUSTRATIONS 


bom,  not  to  amploy  thy  customary  arts  against 
these  lovers,  but  content  thee  with  the  tribute 
thou  hast  already  received  of  sighs  and  tears, 
•which  are  thy  wealth.'  The  youth,  mindful  of 
how  great  evil  she  had  wrought  hira  in  that 
wood,  mistrusted  Life  ;  but  the  lady,  although 
she  doubted,  yet  being  jealous  of  Death,  .  .  . 

Page  297.  Epipsychidion.  i'antma,  the 
soul  that  loves,  projects  itself  beyond  creation, 
and  creates  for  itself  in  the  infinite  a  world  all 
its  own,  vei-y  dififerent  from  this  obscure  and 
fearful  gulf. 

Page  298  Advertisement,  gran  vergogna 
the  passage,  not  quite  accurately  quoted,  is 
from  Dante's  Vita  Nuova,  xxv. :  '  It  would  be 
a  great  disgrace  to  him  who  should  rhyme  any- 
thing under  the  garb  of  a  figure  or  of  rhetorical 
coloring,  if  afterward,  being  asked,  he  should 
not  be  able  to  denude  his  words  of  this  garb,  in 
such  wise  that  they  should  have  a  true  mean- 
in^.'    (Norton's  trans.) 

Dedication.  Cf.  Lines  connected  with 
Epipsychidion,  p.  43<),  line  1. 

Voi,  Dante,  Vonvito,  Trattato  Secondo  (cf. 
Shelley's  trans.,  p.  522).  '  Ye  who  intelligent 
the  third  heaven  move,'  i.  e.,  the  angelic  beings 
who  guide  the  sphere  of  Venus,  or  love.  The 
lines  translated  below,  My  Song,  are  lines  53-61 
of  the  Canzone. 

Page  298,  line  1  spirit,  Emilia ;  orphan  one, 
Mary. 

Line  2  name,  Shelley. 

Line  4  withered  memory.  The  reference  is 
te  the  autobiographical  character  of  the  poem. 

Line  5  captive  bird.  The  suggestion  is  given 
by  the  confinement  of  Emilia  in  the  convent ; 
but  the  poem,  wherever  it  touches  the  fact  of 
life  and  the  person  of  Emilia,  tends  immediately 
to  escape  into  the  free  world  of  poetry,  as  here 
the  idea  of  the  captive  bird  leads  at  once  to 
Shelley's  imaging  his  relation  as  that  of  the 
rose  to  the  nightingale,  but  a  rose  without  mor- 
tal life  or  passion,  a  dead  and  thornless  rose  ; 
and,  directly,  in  lines  13-18,  the  image  of  the 
bird  and  the  cage  loses  touch  with  Emilia  and 
becomes  the  metaphor  for  the  spirit  in  the  body. 

Line  21  Seraph.  In  this  invocation,  through 
its  succession  of  characteristic  images  that 
Shelley  uses  to  symbolize  the  eternal  Loveliness, 
nothing  is  present  in  the  verse  except  the  gen- 
eral symbolization  of  the  Ideal  under  the  form 
of  woman,  as  in  Dante's  Beatrice.  Emilia's 
personality  does  not  color  the  conceptions,  but 
rather  the  conceptions  give  life  to  her.  Shelley's 
source  is  his  lifelong  idea  of  the  Eternal  Love- 
liness, not  now  new-found  in  Plato  or  Dante, 
though  possibly  quickened  by  his  recent  reading 
of  the  latter,  and  touched  in  some  details  by 
reminiscences  of  it.  Ackemiann  comi)ares  with 
lines  21-24  Vita  Nuova,  xix.  43-44  (Norton's 
trans.) : 

*  Love  saith  conceming  her  :  "  How  can  it  be 
That  mortal  tlting  be  thus  adorned  and  pure  ?  "  ' 

xlii.  7,  8  : 
-•Who  so  doth  Bhlnp  that  thronsrh  her  splendid  light 
The  pilgrim  spirit  upon  her  doth  gaze.' 


Convito,  iii.  59-60 :  Her  aspect  overcomes  cm 
intelligence  as  the  sun's  ray  weak  vision. 

Such  parellelism  is  slight,  and  less  than  that 
with  Shelley's  earlier  expression  of  the  .jame 
conception  in  the  image  of  Asia,  whom  line  26 
especially  recalls. 

Lines  3(>-32.  Ackerraann  compares  Vita 
Nuova,  xxi.  1,  2  (Norton's  trans.), 

'  Within  her  eyes  my  lady  beareth  Love, 
So  that  whom  she  regard<>  is  gentle  made.' 

Line  35.  The  verse  returns  momentarily  to 
Emilia  as  a  weeping  and  sympathetic  figure, 
life-like  through  the  description  of  her  eyes, 
in  line  38,  and,  except  for  the  second  series  of 
images,  56,  69,  remains  near  her  in  thought  to 
line  72. 

Line  42  Youth''s  vision,  the  vision  of  Alas- 

TOK. 

Line  44  its  unvalued  shame.  The  contempt 
that  Shelley  is  indiilerent  to. 

Line  46  name,  spouse,  cf .  130. 

Line  49  one,  the  second ;  other,  the  wish  ex- 
pressed in  line  45. 

Line  50  names,  sister  and  spouse. 

Line  57.  The  second  series  of  images  deals 
rather  with  human  aspects  of  ideal  love  as  the 
first  dealt  rather  with  the  visible  aspects  of 
ideal  beauty. 

Line  68,  wingless,  i.  e.,  without  the  power  to 
fly  away,  and  hence  lasting. 

Line  71.  The  infirmity  lies  in  the  fact  that 
Shelley  has  a  double  subject,  mortal  and  eternal, 
Emily  and  the  ideal  vision,  and  nowhere  in  the 
poem  does  he  really  fuse  them  into  one  as  Dante 
did  in  Beatrice. 

Line  72  She,  the  figure  here  ideally  de- 
scribed is  the  type  given  in  lines  25-32.  more 
particularized  in  vision.  At  the  beginning  of 
the  passage,  there  is  a  similar  absence  of  per- 
sonality, and  the  iniatrery  and  idea  are  reminis- 
cent of  the  vision  of  Alastok  and  the  descrip- 
tion of  Asia  ;  and  only  in  line  11 2  does  the  verse 
suggest  the  living  fignire  of  Emily,  and  then  only 
momentarily,  the  imagery  immediately  soaring 
away  from  her. 

liine  15  light,  life,  peace,  refer  severally  to 
Day,  Spring,  Sorrow,  by  a  usage  common  to 
English  verse. 

Lines  78,  79.  Cf .  for  the  gradual  development 
and  illustration  of  the  image,  constant  in  Shel- 
ley, Alastor,  161-177,  The  Revolt  o?  Is- 
lam, I.  Ivii.,  Prometheus  Unbound,  II.  i. 
70-79,  II.  v.  26. 

Lines  83-85.  Ackermann  compares^  Vita 
Nuova,  xxi.  9,  10 ;  xxvi.  12-14 ;  Convito,  iii. 
5-8,  41-43.  The  parallelism  is  slight,  that  of 
the  second  passage  being  nighest : 

'  And  from  her  countenance  there  seems  to  move 
A  spirit  sweet  and  in  Love's  very  guise, 
Who  to  tlie  soul,  in  going,  sayeth  :  Si^h  ! ' 

(Norton's  trans.) 

It  is  tnie  that  the  word  translated  countenance 
is  labbia,  used  (says  the  comment)  for  faccia, 
volto. 

Lines  87-90.  Cf .  Pbometheus  Unbound,  EL 
T.  S3,  note. 


NOTES  AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


633 


Lines  91-100.  An  expansion  of  line  78.  The 
description  attempts  too  great  subtlety.  The 
'  jrlory  '  issues  from  the  eyes  under  an  aspect 
of  light  and  motion,  blended  yet  separately  per- 
ceived, and  diffuses  itself  (as  it  were)  over  and 
through  the  countenance  and  form,  scan  in  flow- 
ing outlines  that  pass  into  the  blood-warmed 
cheeks  and  fingers,  and  finally  lose  the  eye  that 
follows  in  the  vision  of  that  supreme  beauty 
which  is  hardly  to  be  supported  by  mortal  sight. 
The  passage  is  built  up  of  three  elements,  ap- 
parently :  the  function  of  the  eye  (as  in  the 
older  Italian  poets)  as  the  gateway  of  the  soul ; 
the  function  of  the  physical  loveliness  of  the 
body  as  the  revelation  of  the  soul  that  ani- 
mates it ;  the  function  of  all  particular  beauty, 
whether  of  soul  or  body,  or  as  here  inextricably 
blended,  to  lead  the  mind  back  to  the  Eternal 
Beauty. 

Line  105.  The  description  here  becomes 
more  purely  human,  preparing  for  line  112, 
which  must  be  taken  as  a  direct  recurrence 
to  Emily,  the  '  mortal  shape ; '  but  as  the 
intervening  images  of  lines  10i(-lll  exceed  true 
human  description,  so  the  series  of  images 
that  follow,  lines  115-123,  apply  to  the  idealized 
presence  of  beauty  rather  than  to  any  '  mortal 
shape.' 

Line  117  the  third  sphere,  that  of  Venus. 
Cf.,  above,  p.  298,  Voi,  note. 

Line  130.  Cf .  line  50.  The  interval  from  this 
point  to  line  189  is  of  the  nature  of  an  interrup- 
tion or  excursus,  in  which  Shelley  presents  and 
defends  his  doctrine  of  freedom  in  love  as  it 
had  come  to  take  on  a  form  of  Platonic  phi- 
losophy in  his  mind.  Emily  is  directly  ad- 
dressed, as  one  loved  by  him. 

Line  137  substance,  her  spirit. 

Line  148  Beacon,  place  a  warning  light  upon. 

Line  149.  Cf.  Lines  connected  with  Epi- 

PSYCHIDION,  p.  43(5. 

Line  1()9.  Cf.  Plato,  Symposhm,  210-211. 

Line  190.  The  poem  here  makes  a  new  be- 
ginning, and  from  here  to  line  Mi  is  '  the 
idealized  historj' '  of  Shelley's  life  and  feelings, 
Being,  the  vision  of  Alastor,  and  also  the 
'  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  power,'  of  the 
Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty. 

Lines  211,  212.  In  whatever  outlives  death, 
and  is  immortal  in  the  works  of  art. 

Line  228  cone,  cf.  Prometheus  Unbound, 
IV.  444. 

Line  23().  Cf.  prose  fragment  On  Love. 

Line  238  this  soul  out  of  my  soul,  Shelley's 
translation  of  the  title  of  the  poem,  cf .  line  455. 
It  goes  back  to  the  fragment  On  Love,  where 
are  the  phrases,  'a  miniature,  as  it  were,  of 
our  entire  self,'  '  a  soul  within  our  own  soul,' 
the  '  antitype.'  etc. 

Lines  239,  240.  Cf.  Hyms  TO  Intelibctual 
Beauty,  V. 

Line  249.  Cf.  Una  Favola. 

Line  25().  Venus  Pandemos.  1  incline  to  this 
interpretation  because  Pantjemus  and  Ura- 
nia was  one  of  the  titles  of  Prince  Athanase, 
which  was  one  of  Shelley's  early  treatments  of 
the  generic  theme  of  this  poem. 


Line  267,  i.  e.,  he  sought  the  realization  of 
the  ideal  in  living  persons.  The  identification 
of  such  persons  in  the  three  lines  following  has 
been  attempted  by  Ackermann  and  othei-s  but 
unsatisfactorily. 

I^ine  272.  Cf .  Adonais,  xxxi.  8-9. 

Line  277  One,  Mary  Shelley. 

Line  301.  Cf.  Una  Favola. 

Line  308-320.  The  elucidation  of  the  passage 
as  autobiography  is  futile.  The  character  of 
the  Maniac  in  Julian  and  Maddalo,  and  the 
mysterious  lady  of  Naples  in  the  life  of  Shelley 
(cf .  Invocation  to  Misery,  note),  have  been 
referred  to  by  commentators  ;  but  what  reality 
there  was  in  either  is  unknown. 

Line  345  Tu:in  Spheres,  i.  e.,  Mary  and 
Emily,  as  the  Moon  and  Sun,  Shelley  being  the 
Earth. 

Line  368  Comet,  the  third  person,  who  is  to 
be  made  the  Evening  Star,  after  the  analogy  of 
the  Sun,  Moon,  and  Earth,  is  not  to  be  identi- 
fied. 

Line  388.  The  last  movement  of  the  poem 
here  begins.  Cf .  Lines  written  Asiong  the 
Euganean  Hills,  335-373,  and  Prometheus 
Unbound,  III.  iii. 

Line  592.  Cf.  Dante,  Vita  Nuova,  XII,  Bal- 
lata,  35-40. 

Line  595.  Cf .  Dante,  Vita  Ntiova,  XXXU., 
Canzone,  71-74. 

Line  601.  Cf.  Dante,  Sonetto,  II.  9  (Shelley's 
trans,  p.  522).  Marina  is  Mary,  Vanna,  Jane 
Williams,  Primus,  Edward  WUlianis. 

Page  307.  Adonais.  This  poem  has  been 
edited,  with  elaborate  notes  and  other  matter, 
by  Rossetti  (Clarendon  Press,  1891),  and  its 
sources  have  been  studied  by  Dr.  Richard 
Ackermann,  Quetlen,  Vorbitder,  Stoffe  zu  Shel- 
ley''s  Poetischen  Werktn,  lb90.  Kossetti  refers 
ako  to  Lt.-Col.  Hime's  Greek  Materials  of  Shei- 
ley''s  Adonais,  m88,  a,  yohmie  I  have  never  seen. 
Adonais  is  based  upon  Bion's  Lament  for 
Adonais  and  Moschus'  Lament  for  Bion,  very 
much  as  Prometheus  Lnbound  is  based  upon 
.^Eschylus'  Prometheus :  that  is  to  say,  the  Greek 
material,  while  recognizable  in  many  details,  is 
so  modified  by  Shelley's  treatment  as  to  be 
recreated.  The  result  is  an  original  modem 
poem.  The  obligation  is,  as  in  the  Prome- 
theus Unbound,  most  felt  in  the  earlier  part 
of  the  work,  and  finally  the  poem  takes  leave 
of  the  Greek  imagery  and  spirit,  and  in  the 
manner  of  Spenser  and  Milton  ends  in  the 
affirmation  of  the  eternal  blessedness  of  the 
spirit  lost  in  the  radiance  of  heavenly  being. 
From  Bion  the  picture  of  Aphrodite's  mourn- 
ing, accompanied  by  the  weeping  Loves,  is  trans- 
formed into  Urania's  mourning,  accompanied  by 
the  Dreams ;  from  Moschus  the  picture  of  the 
lamenting  Satyrs,  Priapi,  Fanes,  Fairies,  Echo, 
nightingales,  sea-birds,  and  others,  is  trans- 
formed into  the  sorrow  of  the  Desires,  Adora« 
tions.  Persuasions,  the  elements.  Echo,  the  sea- 
son, the  flowers,  the  nightingale  and  the  eagle. 
From  Moschus,  also,  the  contrast  of  the  life  of 
the  year  with  that  of  man,  and  the  ascribing  of 
the  death  to  poison,  and  from  Bion,  the  suffer* 


634 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


ing  of  Urania  on  her  journey,  the  kiss  and  the 
ascribing'  of  the  death  to  the  *  dragon  in  his 
den '  are  derived,  though  these  elements  are 
originally  treated,  expanded,  and  varied.  In 
Stanza  xxviii.,  with  the  introduction  of  the 
circumstances  and  persons  of  the  time,  the  con- 
temporary element  begins  ;  the  mourning  of 
the  idealized  fig^iires  of  the  poets  continues  it ; 
the  curse  upon  the  destroyer  follows  ;  and  the 
final  movement  of  the  poem,  its  paean  of  im- 
mortality, commencing  at  Stanza  xxxix.,  is  in 
the  purely  modern  spirit,  an  overflow  of 
Shelley's  eloquence  in  his  most  characteristic 
phrases  and  ideas, — the  best  sustained,  the 
most  condensed,  the  most  charged  with  purely 
spiritual  passion  in  personal  form,  of  any  of  his 
poems  of  hunger  for  eternity.  The  develop- 
ment of  the  poem,  beginning  with  the  poignancy 
of  human  grief  rendered  through  images  of 
beauty  and  the  saddening  of  the  tilings  of 
earthly  life  however  lovely,  and  then  changing 
by  subtle  interpretations  of  the  spirit  evoking 
its  own  eternal  nature  in  brooding  over  the 
dead  form  of  what  it  loved,  and  ending  at  last 
in  the  triumphant  reversion  of  its  initial  grief 
into  joy  in  the  presence  of  the  eternal  life  fore- 
tasted in  fixed  faith  and  enduring  love  even 
here,  —  this  is  the  classic  form  of  Christian 
elegy.  Adonais,  as  a  work  of  art,  effects  this 
evolution  of  life  out  of  death,  with  m-jre  un- 
consciousness, greater  unity  and  steadfast  ten- 
dency, with  passion  more  spontaneous  and 
irresistible,  with  melody  more  plaintive,  elo- 
quence more  sweet  and  springing,  imagination 
more  comprehensive  and  sublime,  than  any  other 
English  elegy.  It  is  artificial  only  to  those 
whose  minds  are  not  yet  familiarized  with  the 
language  of  imagery,  —  those  to  whom  the  gods 
of  Greece  speak  an  unknown  tongue  ;  it  is  cold 
only  to  those  who  confound  personal  grief  with 
that  universal  sorrow  for  youthful  death  which 
has  been  the  burden  of  elegy  from  the  first ;  it  is 
dark  with  metaphysics  only  to  those  who  have 
not  yet  caught  a  single  ray  from  the  spirit  of 
Plato.  What  particular  mode  of  being  Shelley 
had  in  mind  as  the  lot  of  mankind  hereafter  is 
a  matter  of  small  concern.  He  used,  here,  the 
imagery  of  both  the  theory  of  pantheism  and 
of  personal  immortality,  apparently  with  in- 
difference, though  with  a  natural  poetic  clinging 
to  the  latter,  as  a  thing  of  the  concrete.  The 
essential  interest  he  felt  was  rather  in  the  fact 
than  the  mode.  Further  statement'*,  as  to  this, 
are  given  below;  but  it  would,  I  think,  be 
wrong  to  interpret  Adonais  as  a  pantheistic 
poem  in  any  narrow,  definite,  or  dogmatic  sense. 
To  my  mind  individuality  survives  in  Shelley's 
conception  of  the  eternal  life  here,  as  it  does  in 
the  other  illustrations  he  has  given  of  his  faith, 
—  say,  for  example,  in  the  Epipsychidion. 

Page  307.  Motto,  Plato.  Cf.  Shelley's 
translation  To  Stella,  p.  r>\9. 

Preface,  Moschus,  111-114.  '  Poison  came, 
Bion,  to  thy  mouth  —  thon  didst  know  poison. 
To  snch  lips  as  thine  did  it  come  and  was  not 
sweetened  ?  What  mortal  was  so  cruel  that 
ooold  mix  poison  for  thee,  or  who  could  give 


thee  the  venom  that  heard  thy  Toice  ?  Surely, 
he  had  no  music  in  his  soul '  (Lang's  trans.). 

Twenty-fourth  year.  Keats  was  twenty-five 
at  his  death,  whicli  occurred  February  23, 1821. 

Quarterly  Review,  April,  1818.  The  ruptui-e 
of  the  blood  vessel  described  below  was  in  no 
way  due  to  the  effect  of  this  criticism  on  Keats' 
spirits. 

Calumniator.  Shelley  refers  to  Milman,  but 
he  was  mistaken  in  thinking  him  his  unknown 
assailant. 

Lavished  his  fortune.  The  reference  is  to  the 
family  relations  of  Keats,  and  is  apparently  un- 
deserved. 

[The  references  to  Bion  and  Moschus  are  to 
Meineke's  edition,  Berlin,  185<).] 

Page  308.    Stanza  i.  1.    Cf.  Bion,  1. 

ii.  1.     Cf.  Milton.  Lycidas,  50. 

ii,  3  Urania.  Aphrodite  Urania,  though  bor- 
rowing some  elements  from  the  conception  of 
the  Muse  Urania. 

ii.  7.     Cf.  Moschus,  53. 

iii.  6,  7.     Cf.  Bion,  55,  96. 

iv.  1.     Cf.  Moschus,  70. 

iv.  2  He,  Milton. 

iv.  9.  '  Homer  was  the  first  and  Dante  the 
second  epic  poet.  .  ,  •  Milton  was  the  third 
epic  poet.'     Defense  of  Poetry. 

V.  3.     The  humbler  poets. 

vi.  3.     The  reference  is  to  Keats'  Isabella. 

vii.  1  Capital.    Rome. 

vii.  7.     Cf.  Bion,  71. 

viii.  5  His  extreme  way  to  her  dim  dwelling- 
place.     The  dissolution  of  the  body. 

yiii.  6  Hunger.     Corruption. 

ix.  1  Dreams.     Poems. 

X.  1,  2.     Cf.  Bion,  85. 

xi.  1,  2.     Cf.  Bion,  83,  84. 

xi.  3-8.     Cf.  Bion,  80-82. 

xii.  5  death,  the  dampness  of  death  upon  his 
lips. 

xiii.     Cf .  Moschns,  2G-29, 

xiv.  3-6.  The  image  is  of  a  clouded  dawn. 
Cf.  xli.  6,  7. 

XV.  6-9.    Cf.  Moschus,  30,  31. 

xvi.  1-3.    Cf.  Moschus,  31,  32. 

xvi.  5-6.    Cf.  Moschus,  6,  7,  32. 

xvii.  1.  Cf.  Moschns,  38-48,  87-93.  Sitter, 
the  reference  is  to  Keats'  Ode  to  the  Night' 
ingale. 

xvii.  5.  A  reminiscence  of  Milton's  Areopa- 
gitica. 

xviii.     Cf.  Moschus,  101-106. 

xxi.  6  lends  what  life  must  borrow.  Reality 
is  beyond  the  giave,  the  eternal  substance,  and 
mortal  life  derives  its  apparent  reality  from  it, 
and  is  its  shadow  only. 

xxii.  2.  Cf.  Shelley's  translation  of  Bion.  p. 
520,  where  he  introduces  this  phrase  from  his 
own  invention. 

xxii.  8.  A  thought  of  pain  roused  by  mem- 
ory. 

xxiv.  Cf.  Bion,  21,  22,  65,  and  Plato,  Sym- 
posium, 195  ;  the  stanza  is  blended  of  the  three 
sources. 

XXV.  3-5.  Death  ceased  and  life  came  back 
to  the  body,  or  with  lees  vital  imagery '  in 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


635 


line  9,  '  Death  rose  and  smiled '  —  the  reani- 
mation  of  the  body  being  only  a  phantom  of 
life.    _ 

xxvi.  Cf.  Bion,  43-53.  In  line  9  the  turn 
g^ven  to  the  tlioug-ht  of  Bion  is  singular,  and  in 
fact  the  words  sound  like  an  anticipation  of 
the  closing  mood  of  the  poem,  and  a  direct  ex- 
pression of  Shelley's  own  sadness. 

xxvii.  1.     Cf.  Bion,  60,  Gl. 

xxvii.  6  shield,  the  reference  is  to  Perseus. 

xxviii.  7  Pythian,  Byrou.  The  reference  is 
to  his  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers. 

xxix.  The  inferior  contemporaries  of  genius 
share  its  mortal  day  of  life,  but  being  ephemeral, 
they  are  forgotten  in  death,  as  insects  cease  at 
sunset,  while  genius  lives  on  as  a  star  of  im- 
mortal fame.     The  imagery  is  mixed. 

XXX.  2  magic  mantles,  the  reference  is  to 
Prosper  o. 

xsx.  3  Pilgrim,  Byron. 

XXX.  b  lyrist,  Moore. 

xxxi.  1  one,  Shelley. 

xxxiii.    Cf.  Remembkance,  iii.  4, 

xxxiv.  4  unknown  land,  England. 

xxxiv.  8,  y.  Branded  like  Cain's  and  ensan- 
guined like  Christ's. 

XXXV.  G  He,  Leigh  Hunt. 

xxxvi.  1-9.     Cf.  Moschus,  111-114. 

xxxvi.  6  prelude,  i.  e.,  what  Keats  had  sung 
•was  but  the  prelude  to  the  real  song  that  death 
silenced. 

xxxviii.  4.  A  reminiscence  of  Milton's  Para- 
dise Lost,  iv.  820.  With  this  stanza  the  poem 
begins  the  pa;an  of  immortality  which  closes 
it,  in  harmony  with  the  tradition  of  Milton  and 
Spenser.  Shelley  resumes  again  the  mood  which 
had  received  such  repeated  and  various  illustra- 
tion in  his  verse,  and  finally  in  Epipstchidiok, 
and  presents  the  opposition  of  Life  to  Death  as 
the  shadow  to  the  substance,  the  night  to  the 
day,  and  declares  the  absorption  of  the  soul  of 
Keats  into  the  Spiritnal  Power  whose  mani- 
festations in  our  knowledge  are  Life,  Beauty, 
and  Love.  Of  the  state  of  the  dead,  as  in- 
dividuals, he  refrains  fjom  speaking,  as  he  had 
refrained  from  the  time  of  The  Sunset,  leav- 
ing it  in  uncertainty  ;  of  the  permanence  of  the 
spirit  in  the  eternal  world  he  once  more  and  for 
the  last  time  speaks  with  passionate  conviction, 
both  as  the  infinite  of  being  in  original  creative 
activity  and  as  the  hope,  faith,  and  home  of 
the  human  soul. 

xl.  Ackermann  compares  Spenser,  TTie  Shep- 
heardes  Calendar,  xi.  The  resemblance  is  great ; 
and  so,  in  the  case  of  other  passages  from  this 
lament,  the  parallelism  is  clear  ;  but  I  do  not 
believe  that  the  poem  of  Spenser  was  in  Shel- 
ley's mind  except  spcondarily  through  Milton's 
echoes  of  it  in  Lr/cidas. 

xlii.  The  pantheistic  suggestion  in  this  and 
the  following  stanzas  is  strong ;  but  it  cannot 
be  held  that  Shelley  commits  himself  definitely 
to  the  theory  of  pantheism  here  any  more  than 
to  the  theorj'  of  individual  immortality  in  xlv. 
and  elsewhere.  In  xlii.  l-o  Shelley  appears  to 
have  in  mind  the  immortality  of  Keats  through 
his  poetry,  which  in  interpreting  Nature  has 


mingled  with  it,  and  become  in  a  sense  a  part 
of  it  (cf.  Coleridge,  The  Nightingale,  30-33) 
to  the  apprehension  of  the  mind  that  has  been 
fed  upon  his  music  and  imagination  ;  and  from 
this  conception  the  passage  is  easy  for  Shelley 
to  restate  the  idea  in  the  higher  and  abstract 
terms  of  a  union  of  Keats  with  the  operant 
might  of  that  power '  which  has  withdrawn  his 
being  to  its  own,'  the  same,  of  course,  with 
'  the  burning  fountain  '  of  xxxviii. 

xliii.  The  stanza  is  a  repetition  of  the  pre- 
ceding ;  lines  1, 2  being  identical  witli  lines  1-5 
in  the  former  stanza,  and  lines  2-!)  being  identi- 
cal with  lines  6-9  of  the  former.  Tlie  process  of 
the  operation  of  the  '  One  Spirit '  is  explained, 
—  namely,  that  it  reveals  itself  according  to  the 
nature  of  its  medium.  The  union  of  the  soul 
of  Keats  prinmrily  with  the  Eternal  Spirit,  and 
secondarily  with  Nature,  through  which  that 
Spirit  is  revealed,  is  clearly  affirmed ;  but 
the  loss  of  individuality  is  not  affirmed,  but 
on  the  contrary  the  suggestion  of  it  remains  in 
xlii.  2,  xliv.  8,  and  is  at  once  developed,  with 
no  sense  of  inconsistency,  in  xlv.,  xlvi.  and  is 
stiU  felt  as  an  element  of  the  verse  to  the  last 
line  of  the  poem.  The  fact  seems  to  be,  as 
stated  above,  that  Shelley  used  the  imagery  of 
pantheism  and  of  personal  immortality  indiffer- 
ently to  express  his  faith  in  the  continuance  of 
the  soul  under  unknown  conditions  of  ex- 
istence. 

xliv.  7  Tlie  conflict  of  '  life  and  love '  for 
the  youth  is  familiar  to  Shelley's  thought  from 
the  first.    Cf.  Epipsychidion,  note. 

xlv.  ] .  Those  whom  eaily  death  overtook 
before  the  accomplishment  of  their  genius,  of 
whom  the  three  named  are  types. 

xlvi.  3.  Cf.  Lines  on  the  Ecgaxean 
aLLS,  269. 

xlvi.  9.  The  reference  is  to  Plato's  epigram. 
Cf .  Shelley's  trans,  p.  519. 

xlvii.  The  germ  of  this  stanza  mav,  perhaps, 
be  found  in  Coleridge's  Ode  to  t'rance,  v. 
18-20 : 

'  Yet  while  I  stood  and  gazed,  my  temples  bare. 
And  shot  my  being  through  earth,  sea  and  air, 
Possessing  all  things  with  intensest  love.' 

The  idea  of  the  stanza  seems  to  lie  in  the  oppo- 
sition between  the  insignificance  of  the  individ- 
ual and  the  infinity  of  his  powers  of  compre- 
hension and  sympathy,  which  is,  perhaps,  the 
more  obvious  interpretation.  It  may  be,  how- 
ever, that  Shelley  here  indicates  a  wav  of  ap- 
proaching before  death  the  mystical  union 
which  is  in  his  thoughts  ;  the  idea  would  then 
be,  —  shoot  thy  being  through  the  universe,  and 
then,  still  comprehending  all  things  in  thy  spirit, 
gather  the  universe  back  into  thy  individuality 
as  a  mortal  in  time,  and  standing  thus  at  the 
utmost  limit  of  earthly  being,  on  the  brink  of 
eternity,  fear  lest  at  the  moment  of  such  exalta- 
tion thou  shonldst  sink  in  despair  with  a  heavy 
heart,  as  Shelley  so  often  represents  such  fail- 
ure at  the  climax  of  emotion,  in  the  Epipsy- 
CHiDiON,  the  Prometheus  Unbound,  the  Odb 
TO  LlBEBTT,  and  elsewhere. 


636 


NOTES   AND  ILLUSTRATIONS 


,  xlviii.  8-9.    Cf.  Epipsychidion,  209-212. 

xlix.  7  slope,  the  Roman  cemetery.  Cf .  Pre- 
face, pp.  'Ml,  308.  Shelley  also  describes  it  in 
a  letter  to  Peacock,  December  22,  1818:  '  The 
English  huryinpf-place  is  a  green  slope  near  the 
walls,  under  the  pyramidal  tomb  of  Cestius, 
and  is,  I  think,  the  miost  beautiful  and  solemn 
cemetery  1  ever  beheld.  To  see  the  sun  shining 
on  its  bright  grass,  fresh,  when  we  visited  it, 
with  the  autumnal  dews,  and  hear  the  whisper- 
ing of  the  wind  among  the  leaves  of  the  trees 
which  have  overgrown  the  tomb  of  Cestius, 
and  the  soil  which  is  stirring  in  the  sun-warm 
earth,  and  to  mark  the  tombs,  mostly  of  women 
and  young  people  who  were  buried  there,  one 
might,  if  one  were  to  die,  desire  the  sleep  they 
seem  to  sleep.  Such  is  the  human  mind,  and 
so  it  peoples  with  its  wishes  vacancy  and  obliv- 
ion.' 

1.  3.    The  tomb  of  Cestius. 

li.  3-5.  Inquire  not  into  another's  grief. 
There  may  be  an  obscure  reference  to  the  fact 
that  Shelley's  child,  William,  was  buried  there. 

lii.  The  opposition  of  the  permanent  to  the 
transitory,  of  the  ever  shining  light  to  the  sha- 
dows of  earthly  life,  of  the  '  white  radiance  of 
Eternity '  to  the  prismatic  colors  of  its  '  poi^ 
tions '  in  time  ;  Death  as  the  Liberator  and  Ue- 
•etorer  of  the  soul  to  true  being,  whose  glory 
transcends  its  revelation  in  nature  and  the 
forms  of  art,  —  over  these  cardinal  convictions 
of  his  poetry,  long  familiarized  to  his  imagina- 
tion, Shelley  throws  for  the  last  time,  the  veil 
of  words. 

liii.  The  poem  here  becomes  purely  personal, 
and  after  the  self -portraiture  of  this  stanza,  rises 
with  vital  lyric  passion  to  its  outburst  of  min- 
gled worship,  prophecy,  and  aspiration  driving 
through  the  gulf  of  death  on  the  verge  of 
eternal  life. 

liv.  The  clearest,  most  comprehensive  and 
most  condensed  expression  of  Shelley's  concep- 
tion of  the  infinite  and  its  presence  and  operation 
in  this  life. 

liv.  5-7.     Cf.  xliii.  5-^. 

It.  1  breath,  the  Infinite. 

Iv.  4.  The  reference  to  his  own  troubled 
career  is  clear. 

Iv.  9  Beacons,  lights  homeward. 

Page  317.  Hkllas.  The  sources  of  this 
drama  have  been  studied  by  Dr.  Richard 
Ackermann  in  his  Quellen,  Vorbilder,  Stoff'e  zu 
Sftelley^s  Poetischen  Werken,  1890.  Hellas  is 
based  on  ^Eschylus'  Persai,  so  far  as  its  struc- 
ture is  concerned,  and  is  indebted  to  that  drama 
for  some  details.  As  in  his  other  borrowings 
from  the  Greek,  however,  Shelley  recreated  the 
material  into  an  original  modem  poem.  In  this 
instance,  owing  perhaps  to  the  historical  char- 
acter of  its  main  matter,  he  departs  less  from 
his  model,  and  does  not  develop  the  work  at  its 
close  into  'something  new  and  strange,'  as  in 
the  rKOMETJiEus  Unbound  and  Adonais.  He 
introduces,  on  the  lips  of  the  Wandering  Jew, 
a  metaphysical  theory  of  existence,  but  does 
not  evolve  it  to  further  issues  of  thought  or  im- 
agination, and  at  the  end  he  takes  leave  of  the 


actual  Greece  and  sings  a  hymn  of  the  millen- 
nial land  after  the  famous  eclogue  of  Virgil. 
These  are  the  two  principal  points  in  which  he 
varies  from  the  jEschylean  model,  unless  the 
opening  after  Calderon  be  also  included. 

In  the  first  instance  Shelley  apparently  re- 
turned to  his  projected  drama  on  the  Book  of 
Job,  and  adapting  this  idea  to  the  situation  of 
Greece  attempted  to  blend  the  two  subjects. 
The  Prologue,  rescued  from  his  note-books  by 
Dr.  Ganiett,  represents  this  scheme.  In  it 
Christ  appears  as  the  genius  presiding  over  the 
better  fate  of  mankind,  concentrating  imder 
his  power  as  the  incarnating  spirit  of  civiliza- 
tion all  those  ideas  of  Freedom,  Love,  and  so- 
cial good  which  were  dearest  to  Shelley  ;  Satan 
similarly  presides  over  their  opposites,  slavery, 
hatred,  wrong  in  all  its  forms  ;  and  these  two 
'  mighty  opposites '  are  conceived,  seemingly, 
after  the  analog^y  of  the  angelic  intelligences 
animating  and  guiding  the  spheres,  as  each  the 
spirit  of  his  own  orb  of  energy.  Dr.  Garnett 
cites,  appositely,  a  passage  from  Johnson  on 
Dryrlen,  dealing  with  a  similar  idea  ;  but  it  is 
not  shown,  nor  does  it  seem  to  me  at  all  likely, 
that  Shelley  knew  the  passage.  Very  little  of 
the  drama  in  this  form  was  written,  and  Shel- 
ley abandoned  it  for  the  less  ambitious  shape 
in  which  Hellas  was  created.  The  majesty 
of  the  persons,  the  grandeur  of  the  conception, 
opening  fresh  avenues  for  poetic  originality  un- 
tried in  any  literature,  and  the  loftiness  of  the 
execution  in  the  few  score  lines  he  wrote,  con- 
vince me  that,  had  Shelley  been  equal  to  the 
task,  this  work  would  have  far  surpassed  all 
his  other  poetry,  including  the  Prometheus 
Unbound,  in  sublime  and  novel  power.  And 
after  long  familiarity  with  his  works  I  may 
perhaps  be  pardoned  for  owning  that  his  fac- 
ulty of  creative  imagination  seems  to  me  to  ex- 
ceed immeasurably  his  ability  to  execute  con- 
ception. The  weakness  under  which  he  so  often 
describes  himself  as  sinking  was  the  weight  of 
power,  —  of  a  rapid  and  intense  creative  faculty, 
as  intellectual  as  it  was  imaginative,  as  con- 
crete in  operation  as  it  was  universal  in  inten- 
tion, as  rich  in  multitude  as  in  unity,  and  con- 
stituting a  power  of  genius  beyond  his  mortal 
strength  to  sustain,  both  physically  and  artis- 
tically. He,  for  some  re;ison.  did  not  go  on  to 
this  new  task ;  and  in  the  Hellas  he  wrote, 
which  derives  its  strength  from  his  enthusiasm 
for  freedom  m  practical  struggle  and  his  unfail- 
ing dream  ef  good  for  man,  there  are.  I  think, 
signs  of  the  lassitude  of  his  power  in  the  unus- 
ual way  in  which  he  leans  not  only  on  JEschy- 
lus,  but  on  Shakspere,  Virgil,  and  others;  in 
the  repetition  beyond  his  wont  of  ideas  and  im- 
ages of  his  own  former  works,  and  in  the  use  or 
accustomed  phrases  in  his  diction.  The  drama 
is,  it  is  true,  an  improvisation,  and  as  such,  rap- 
idly done,  and  naturally  it  is  studded  in  these 
wavs  with  reminiscances  of  others  and  of  him- 
self in  style  and  matter  ;  but,  charged  as  it  is 
with  the  love  of  liberty,  the  adoration  of  ancient 
Greece,  and  the  hope  of  peace,  and  instinct  as 
its  choruses  arc  with  haunting  melody  of  that 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


637 


strange  sort  where  music  seems  to  outvalue  the 
words  as  a  means  of  expression  of  the  mood, 
yet  one  feels  in  it  a  wearied  pulse,  though  the 
pulse  stiU  of  one  of  '  the  sous  of  light.' 

Shelley's  Notes  on  Hellas. 

Line  CO.  Milan  was  the  centre  of  the  resist- 
ance of  the  Lombard  league  against  the  Aus- 
trian tjTant.  Frederic  Barbarossa  burned  the 
city  to  the  ground,  but  liberty  lived  in  its  ashes, 
and  it  rose  like  an  exhalation  from  its  ruin.  See 
bismondi's  Histoire  des  Ripubliques  Italiennes, 
a  book  which  has  done  much  towards  awaken- 
ing the  Italians  to  an  imitation  of  their  g^eat 
ancestors. 

Line  197.  The  popular  notions  of  Chris- 
tianity are  represented  in  this  chorus  as  true  in 
their  relation  to  the  worship  they  superseded, 
and  that  which  in  all  probability  they  will  su- 
persede, without  considering  their  merits  in  a 
relation  more  universal.  The  first  stanza  con- 
trasts the  immortality  of  the  living  and  think- 
ing beings  which  inhabit  the  planets,  and  to  use 
a  common  and  inadequate  phrase,  clothe  them- 
selves in  matter,  with  the  transience  of  the  no- 
blest manifestations  of  the  external  world. 

The  concluding  verses  indicate  a  progressive 
state  of  more  or  less  exalted  existence,  accord- 
ing to  the  degree  of  perfection  which  every  dis- 
tinct intelligence  may  have  attained.  Let  it 
not  be  supposed  that  1  mean  to  dogmatize  upon 
a  subject  concerning  which  all  men  are  equally 
ignorant,  or  that  I  think  the  Gordian  knot  of 
the  origin  of  evil  can  be  disentangled  by  that 
or  any  similar  assertions.  The  received  hypo- 
thesis of  a  Being,  resembling  men  in  the  moral 
attributes  of  his  nature,  having  called  us  out 
of  non-existence,  and  after  inflicting  on  ns  the 
misery  of  the  commission  of  error,  should  su- 
peradd that  of  the  punishment  and  the  priva- 
tions consequent  upon  it,  still  would  remain 
inexplicable  and  incredible.  That  there  is  a 
true  solution  of  the  riddle,  and  that  in  our  pre- 
sent state  that  solution  is  unattainable  by  us, 
are  propositions  which  may  be  regarded  as 
equally  certain  :  meanwhile,  as  it  is  the  province 
of  the  poet  to  attach  himself  to  those  ideas 
which  exalt  and  ennoble  humanity,  let  him  be 
permitted  to  have  conjectured  the  condition  of 
that  futurity  towards  which  we  are  all  impelled 
by  an  inextinguishable  thirst  for  immortality, 
tfntil  better  arguments  can  be  produced  than 
sophisms  which  disgfrace  the  cause,  this  desire 
itself  miist  remain  the  strongest  and  the  only 
presumption  that  eternity  is  the  inheritance  of 
every  thinking  being. 

Line  245.  The  Greek  Patriarch,  after  having 
been  compelled  to  fulminate  an  anathema 
against  the  insurgents,  was  put  to  death  by  the 
Turks. 

Fortunately  the  Greeks  have  been  taught  that 
they  cannot  buy  security  by  degradation,  and 
the  Turks,  though  equally  cruel,  are  less  cun- 
ning than  the  smooth-faced  tyrants  of  Europe. 
As  to  the  anathema,  his  Holiness  might  as  well 
have  thrown  his  mitre  at  Mount  Athos  for  any 
effect  that  it  produced.     The   chiefs  of  the 


Greeks  are  almost  all  men  of  comprehension 
and  enlightened  views  on  religion  and  poli- 
tics. 

Line  563.  A  Greek  who  had  been  Lord  By- 
ron's servant  commands  the  insurgents  in 
Attica.  This  Greek,  Lord  Byron  informs  me, 
though  a  poet  and  an  enthusiastic  patriot,  gave 
him  rather  the  idea  of  a  timid  and  unenterpris- 
ing person.  It  appears  that  circumstances  make 
men  what  they  are,  and  that  we  all  contain  the 
germ  of  a  degree  of  degradation  or  of  greatness 
whose  connection  with  our  character  is  deter- 
mined by  events. 

Line  698.  It  is  reported  that  this  Messiah 
had  arrived  at  a  seaport  near  Lacedaemon  in  an 
American  brig.  The  association  of  names  and 
ideas  is  irresistibly  ludicrous,  but  the  preval- 
ence of  such  a  rumor  strongly  marks  the  state 
of  popular  enthusiasm  in  Greece. 

Line  815.  For  the  vision  of  Mahmud  of  the 
taking  of  Constantinople  in  1453,  see  Gibbon's 
Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire, yo\.  xii. 
p.  223. 

The  manner  of  the  invocation  of  the  spirit  of 
Mahomet  the  Second  will  be  censured  as  over 
subtle.  I  could  easily  have  made  the  Jew  a 
regular  conjurer,  and  the  Phantom  an  ordinary 
ghost.  I  have  preferred  to  represent  the  Jew 
as  disclaiming  all  pretension,  or  even  belief,  in 
supernatural  agency,  and  as  tempting  Mahmud 
to  that  state  of  mind  in  which  ideas  may  be 
supposed  to  assume  the  force  of  sensations 
through  the  confusion  of  thought  with  the  ob- 
jects of  thought,  and  the  excess  of  passion  ani- 
mating the  creations  of  imagination. 

It  is  a  sort  of  natural  magic,  susceptible  of 
being  exercised  in  a  degree  by  any  one  who 
should  have  made  himself  master  of  the  secret 
associations  of  another's  thoughts. 

Line  1060.  The  final  chorus  is  indistinct  and 
obscure,  as  the  event  of  the  living  drama  whose 
arrival  it  foretells.  Prophecies  of  wars,  and 
rumors  of  wars,  etc.,  may  safely  be  made  by 
poet  or  prophet  in  any  age,  but  to  anticipate, 
however  darkly,  a  period  of  regeneration  and 
happiness  is  a  more  hazardous  exercise  of  the 
faculty  which  bards  possess  or  feig^.  It  wUl 
remind  the  reader  '  magno  nee  proximo  inter- 
vallo '  of  Isaiah  and  Virgil,  whose  ardent  spirits, 
overleaping  the  actual  reign  of  evil  which  we 
endure  and  bewail,  already  saw  the  possible 
and  perhaps  approaching  state  of  society  in 
which  the  lion  shall  lie  down  with  the  lamb,* 
and  '  omnis  feret  omnia  tellus.'  Let  these 
great  names  be  my  authority  and  my  excuse. 

Line  1090.  Saturn  and  Love  were  among  the 
deities  of  a  real  or  imaginary  state  of  innocence 
and  happiness.  All  those  who  fell,  or  the  Gods 
of  Greece,  Asia,  and  Egypt ;  the  0}ie  who  rose, 
or  Jesus  Christ,  at  whose  appearance  the  idols 
of  the  Pagan  World  were  amerced  of  their  wor- 
ship ;  axtd  the  many  unsubdued,  or  the  monstrous 
objects  of  the  idolatry  of  China,  India,  the 
Antarctic  islands,  and  the  native  tribes  of 
America,  certainly  have  reigned  over  the  un- 
derstandings of  men  in  conjunction  or  in  suc- 
cession, during  periods  in  which  all  we  know  of 


638 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


evil  has  been  in  a  state  of  i>orteutous,  and,  until 
the  revival  of  learning  and  the  arts,  perpetually 
increasing  activity.  The  Grecian  gods  seem 
indeed  to  have  been  personally  more  innocent, 
although  it  cannot  be  said,  that  as  far  as  tem- 
perance and  chastity  are  concerned,  they  gave 
so  edifying  an  example  as  their  successor.  The 
subUme  human  character  of  Jesus  Christ  vras 
deformed  by  an  imputed  identification  with  a 
power  who  tempted,  betrayed,  and  punished 
the  innocent  beings  who  were  called  into  exist- 
ence by  his  sole  will ;  and  for  the  period  of  a 
thousand  years,  the  spirit  of  this  most  just,  wise, 
and  benevolent  of  men  has  been  propitiated 
with  myriads  of  hecatombs  of  those  who  ap- 
proached the  nearest  to  his  innocence  and  Avis- 
dom,  sacrificed  under  every  aggravation  of 
atrocity  and  variety  of  torture.  The  horrors 
of  the  Mexican,  the  Peruvian,  and  the  Indian 
superstitions  are  well  known. 

Page  317.  Hellas.  The  motto  is  the  one 
which  Shelley  asked  Peacock  to  have  placed  on 
two  seals,  '  one  smaller  and  the  other  hand- 
somer ;  the  device  a  dove  with  outspread  wings, 
and  this  motto  round  it.' 

Page  318.  Dedication.  Mavrocardato,  a 
member  of  Shelley's  Pisan  circle  of  friends,  of 
whom  Shelley  repeatedly  wrote  with  enthu- 
siam.  He  read  Antigone  with  Mary,  and  the 
Agamemnon  and  Paradise  Lost  with  Shelley. 

Preface.    Goat-song,  The  Cenci. 

Page  320.  Prologue.  Dr.  Gamett's  note, 
on  first  publishing  this  fragment,  gives  all 
needed  information  about  it.  '  Mrs.  Shelley 
informs  us,  in  her  Note  on  the  Prometheus  Un- 
bound, that  at  the  time  of  her  husband's  arrival 
in  Italy,  he  meditated  the  production  of  three 
dramas.  One  of  these  was  the  Prometheus  it- 
self ;  the  second,  a  drama  on  the  subject  of 
Tasso's  madness ;  the  third,  one  founded  on 
the  Book  of  Job;  "of  which,"  she  adds,  "he 
never  abandoned  the  idea."  That  this  was  the 
case  will  be  apparent  from  the  following  newly- 
discovered  fragment,  which  may  have  been,  as 
I  have  on  the  whole  preferred  to  describe  it,  an 
unfinished  Proloprue  to  Hellas,  or  perhaps  the 
original  sketch  of  that  work,  discarded  for  the 
existing  more  dramatic,  but  less  ambitious  ver- 
sion, for  which  the  Persce  of  -iEscbylus  evi- 
dently supplied  the  model.  It  is  written  in  the 
same  book  as  the  original  !MS.  of  Hellas^  and  so 
blended  with  this  as  to  be  only  separable  after 
a  very  minute  examination.  Few  even  of  Shel- 
ley's rough  drafts  have  proved  more  difficult  to 
decipher  or  connect ;  numerous  chasms  will  be 
observed  which,  with  every  diligence,  it  has 
proved  impossible  to  fill  up  ;  the  correct  reading 
of  many  printed  lines  is  far  from  certain  ;  and 
the  imperfection  of  some  passages  is  such  as  t« 
have  occasioned  their  entire  omission.  Never- 
theless, I  am  confident  that  the  unpolished 
and  mutilated  remnant  will  be  accepted  as  a 
worthy  emanation  of  one  of  Shelley's  sublimest 
moods,  and  a  noble  earnest  of  what  he  might 
have  accomplished,  could  he  have  executed  nis 
original  design  of  founding  a  drama  on  the 


Book  of  Job.  Weak  health,  variable  spirits, 
and,  above  all,  the  absence  of  encouragement, 
must  be  enumerated  as  chief  among  the  causes 
which  have  deprived  our  literature  of  so  mag- 
nificent a  work. 

'  Besides  the  evident  imitation  of  the  Book  of 
Job,  the  resemblance  of  the  first  draft  of  Hellas 
to  the  machinery  of  Dryden's  intended  epic  is 
to  be  noted.  "He  gives,"  says  Johnson,  sum- 
raai-iziug  Dryden's  preface  to  his  translation  of 
Juvenal,  "  an  account  of  the  design  which  he 
had  once  formed  to  write  an  epic  poem  on  the 
actions  either  of  Arthur  or  the  Black  Prince. 
He  considered  the  epic  as  necessarily  involving 
some  kind  of  supernatural  agency,  and  had 
imagined  a  new  kind  of  contest  between  the 
guardian  angels  of  kingdoms,  of  which  he 
conceived  that  each  might  be  represented 
zealous  for  his  charge  without  any  intended  op- 
position to  the  purposes  of  the  Supreme  Being, 
of  which  all  created  minds  must  in  part  be 
ignorant. 

'"This  is  the  most  reasonable  scheme  of 
celestial  interposition  that  ever  was  formed."  ' 

[The  references  to  iEschylus  below  are  to 
PaJey's  third  edition,  London,  1870.] 

Page  320.  Prologue. 

Line  69  giant  Powers,  cf.  Dr.  Gamett's  note 
above. 

Line  87  Aurora,  Greece. 

Line  9J).  Cf .  Epipsychidion,  note. 

Line  107.  The  familiar  image  of  The  Rb« 
volt  of  Islam,  I. 

Line  139.  The  doctrine  of  the  Furies  in  Pro- 
metheus Unbound. 

Line  146.  A  reminiscence  of  Lucretius,  I.  64. 

Page  322.  Chorus.  Cf.  Calderon,  El  Principe 
Constante,  I. 

Line  46.  Cf.  Adonais,  xix.  4. 

Line  56.  Cf.  ^schylus,  Agamemnon,  272. 

Line  70  Atlantis,  America. 

Lino  95  thy.  Freedom's. 

Line  128.  Cf.  -(Eschylus,  Persce,  178. 

Line  133.  Ahasuems,  the  Wandering  Jew. 

Line  177.  Cf.  Prometheus  Unbound,  II.  i. 
156. 

Line  189.  A  reminiscence  of  Prometheus 
Unbound,  HI.  i. 

Line  1{»2.  Cf.  Plato,  Republic,  VI. 

Line  195.  Cf .  Bacon,  Essays,  Of  Empire. 

Line  209.  The  theory  here  stated  is  the  or- 
dinary belief  of  transmigration. 

Line  21 1  A  power,  Christ. 

Line  224.  The  reference  is  to  the  Cross  of 
Constantino. 

Line  230.  Cf.  Milton,  O'^e  on  the  Nativity, 
xix.-xxi. 

Line  266.  Cf.  Prologue,  172. 

Line  303  Queen,  England. 

Line  .307.  Cf .  --Eschylus,  Persce,  207-212. 

Line  373.  Cf.  ^schylus,  Persce,  449  et  seq. 

Line  447.  Cf.  Prologue.  101. 

Line  476.  Cf .  ^schylus,  Persce,  355-432,  espe- 
cially line  486  with  410,  494  with  408,  503  with 
393,  505  with  420. 

Line  587.  Cf.  Odb  TO  Libbrtt,  xiii.  3-7. 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


639 


Line  591 .  Santons,  a  sect  of  enthusiasts  in- 
spired by  divine  love  and  regarded  as  saints. 

Line  tJ9t).  The  main  metapliysical  idea  of  the 
poem,  the  primacy  of  thought  and  its  sole  real- 
ity, begins  here. 

Line  701.  Cf.  Pkologcb,  9. 

Line  711.  Cf.  Prologue,  121. 

Line  729.  Cf.  iEschylus,  Agamemnon,  734-735. 
Shelley  quotes  the  passage  in  a  letter  to  his 
wife,  August  10,  1821. 

Lines  7G7-806  The  speech  develops  the  philo- 
sophical theory  alluded  to  above,  line  696,  and 
is  variously  reminiscent  of  fShakspere  (as  are 
other  passages  of  the  drama)  in  style  and  dic- 
tion. 

Line  771.  Cf.  Prologue,  19. 

Lines  814-641.  Gt.  Gihhon,  Decline  and  Fall 
of  the  Roman  Empire,  ch.  68. 

Line  852-854.  Cf.  Prologue,  161. 

Line  860.  The  Phantom  is  possibly  suggested 
by  the  figure  of  Darius  in  the  Persce.  The  pas- 
sage has  analogies  with  Prometheus  Un- 
bound, L 

Line  906.  The  familiar  image  from  Plato, 
Symposium,  195. 

Line  925.  Cf .  The  Cenci,  III.  i.  247,  and  note. 

Line  943.  Cf.  Prometheus  Unbound,  IV. 
444. 

Line  985.  The  reference  is  to  the  Shield  of 
Arthur,  Spenser,  Faerie  Queene,  Bk.  I.  passim. 

Line  989.  The  Retreat  of  the  Ten  Thousand 
under  Xenophon,  told  in  the  Anabasis. 

Line  lO'M  Evening  land.  Here  and  in  the  fol- 
lowing lines,  America  appears  to  furnish  the 
elements  of  the  idealized  new  age,  which  soon 
changes  imaginatively  into  a  glorification  of  a 
newly  arisen  ideal  Greece. 

Line  1060  Chorus.  Cf .  Virgil,  Eclogues,  iv. 
and  Byron's  Isles  of  Greece, 

Page  340.    To .     Cf .  Peter  Bell  the 

Third,  V.  i.  note. 

342.  To  Mary  Wollstonecraft  Godwin, 
i.  3  fear,  Rossetti  suggests  yearn  to  amend  a 
plainly  corrupt  passage. 

344.  To  Wordsworth,  cf .  Peter  Bell 
the  Third,  IV.  ix.  note. 

345.  Lines.  If  the  poem  refers  to  Harriet 
it  is  dated  a  year  too  early. 

345.  The  Sunset,  line  4.  Cf.  Epipsychi- 
DiON,  note. 

Line  22,  Forman  conjectures  I  never  saw  the 
sunrise  ?  we  will  wake,  substituting  a  melodra- 
matic for  a  natural  effect. 

346.  Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty,  cf. 
Epipsychidion,  note.  Mrs.  Shelley's  note  is 
as  fbllows:  '  He  spent  the  summer  on  the 
shores  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva.  The  Hymn  to 
Intellectual  Beauty  was  conceived  daring  his 
voyage  round  the  Lake  with  Lord  Byron.  He 
occupied  himself  during  this  vovage  by  reading 
the  Nouvelle  Hddise  for  the  first  time.  The 
reading  it  on  the  very  spot  where  the  scenes  are 
laid,  added  to  the  interest ;  and  he  was  at  once 
surprised  and  charmed  by  the  passionate  elo- 
quence and  earnest  enthralling  interest  that 
pervades  this  work.    There  was  something  in 


the  character  of  Saint-Preux,  in  his  abne^tion 
of  self,  and  in  the  worehip  he  paid  to  Love, 
that  coincided  with  Shelley's  own  disposition  : 
and,  though  differing  in  many  of  the  views,  and 
shocked  by  others,  yet  the  effect  erf  the  whole 
was  fascinating  and  delightful.'  Ackerraann 
refers  to  Spenser's  Hymns  as  a  source,  but  with- 
out plausibility.    Cf .  The  Zucca. 

Stanza  i.  1.  Cf .  The  Rkvoli  of  Islam,  VI. 
xxxviii.  1. 

Stanza  iv.  1.  Self-esteem,  the  use  of  Self-esteem 
and  Self-contempt  as  measures  of  happiness  and 
misery  is  constant  from  the  earliest  verse  to 
Adonais,  and  is  characteristic  of  his  moral 
ideal.    Cf .  Prometheus  Unboi.  nd,  passim. 

Stanza  v.  Cf .  The  Revdlt  of  Islam,  Dedi- 
cation, iii.-v. 

Stanza  vii.  12.  The  line  is,  perhaps,  the  sim- 
plest and  noblest  statement  of  Shelley's  ideal 
of  his  own  life. 

Page  347.  Mont  Blanc,  i.  The  metaphysi- 
cal iiitention  of  the  symbol  should  be  remem- 
bered as  a  part  of  the  entire  poem  and  as  dif- 
ferentiating its  scope  from  that  of  Coleridge  on 
the  same  subject. 

Line  79.  liut  for  such  faith,  the  Boseomb«> 
MS.  reads  In  such  a  faith,  which  yields  the  only 
intelligible  meaning.  The  faith  of  Shelley's 
poetic  age  in  the  power  of  nature  over  human 
life  could  hardly  find  more  startling  statement 
than  in  the  next  two  lines. 

Line  96.  This  is  an  anticipation  of  the  con- 
ception imaginatively  defined  in  Demogorgon 
(cf.  lines  139-141  below).  This  poem  and  the 
preceding  Hymn  are  forerunners  of  the  main 
lines  of  thought  in  the  Prometheus  Un- 
bound. 

Page  352.  To  Constantia.  The  poem,  as 
a  whole,  is  a  forerunner  of  Prometheus  Un- 
bound, in  its  imagery  of  music  as  a  power  of 
motion  in  stanza  iv.,  and  in  its  diction  (e.  g.  iii. 
2)  as  well  as  in  its  lyrical  rapture.  The  remi- 
niscences of  Plato  and  Lucretius  in  stanza  ii.  7 
and  11  are  obvious.  In  the  Harvard  MS.  the 
last  stanza  is  first,  but  this  may  represent  rather 
the  order  of  composition  than  of  true  arrange- 
ment ;  certainly  it  belongs  last,  as  it  is  the  cli- 
max of  emotion. 

Page  353.  To  the  Lord  Chancellor,  i.  4. 
The  star-chamber. 

iv.  3  cdwl.ct.  Dante,  Inferno,  XXIII. 

xvi.  1.  The  close  of  the  curse  is  character- 
istic of  Shelley's  moral  ideal.  In  a  similar 
way  he  brings  his  political  odes,  several  of  which 
are  odes  of  agitation,  such  as  Ode  written 
October,  1819,  and  the  Ode  to  Naples  to  an 
end  in  counsels  of  love,  forgiveness,  and  brother- 
hood after  the  storm  of  execration  or  of  incite- 
ment had  been  exhausted  in  the  earlier  part. 

Page  354.  To  William  Shelley.  Mrs. 
Shelley  adds  to  her  note :  '  When  afterward 
this  child  died  at  Rome,  he  wrote,  apropos  of 
the  English  burying-ground  in  that  city,  "  This 
spot  is  the  repository  of  a  sacred  loss,  of  which 
the  yearnings  of  a  parent's  heart  are  now  pro- 
phetic ;  he  is  rendered  immortal  by  love  as  his 
memory  is  by  death.    My  beloved  child  liei 


640 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


buried  here.  I  envy  death  the  body  far  less 
than  the  oppressors  the  minds  of  those  whora 
they  have  torn  from  me.  The  one  can  kill  only 
the  body,  the  other  crushes  the  affections."  ' 

Stanza  iv.  Cf .  Rosalind  and  Helen,  894- 
901. 

Page  358.  On  a  Faded  Violet.  Cf.  To 
Sophia,  Head-note. 

Stanza  i.  In  the  later  edition  of  Mrs.  Shel- 
ley this  stanza  reads : 

The  colour  from  the  flower  is  gone 
Which  like  thy  sweet  eyes  smiled  on  me ; 

The  odour  from  tlie  flower  is  flown 
Wliich  breathed  o£  thee  and  only  thee. 

In  the  next  stanza  she  also  reads  withered,  for 
shrivelled.  Her  vei'sion  is  sustained  by  the  Ox- 
ford MS.  described  by  Zupitza.  The  text 
given  is  that  of  Hunt,  1821,  Mrs.  Shelley,  1824, 
and  of  the  MS.  as  described  by  Rossetti. 

Page  358.  Lines  written  among  thb  Eu- 
ganean  Hills. 

Line  175  songs.  Forman  conjectures  sons. 
■which  destroys  the  highly  imaginative  unity  of 
the  figure  and  substitutes  a  mere  mixed  meta- 
phor therefor.     Byron  is  referred  to. 

Line  220.    Cf.  (Edipcs  Tykannus,  II.  60. 

Line  319.  Cf.  The  Revolt  of  Isi,am,  II. 
XXX.  2. 

Line  344.    Cf.  Epipsychidion,  note. 

Page  362.  Invocation  to  Misery.  The 
story  referred  to  in  the  Head-note  was  first  told 
by  Medwin.  He  writes,  '  Had  she  [Mrs.  Shel- 
ley] been  able  to  disentangle  the  threads  of  the 
mystery,  she  would  have  attributed  his  feelings 
to  more  than  purely  physical  causes.  Among 
the  verses  which  she  had  probably  never  seen 
till  they  appeared  in  print  was  the  Invocation  to 
Misery,  an  idea  taken  from  Shakespeare  — 
making  love  to  Misery,  betokening  his  soul 
lacerated  to  rawness  by  the  tragic  event  above 
detailed — the  death  of  his  unknown  adorer.' 
Life,  i.  330,  331.  He  refers  to  a  story,  previ- 
ously told  by  him  in  The  Angler  in  Wales,  ii. 
194,  related  by  Shelley  to  him  and  Byron,  that 
'  the  night  before  his  departure  from  London 
in  1814  [1816],  he  received  a  visit  from  a  mar- 
ried lady,  young,  handsome,  and  of  noble  con- 
nections, and  whose  disappearance  from  the 
world  of  fashion,  in  which  she  moved,  may 
furnish  tx)  those  curious  in  such  inquiries  a  clue 
to  her  identity ; '  and  he  goes  on  to  describe 
how,  in  spite  of  Shelley's  entreaty  and  unknown 
to  him,  this  lady  followed  him  to  the  continent, 
kept  near  him,  and  at  Naples,  in  this  year, 
met  him,  told  her  wandering  devotion,  and 
there  died  (Life,  i.  324-329).  Medwin  ascribes 
to  this  incident  the  next  poem,  and  also  the 
lines  On  a  Faded  Violet.  Rossetti  (i.  JK)) 
says  he  is  '  assured  on  good  authority '  that 
Medwin's  connecting  Misery  with  these  events 
is  'not  correct.'  Lady  Shelley  saj's :  'Of  this 
strange  narrative  it  will  be  sufficient  to  say 
here  that  not  the  slightest  allusion  to  it  is  to  be 
found  in  any  of  the  family  documents'  {Shel- 
ley Memorials,  p.  92).  Rossetti  connects  with 
^e  story  Shelley's  letter  to  Peacock,  May, 


1820,  in  which  he  refers  to  his  health  as  affected 
'  by  certain  moral  causes,'  and  also  his  letter  to 
Oilier,  December  15,  1819,  in  which  he  ex- 
presses his  intention  to  '  write  three  other 
poems  [besides  Julian  and  Maddalo]  the 
scenes  of  which  will  be  laid  at  Rome,  Florence, 
and  Naples,  but  the  subjects  of  which  will  be 
all  drawn  from  dreadful  or  beautiful  realities, 
as  that  of  this  was.'  Miss  Clairmont  asserted 
that  she  knew  the  lady's  name  and  had  seen 
her.  At  Naples  there  died  a  little  girl  who  was 
to  some  extent  in  Shelley's  chaise,  and  of  whom 
he  wrote  with  feeUng.  Dowden  (ii.  252,  253) 
suggests  some  connection  between  the  two  inci- 
dents. 

Page  367.  Ode  to  the  West  Wind.  Cf. 
The  Revoi,t  of  Islam,  IX.  xxi.-xxv. 

369.  An  Ode.  Cf .  Stanza,  p.  4;^,  and  To 
the  Lord  Chancellor,  xvi.  1,  note. 

370.  The  Indian  Serenade.  The  most 
important  variations  of  the  text  are  ii.  3,  and 
the  champak^s,  iii.  7,  press  it  to  thine  own  again ; 
and  iii.  8,  7nust  break,  from  the  Browning  AIS. 

ii.  3.  '  The  buchampaca,  the  flower  of  the 
dawn,  whose  vestal  buds  blow  with  the  sun's 
first  ray,  and  fade  and  die  beneath  his  meridian 
beam,  leaving  only  their  odour  to  survive  their 
transient  blooms.'  Miss  Owenson,  The  Mission- 
ary, ch.  vi.  p.  59 ;  cf .  also  ch.  vii.  pp.  75,  76,  and 
Alastor,  400,  note. 

Page  371.  Love's  Philosophy.  A  MS. 
sent  to  Miss  Stacey  December  29,  1820,  gives 
two  interesting  variations :  i.  7,  In  one  spirit 
meet  and  ;  ii.  7,  What  is  all  this  sweet  work  worth. 
These  readings  are  adopted  by  Forman  and 
Dowden.    Other  variations  exist. 

Fsige  376.  The  Sensitive  Plant,  III.  66. 
The  first  edition,  1820,  inserts  the  following : 

Their  moss  rotted  off  them,  flake  by  flake, 
Till  the  thick  stalk  stuck  like  a  murderer's  stake, 
Where  rags  of  loose  flesh  yet  tremble  on  high. 
Infecting  the  winds  that  wander  by. 

The  stanza  is  cancelled  in  the  Harvard  MS.  and 
omitted  by  Mrs.  Shelley,  1839.  It  is  included 
by  Rossetti  and  Forman. 

Page  381.  To  A  Skylark.  The  interesting 
Harvard  MS.  of  this  poem  may  be  found  in  fac- 
simile in  the  Harvard  University  Library  Bibli- 
ographical Contributions,  No.  35.  Two  emenda- 
tions have  been  suggested ;  the  transference  of 
the  semicolon,  line  8,  to  the  end  of  the  previous 
line  ;  and  embodied  for  unbodied,  line  15.  Neither 
has  been  adopted  by  editors. 

Page  382.  Ode  to  Liberty.  The  poem  is 
in  the  mood  of  Prometheus  Unbound,  of 
which  it  is  reminiscent. 

iii.  6.  Cf.  Prometheus  Unbound,  II.  iv.  49, 

V.  10.  Cf.  Prometheus  Unbound,  III.  iv. 
199,  note. 

vi.  1-4.  Cf.  Evening  :  Pontb  al  Make, 
Pisa,  iii.  1-4. 

vii.  2.  Shelley's  note  :  '  See  the  Baccha  of 
Euripides.' 

viii.  14  The  Galilean  serpent,  Christianity 
in  its  mediseval  forms. 

xii.  10  Anarch,  Napoleon. 


NOTES  AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


641 


xiii.  3-7.    Cf.  Helias,  I.  587. 

xiii.  12-15  Twins,  England  and  Spain  ;  West, 
America ;  Impress  .  .  .  conceal,  the  sense 
may  be,  impress  us  with  your  past  which  time 
cannot  conceal.  The  passage  is  variously  ex- 
plained by  iSwinbume,  Forman,  and  Rossetti. 
The  suggested  emendation  of  as  for  us,  is  not 
of  itself  sufficient  to  clarify  the  construction 
or  meaning,  but  is  possibly  correct.  Any  ex- 
planation of  the  text  appears  unsatisfactory. 

xvii.  9  intercessor.  Cf.  Pkometheus  Uk- 
BOUND,  III.  iii.  49-60 ;  Ode  to  Naples,  69. 
The  idea  is  suggested  by  Plato's  theories  in  the 
Phcedrus  and  Symposium:  and  is  much  de- 
veloped by  Shelley.  Cf.  Prince  Athanase, 
II.  106-113,  note. 

Page  387.  Aretetusa.  This  and  the  follow- 
ing poem  were  written  to  be  inserted  in  a  drama 
entitled  Proserpine,  as  the  Hymns  to  Apollo 
and  Pan  were  similarly  written  for  a  drama 
called  Midas.  Both  dramas  were  the  work  of 
Williams.  Zupitza  describes  the  MSS.  of  these 
at  length,  with  extracts,  in  Archiv  fur  das  Stu- 
dium  der  neueren  Sprachen  und  Literaturen, 
Band  xciv.  Heft  1. 

II.  8.  The  reading  unsealed  for  concealed  is 

fiven  by  Zupitza  as  that  of  the  Oxford  MS. ; 
e  interprets  the  passage  '  the  wind  unsealed  in 
the  rear  the  urns  of  the  snow,'  it  being  pleonas- 
tic, and  the  urns  meaning  the  snow-springs. 

Page  388.  Song  of  Proserpine,  cf.  Arb- 
THUSA,  note. 

Page  388.  Hymn  of  Apollo,  cf .  Arethusa, 
note. 

Stanza  vi.  6  its  for  their  is  given  by  Zupitza 
as  the  reading  of  the  Oxford  MS. 

Page  389.  Hymn  of  Pan,  cf.  Arethxtsa, 
note. 

Stanza  i.  5, 12.  Zupitza  gives  listening  my  for 
listening  to  my,  as  the  reading  of  the  Oxford  MS. 

Stanzas  ii.,  iii.  Cf .  Virgil,  Eclogues,  vi. 

Page  388.  The  Question,  ii.  7,  cf .  Coleridge, 
To  a  Young  Friend,  37,  ^  the  rock's  collected 
tears.''  The  reading  heaven-collected,  Mrs.  Shel- 
ley, 1824,  adopted  by  Forman,  is  improbable  in 
view  of  the  citation,  while  the  text  is  supported 
by  the  first  issue  of  Hunt  and  the  Harvard  and 
Oilier  JISS. 

Page  390.  Letter  to  Maria  Gisborne. 

Line  75.  The  boat  and  the  hollow  screw  are 
the  same. 

Line  77  Henry,  Mr.  Reveley,  Mrs.  Gisbome's 
son. 

Line  130.  '  The  Libecchio  here  howls  like  a 
chorus  of  fiends  all  day.'  Shelley  to  Peacock, 
July  12,  1820. 

Line  183.  Mrs.  Gisborne  read  Calderon  with 
him. 

Line  195.  Cf.  Time,  7. 

Line  202.  Cf.  Peter  Bell  the  Third,  V. 
i.  3,  note. 

Line  226  Hogg,  Thomas  Jefferson  Hogg, 
Shelley's  friend,  and  biographer  of  his  Oxford 
days. 

Line  233  Peacock,  Thomas  Love  Peacock, 
the  novelist.  The  play  on  the  name  in  the  next 
line  IS  obvioi:s. 


Line  250  Horace  Smith,  perhaps  the  wisest 
and  best  friend  Shelley  had. 

Line  313.  Shelley's  note  :  '  'Im«po«,  from  which 
the  river  Himera  was  named,  is,  with  some 
slight  shade  of  difference,  a  synonym  of 
Love.' 

Pa^e  395.  Ode  to  Naples.  The  Oxford 
MS.  IS  fully  described  by  Zupitza. 

Shelley's  Notes  : 
Line  1.  Pompeii. 
Line  39.  Homer  and  Virgil. 
Line  104.  ^sea,  the  island  of  Circe. 
Line  112.  The  viper  was  the  armorial  device 
of  the  Visconti,  tyrants  of  Milan. 

Line  45.  Zupitza  gives  sunbright  for  sunlit  as 
the  reading  of  the  Oxford  MS. 

Line  69.  Cf.  Ode  to  Liberty,  xvii.  9,  note. 

Line  109.  Cf .  Hellas,  Shelley's  notes,  line  60. 

Page  401.  Good-night.  A  version  known  as 
the  Stacey  MS.  is  followed  by  Rossetti.  It 
varies  from  the  text  as  follows  : 

i.  1,  Good-night?  no,  love  !  the  night  is  ill 

ii.  1,  How  were  the  night  without  thee  good 

iii.  1,  The  hearts  that  on  each  other  beat 

3,  Have  nights  as  good  as  they  are  sweet 

4,  But  never  say  good-night 

This  version  is  poetically  inferior,  and  may  or 
may  not  represent  Shelley's  final  choice  for 
publication.  The  matter  being  uncertain,  it 
seems  best  to  retain  the  better  form,  especially 
as  it  is  the  one  that  has  grown  familiar,  and  is 
well  supported  by  the  authority  of  the  Harvard 
MS.  as  well  as  by  the  first  editors.  Hunt  and 
Mrs.  Shelley. 

Page  403.  Fkom  the  Arabic.  Medwin  gives 
Hamilton's  Antar  as  the  source  of  these  lines, 
but  the  passage  has  not  been  identified. 

Page  403.  To  Night,  i.  1  o''er,  the  reading  is 
from  the  Harvard  MS. 

ii.  3.  The  image  is  familiar  in  Shelley's  verse. 
Cf.  Alastor,  3.37,  note. 

Page  406.  Sonnet.  Entitled  in  the  Harvard 
MS.,  Sonnet  to  the   Republic  of  Bene- 

VENTO. 

Page  407.  Another  Version.  From  the 
Trelawny  MS.,  of  Williams's  play. 

Page 407.  Evening:  Ponteal Mare, Pisa, 
iv.  2.  The  Boscombe  MS.  reads  cinereous  for 
enormous,  and  is  followed  by  Rossetti,  Forman, 
and  Dowden, 

Page  408.  Remembrance.  Another  version, 
known  as  the  Trelawny  MS,,  gives  the  follow- 
ing variations  : 

i.  2,  3,  transpose. 

5-7,  As  the  earth  when  leaves  are  dead. 
As  the  night  when  sleep  is  sped, 
As  the  heart  when  joy  is  fled 

8,  alone,  alone. 

ii.  2,  her. 

5,  My  heart  to-day  desires  to-morrow, 
iii.  4,  Sadder  flowers  find  for  me. 

8,  a  hope,  a  fear. 

The  text  follows  the  Houghton  MS.,  a  copy 
written  on  a  fly-leaf  of  Adonais  by  Shelley. 
Page  409.  To  Edward  Williams.    Rossetti 


642 


NOTES   AND  ILLUSTRATIONS 


gives  the  following  letter  from  Shelley  to  Wil- 
liams : 

'  Mjr  dear  Williams :  Looking  over  the  port- 
folio in  which  ray  frieiid  used  to  keep  his  verses, 
and  in  which  those  1  sent  you  the  other  day 
were  found,  I  have  lit  upon  these :  which,  as 
they  are  too  dismal  for  me  to  keep,  I  send  you. 
If  any  of  the  stanzas  should  please  you,  you 
may  read  them  to  Jane,  but  to  no  one  else. 
And  yet,  on  second  thoughts,  I  had  rather  you 
would  not.  Yours  ever  affectionately,  P.  B.  S.' 
WUuams  notes  in  his  journal,  ISaturdaj',  Jan- 
nary  26,  1822:  '8.  sent  us  some  beautiful  but 
too  melancholy  lines  ('*  The  Serpent  is  shut  out 
from  Paradise  ").'  IByrou  named  Shelley  the 
Serpent. 

Page  415.  Thk  Isle.  Gamett  conjectures 
that  this  poem  was  intended   for   the  Fkag- 

MENTS  OF  AN   UNFINISHED   DrAJIA. 

Page  415.  A  Dikge,  (5  strain,  Rossetti's  emen- 
dation for  stain,  given  by  all  editors. 

Page  41().  Lines  Written  in  the  Bay  of 
Lerici.  The  lines  were  written  during  the  last 
weeks  of  Shelley's  life,  perhaps,  as  Garnett  con- 

i'ectures,  about  May  1,  the  last  time  tljat  Shel- 
ey  was  at  Lerici  at  the  time  of  the  full  moon. 

Page  424.  Prince  Athanase.  Cf.  Epi- 
PSYCHiDiON,  note. 

II.  2.  Cf.  The  Revolt  of  Islam,  II.  xxvii. 
7,  note. 

II.  15.  Cf.  Prometheus  Unbound,  I.  451, 
note. 

n.  103,  story  of  the  feast,  the  Symposium, 

II.  10(5-113.  This  is  the  original  germ  of  the 
Spirit  of  the  Earth  in  Prometheus  Unbound, 
not  perhaps  without  some  indebtedness  to  Cole- 
ridge, Ode  on  the  Departing  Year,  iv.  The  same 
passage  may  also  have  been  not  without  influ- 
ence on  Shelley's  idea  of  the  '  intercessors  '  (cf. 
Prometheus  Unbound,  III.  iii.  40-(jO ;  Ode 
to  Naples,  69 ;  Ode  to  Liberty,  xvii.  *(,  note), 
and  of  the  guardian  angels  of  the  Prologue  to 
Hellas.  Shelley,  however,  entirely  recreates 
the  image  in  these  several  instances,  and  shows 
his  highest  orig^inal  power  in  so  doing. 

II.  118.  Cf.  Shelley,  On  Love,  under  Epi- 
rsYCHiDiON,  note. 

Page  431.  Tasso.  Gamett  gives  from  the 
Boscombe  MS.  Shelley's  notes  for  intended 
scenes  of  this  drama:  'Scene  when  he  reads 
the  sonnet  which  he  wrote  to  Leonora  to  her- 
s'ilf  as  composed  at  the  request  of  another. 
His  disguising  himself  in  the  habit  of  a  shep- 
herd, and  questioning  his  sister  in  that  disguise 
concerning  nimself,  and  then  unveiling  himself.' 

Page  432.  Rossetti  identifies  the  passage  in 
Sismondi  (Paris,  1826),  viii.  142-143. 

Page  435.  Lines  written  for  Promb- 
theus  Unbound.  Cf.  Prometheus  Un- 
bound, IV.  iv.  493. 

Page  4:^6.  Lines  written  for  Epipsyceq- 
DiON.     Cf.  Epipsychidion,  note. 

Page  4Xi.  Lines  written  for  Adonais. 
Rossetti  suggests,  rightly,  I  think,  that  the  first 
fragment  refers  to  Moore,  the  lyre  being  the 
Irish  harp,  and  he  transposes  the  first  and  sec- 
ond fragments.    In  the  latter  green  Paradise  is 


Ireland.  In  the  last  fragment  Rossetti  is  un- 
able to  find  any  human  figure,  and  in  this  he 
also  appears  to  be  right. 

Page  446.  Ginevra.  Gamett  identified  the 
source  as  L' Osstrvatore  Fiorentino  sugli  edifizi 
della  sua  Patria,  1821,  p.  119.  In  the  story 
Ginevra  revives.  Cf.  Hunt,  A  Legend  of  Flor- 
ence. 

Page  449.  The  Boat  on  the  Serchio, 
line  :V).    Cf.  The  Triumph  of  Life,  is. 

Line  40.    Cf .  Translations  from  Dantb, 

V.  1:5. 

Page  450.  The  Zucca.  Cf .  Epipsychidion, 
note,  and  Fragments  of  an  Unfinished 
Drama,  127. 

Page  452.  Charles  the  First.  The  Head- 
notes  contain  the  history  of  the  fragment. 

Page  4<5(i.  Fragments  of  an  Unfinished 
Drama.  This  poem  is  the  most  characteristic 
example  of  the  last  manner  of  Shelley  in  verse. 
It  is  shot  through  with  reminiscences  of  his 
own  work  and  with  those  of  the  poets  he  had 
long  used  as  familiar  masters  and  guides  ;  the 
sentiment  is  as  before  ;  the  material  is  not  dif- 
ferent ;  but  over  all,  and  pervading  all,  is  a 
hew  charm,  original,  pure,  and  delicate,  which 
makes  the  verse  a  new  kind  in  English. 

Page  470.    The  Triumph  of  Life.     This 

foem,  the  last  work  of  Shelley,  is  obviously 
talian  in  suggestion  and  manner,  and  is  ob- 
scure to  the  ordinary  reader.  It  is  a  pure  and 
mystical  allegory,  in  which  Shelley  has  blended 
many  elements  of  his  intellectual  culture  under 
an  imaginative  artistic  form  of  the  Renaissance 
rarely  modernized.  The  meaning,  however,  is 
not  obscure  to  one  who  will  let  his  mind  dwell 
on  and  penetrate  the  imagery,  after  bi'coming 
familiarized  with  Shelley's  previous  woiks.  A 
few  notes  only,  and  those  of  an  obvious  kind, 
can  be  given  here. 

Line  103  that,  the  charioteer. 

Line  133.    The  sense  is  broken. 

Line  190  grim  Feature.  Cf.  Milton,  Paradise 
Lost,  X.  279. 

Line  255.    Socrates :  because  he  did  not  love. 

Line  261 .    Alexander  and  Aristotle. 

Line  283.     The  Roman  Emperors. 

Line  290.     The  Papacy. 

Line  352.  The  last  and  most  mystical  of  the 
eternal  beings  of  Shelley's  phantasy. 

Line  422.  Mrs.  Shelley's  note  :  '  The  favorite 
song,  Stanco  di  pascolar  le  ecorelli,  is  a  Brescian 
national  air.' 

Line  472  him,  Dante. 

Page  480.  Minor  Fragments.  The  avail- 
able infonnation  regarding  these  poems  is  given 
in  the  Head-notes. 

Page  491 ,  Translations.  The  Ilead-notes 
contain  the  records  of  these  compositions.  The 
text  of  The  Cyclops  has  been  examined  by 
Swinburne,  Essays  and  Studies,  201-211.  In 
Scenes  from  the  Faust  of  Goethe,  a 
slight  correction,  joy  for  you,  ii.  333  (p.  545),  is 
made  in  accordance  with  Zupitza's  suggestion. 

Page  54(i.  Juvenilia.  The  Head-notes  in- 
clude all  that  is  known  of  the  history  of  these 
pieces. 


INDEX   OF   FIRST  LINES 


[Cueladlng  the  first  lines  of  independent  songs  contained  in  the  longer  poems  and  dramas.] 


A  CAT  in  distress,  547, 

A  gentle  story  of  two  lovers  young,  485. 

A  glorious  people  vibrated  again,  382. 

A  golden- winged  Angel  stood,  486. 

A  Hater  he  came  and  sat  by  a  ditch,  486. 

A  man  wlio  was  about  to  hang  himself,  519. 

A  mighty  Phantasm,  half  concealed,  439. 

A  pale  dream  came  to  a  Lady  fair,  330. 

A  portal  as  of  shadowy  adamant,  399. 

A  scene,  which  wildered  fancy  viewed,  566. 

A  Sensitive  Plant  in  a  garden  grew,  372. 

A  shovel  of  his  ashes  took,  480. 

A  woodman,  whose  rough  heart  was  out  of  time, 

430. 
Ah!  faint  are  her  limbs,  and  her  footstep  is 

weary,  554. 
Alas !  good  friend,  what  profit  can  you  see,  400. 
Alas !  this  is  not  what  I  thought  life  was,  490. 
Ambition,  power,  and  avarice  now  have  hurled, 

553. 
Amid  the  desolation  of  a  city,  399. 
And  canst  thou  mock  mine  agony,  thus  calm, 

558. 
And  earnest  to  explore  within  —  around,  523. 
And  ever  as  he  went  he  swept  a  lyre,  439. 
And  like  a  dying  lady,  lean  and  pale,  483. 
And  many  there  were  hurt  by  that  strong  boy, 

444. 
And  Peter  Bell,  when  he  had  been,  260. 
And  that  I  walked  thus  proudly  crowned  withal, 

490. 
And  the  green  Paradise  which  western  waves, 

439. 
And  then  came  one  of  sweet  and  earnest  looks, 

439. 
And  where  is  truth  V    On  tombs  ?  for  such  to 

thee,  489. 
And  who  feels  discord  now  or  sorrow  ?  487. 
An  old,  mad,  blind,  despised  and  dying  king, 

365. 
Arethusa  arose,  387. 
Ariel  to  Miranda :  —  Take,  414. 
Arise,  arise,  arise !  369. 
Art  thou  indeed  forever  gone,  560. 
Art  thou  pale  for  weariness,  485. 
As  a  violet's  gentle  eye,  435. 
As  from  an  ancestral  oak,  363. 
As  I  lay  asleep  in  Italy,  253. 
As  the  sunrise  to  the  night,  484. 
At  the  creation  of  the  Earth,  444. 
Away  I  the  moor  is  dark  beneath  the  moon,  341. 

Bear  witness,  Erin  I  when  thine  injured  isle, 
S6& 


Before  those  cruel  Twins,  whom  at  one  birth, 

273. 
Best  and  brightest,  come  away  !  412. 
Bright  ball  of  flame  that  through  the  gloom  of 

even,  569. 
Bright  wanderer,  fair  coquette  of  heaven,  485. 
Brothers  !  between  you  and  me,  565. 
'  Buona  notte,  buona  notte  ! '  —  Come  mai,  401. 
By  the  mossy  brink,  563. 

Calm  art  thou  as  yon  sunset  1  swift  and  strong, 

88. 
Chameleons  feed  on  light  and  air,  307. 
Come,  be  happy  !  —  sit  near  me,  362. 
Come  hither,  my  sweet  Rosalind,  137. 
Come,  thou  awakener  of  the  spirit's  ocean,  484. 
Corpses  are  cold  in  the  tomb,  364. 

Dares  the  lama,  most  fleet  of  the  sons  of  the 

wind,  561. 
Dark  flood  of  time  !  608.  _ 
Dar'st  thou  amid  the  varied  multitude,  549. 
Daughters  of  Jove,  whose  voice  is  melody,  505. 
Dear  home,  thou  scene  of  earliest  hopes  and 

joys,  480. 
Dearest,  best  and  brightest,  440. 
Death  is  here,  and  death  is  there,  398. 
Death  !  where  is  thy  victory  ?  549. 
'  Do  you  not  hear  the  Aziola  cry  ?  408. 

Eagle !  why  soarest  thou  above  that  tomb  ?  519. 
Earth,  Ocean,  Air,  beloved  brotherhood !  33. 
Echoes  we:  listen!  181. 
Ever  as  now  with  Love   and  Virtue's  glow, 

568, 

Faint  with  love,  the  Lady  of  the  South,  485. 

Fairest  of  the  Destinies,  41^9, 

False  friend,  wilt  thou  smile  or  weep,  249. 

Far,  far  away,  O  ye,  405, 

Flourishing  vine,  whose  kindling  clusters  glow, 
485, 

Follow  to  the  deep  wood's  weeds,  484, 

For  me,  my  friend,  if  not  that  tears  did  trem- 
ble, 483. 

For  my  dagger  is  bathed  in  the  blood  of  the 
brave,  548. 

From  the  forests  and  highlands,  389. 

Gather,  oh,  gather,  436, 

Ghosts  of  the  dead!  have  I  not  heard  yoni 

yelling,  551. 
God  prosper,  speed,  and  save,  365. 
Good-night  ?  ah,  no !  the  hotir  is  ill,  401. 


644 


INDEX  OF   FIRST  LINES 


Great  Spirit  whom  the  sea  of  boundless  thought, 

UK). 
Guido,  I  would  that  Lappo,  thou,  and  I,  522. 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  Spirit  1  381. 

Hail  to  thee,  Cambria !  for  the  unfettered  wind, 

572. 
Hark  !  the  owlet  flaps  his  wings,  547. 
Hast  thou  not  seen,  oiiicious  with  delight,  537. 
He  came  like  a  dream  in  the  dawn  of  life,  467. 
He  fell,  thou  sayest,  beneath  his  conqueror's 

frown,  190. 
Heigho  !  the  lark  and  the  owl !  466, 
'Here    lieth    One   whose    name  was  writ    on 

water  1'  482. 
Here,  my  dear  friend,  is  a  new  book  for  you, 

436. 
Here,  oh,  here!  197. 
Her  voice  did  quiver  as  we  parted,  355. 
He  wanders,  like  a  day-appearing  dream,  489. 
Hie  sinu  fessum  caput  hospitali,  547. 
His  face  was  like  a  snake's  —  wrinkled  and 

loose,  486. 
Honey  from  silkworms  who  can  gather,  356. 
Hopes,  that  swell  in  youthful  breasts,  550. 
How  eloquent  are  eyes !  550. 
How,  my  dear  Mary,  are  you  critic-bitten,  272. 
How  stem  are  the  woes  of  the  desolate  mourner, 

553. 
How  sweet  it  is  to  sit  and  read  the  tales,  485. 
How  swiftly  through  heaven's  wide  expanse, 

553. 
How  wonderful  is  Death,  3,  417. 

I  am  as  a  spirit  who  has  dwelt,  487. 

I  am  drunk  with  the  honey  wine,  485. 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee,  370. 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 

380. 
I  dreamed  that,  as  I  wandered  by  the  way,  389. 
I  dreamed  that  Milton's  spirit  rose,  and  took, 

483. 
I  faint,  I  perish  with  my  love  1    I  grow,  489. 
I  fear  thy  kisses,  gentle  maiden,  387. 
I  had  once  a  lovely  dream,  545. 
I  hated  thee,  fallen  tyrant !  I  did  groan,  344. 
I  love  thee,  Baby  !  for  thine  own  sweet  sake, 

340. 
I  loved  —  alas  !  our  life  is  love,  432. 
I  met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land,  356. 
I  mourn  Adonis  dead  —  loveliest  Adonis,  520. 
I  pant  for  the  music  which  is  divine,  488. 
I  rode  one  evening  with  Count  Maddalo,  152. 
I  sing  the  glorious  Power  with  azure  eyes,  504. 
I  stood  within  the  city  disinterred,  395. 
I  weep  for  Adonais  —  he  is  dead  !  308. 
I  went  into  the  deserts  of  dim  sleep,  489. 
I  would  not  be  a  king  —  enough,  487. 
If  gibbets,  axes,  confiscations,  chains,  445. 
If  I  esteemed  you  less.  Envy  would  kill,  482. 
If  I  walk  in  Autumn's  even,  410. 
Inter  marmoreas  Leonorse  pendula  colles,  548. 
In  the  cave  which  wild  weeds  cover,  486. 
In  the  sweet  solitude  of  this  calm  place,  526. 
Is  it  that  in  some  brighter  sphere,  487. 
Is  it  the  Eternal  Triune,  is  it  He,  573. 
Is  not  to-day  enough  ?    Why  do  I  peer,  487. 


It  is  not  blasphemy  to  hope  that  Heaven,  568. 
It  is  the  day  when  all  the  sons  of  God,  320. 
It  lieth,  gazing  on  the  midnight  sky,  369. 
It  was  a  bright  and  cheerful  afternoon,  399. 

Kissing  Helena,  together,  519. 

Let  those  who  pine  in  pride  or  in  revenge,  432. 

Life  of  Life,  thy  lips  enkindle,  188. 

Lift  not  the  painted  veil  which  those  who  live, 

IMYd. 
Like  the  ghost  of  a  dear  friend  dead,  400. 
Listen,  listen,  Mary  mine,  357. 

Madonna,  wherefore  hast  thou  sent  to  me,  482. 
Maiden,  quench  the  glare  of  sorrow,  563. 
Many  a  green  isle  needs  must  be.  358. 
Melodious  Arethusa,  o'er  my  verse,  521. 
Men  of  England,  wherefore  plough,  3()4. 
Methought  I  was  a  billow  in  the  crowd,  489. 
Mighty  eagle  !  thou  that  soarest,  483. 
Mine  eyes  were  dim  with  tears  unshed,  342. 
Monarch  of  Gods  and  Daemons,  and  all  Spirits, 

165. 
Month  after  month  the  gathered  rains  descend, 

357. 
Moonbeam,  leave  the  shadowy  vale,  549. 
Muse,  sing  the  deeds  of  golden  Aphrodite,  503. 
Music,  when  soft  voices  die,  404. 
My  dearest  Mary,  wherefore  hast  thou  gone, 

481._ 
My  faint  spirit  was  sitting  in  the  light,  403. 
My  head  is  heavy,  my  limbs  are  weary,  487. 
My  head  is  wild  with  weeping  for  a  giief ,  482. 
My  lost  William,  thou  in  whom,  481. 
My  Song,  I  fear  that  thou  wilt  find  but  few,  298, 
My  spirit  like  a  charmed  bark  doth  swim,  488. 
My  thoughts  arise  and  fade  in  solitude,  490. 

Night,  with  all  thine  eyes  look  down !  407. 
No  access  to  the  Duke  !    You  have  not  said, 

431. 
No  Music,  thou  art  not  the  'food  of  Love,' 

488. 
No  trump  tells  thy  virtues  —  the  grave  where 

they  rest,  5*56. 
Nor  happiness,  nor  majesty,  nor  fame,  406. 
Not  far  from  hence.     From  yonder  pointed  hill, 

441. 
Now  had  the  loophole  of  that  dungeon,  still,  524. 
Now  the  last  day  of  many  days,  412. 

O  Bacchus,  what  a  world  of  toil,  both  now,  506. 

O  happy  Earth  !  reality  of  Heaven  I  420. 

O  Mary  dear,  that  you  were  here,  480. 

O  mighty  mind,  in  whose  deep  stream  this  age, 

482. 
0  pillow  cold  and  wet  with  tears  !  435. 
O  thou  briglit  Sun !  beneath  the  dark  blue  linO) 

3:39. 
O  thou  immortal  deity,  490. 
O  thou,  who  plumed  with  strong  desire,  390. 
O  universal  Mother,  who  dost  keep,  505. 
O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Anttmm'i 

being,  367. 
O  worid  1  O  life  1    O  time !  410. 
Offspring  of  Jove,  Calliope,  once  more,  501. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


64s 


Oh,  foUow,  foUow,  181. 

Oh !  take  the  pure  gem  to  where  southerly 

breezes,  562. 
Oh,  that  a  chariot  of  cloud  were  mine  I  489. 
Oh,  there  are  spirits  of  the  air,  340. 
Old  winter  was  gone,  448. 
Once,  early  in  the  morning,  570. 
Once  more  descend,  483. 

One  sung  of  thee  who  left  the  tale  untold,  485. 
One  word  is  too  often  profaned,  408. 
Orphan  hours,  the  year  is  dead,  402. 
Our  boat  is  asleep  on  Serchio's  stream,  449. 

Palace-roof  of  cloudless  nights,  366. 

Pan  loved  his  neighbor  Echo,  but  that  child, 

520. 
People  of  England,  ye  who  toil  and  groan,  484. 
Peter  Bells,  one,  two  and  three,  260. 
Place  for  the  Marshal  of  the  Masque  !  453. 
Poet  of  Natui-e,  thou  hast  wept  to  know,  344. 

Rarely,  rarely,  comest  thou,  403. 
Returning  from  its  daily  quest,  my  Spirit,  525. 
Rome  has  fallen ;  ye  see  it  lying,  484. 
Rough  wind,  that  moanest  loud,  415. 

Sacred  Goddess,  Mother  Earth,  388. 

She  left  me  at  the  silent  time,  416. 

She  was  an  aged  woman  ;  and  the  years,  564. 

Silence !    Oh,  well  are  Death  and  Sleep  and 

Thou,  489. 
Silver  key  of  the  fountain  of  tears,  488. 
Sing,  Muse,  the  son  of  Maia  and  of  Jove,  491. 
'  Sleep,  sleep  on !  forget  thy  pain,  411. 
So  now  my  summer-task  is  ended,  Mary,  49. 
Such  hope,  as  is  the  sick  despair  of  good,  489. 
Summer  was  dead  and  Autumn  was  expiring, 

450. 
Sweet  Spirit !  sister  of  that  orphan  one,  298. 
Sweet  star,  which  gleaming  o'er  the  darksome 

scene,  563. 
Swift  as  a  spirit  hastening  to  his  task,  471. 
Swifter  far  than  summer's  flight,  409. 
Swiftly  walk  o'er  the  western  wave,  403. 

Tell  me,  thou  star,  whose  wings  of  light,  400. 
That  matter  of  the  murder  is  hushed  up,  211. 
That  time  is  dead  forever,  child,  355. 
The  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  Power,  346. 
The  babe  is  at  peace  within  the  womb,  486. 
The  billows  on  the  beach  are  leaping  around  it, 

354. 
The  brilliant  orb  of  parting  day,  576. 
The  cold  earth  slept  below,  345. 
The  colour  from  the  flower  is  gone,  640. 
The  curtain  of  the  Universe,  321. 
The  death-bell  beats  !  552. 
The  everlasting  universe  of  things,  347. 
The  fierce  beasts  of  the  woods  and  wildernesses, 

489. 
The  fiery  mountains  answer  each  other,  398. 
The  fitful  alternations  of  the  rain,  484. 
The  flower  that  smiles  to-day,  404. 
The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river,  371. 
The  gentleness  of  rain  was  in  the  wind,  484. 
The  golden  gates  of  sleep  unbar,  406. 
The  keen  stars  were  twinkling,  415. 


The  odor  from  the  flower  is  gone,  358. 

The  pale,  the  cold,  and  the  moony  smile,  343. 

The  rose  that  drinks  the  fountain  dew,  481. 

The  rude  wind  is  singing,  486. 

The  season  was  the  childhood  of  sweet  June, 

443. 
The  serpent  is  shut  out  from  paradise,  409. 
The  sleepless  Hours  who  watch  me  as  I  lie, 

388. 
The  spider  spreads  her  webs  whether  she  be, 

391. 
The  sun  is  set ;  the  swallows  are  asleep,  407. 
The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear,  363. 
The  sun  makes  music  as  of  old,  538. 
The  viewless  and  invisible  Consequence,  486. 
The  warm  sun  is  failing,  the  bleak  wind  is  wail- 
ing, 398. 
The  waters  are  flashing,  405. 
The  wind  has  swept  from  the  wide  atmosphere, 

348. 
The  world  is  dreary,  480. 
The  world  is  now  our  dwelling-place,  481. 
There  is  a  voice,  not  understood  by  all,  435. 
There  is  a  warm  and  gentle  atmosphere,  487. 
There  late  was  One  within  whose  subtle  being, 

345. 
There  was  a  little  lawny  islet,  415. 
There  was  a  youth,  who,  as  with  toil  and  travel, 

425. 
These  are  two  friends  whose  lives  were  undi- 
vided, 415. 
They  die  —  the  dead  return  not.    Misery,  355. 
Those  whom  nor  power,  nor  lying  faith,  nor 

toil,  483.  ^ 
Thou  art  fair,  and  few  are  fairer,  371. 
Thou  supreme  goddess  !  by  whose  power  divine, 

284. 
Thou  wert  not,  Cassius,  and  thou  couldst  not  be, 

431. 
Thou  wert  the  morning  star  among  the  living, 

519. 
Thus  to  be  lost  and  thus  to  sink  and  die,  352. 
Thy  country's  curse  is  on  thee,  darkest  crest, 

353. 
Thy  dewy  looks  sink  in  my  breast,  340. 
Thy  little  footsteps  on  the  sands,  481. 
Thy  look  of  love  has  power  to  calm,  342. 
'T  is  midnight  now  —  athwart  the  murky  air, 

557. 
'T  is  the  terror  of  tempest.     The  rags  of  the 

sail,  377. 
To  the  deep,  to  the  deep,  184. 
To  thirst  and  find  no  fill  —  to  wail  and  wander, 

488. 
Tremble  King^s  despised  of  man !  561. 
'Twas  dead  of  the  night,  when  I  sat  in  my 

dwelling,  551. 

Unfathomable  Sea!    whose  waves  are  years, 

402. 
Unrisen  splendor  of  the  brightest  sun,  484. 

Vessels  of  heavenly  medicine  I  may  the  breeze, 

569. 

Wake  the  serpent  not  —  lest  he,  487. 
Wealth  and  dominion  fade  into  the  mass,  488. 


646 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


We  are  as  clouds  that  veil  the  midnight  moon, 

343. 
We  meet  not  as  we  parted,  453. 
We  strew  these  opiate  flowers,  322. 
What !  alive  and  so  bold,  O  Earth,  406. 
'  What  art  thou,  presumptuous,  who  prof anest, 

483.  _ 
What  is  the  glory  far  above,  534. 
What  Mary  is  when  she  a  Uttle  smiles,  522. 
What  men  gain  fairly,  that  they  should  possess, 

484. 
What  sounds  are  those  that  float  upon  the  air, 

580. 
Wliat  think  you  the  dead  are  ?  435. 
T\Tiat  veiled  form  sits  on  that  ebon  throne? 

184. 
What  was  the  shriek  that  struck  fancy's  ear, 

559. 
When  a  lover  clasps  his  fairest,  486. 
When  passion's  trance  is  overpast,  404. 
When  soft  winds  and  sunny  skies,  484. 
When  the  lamp  is  shattered,  410. 
When  the  last  hope  of  trampled  France  had 

failed,  51. 


When  winds  that  move  not  its  calm  surface 

sweep,  520. 
Where  art  thou,  beloved  To-morrow  ?  410. 
Where  man's  profane  and  tainting  hand,  572. 
Whilst  mouarchs  laughed  upon  their  thrones, 

5i)5. 
Whose  is  the  love  that,  gleaming  through  the 

world,  2. 
Why  is  it  said  thou  canst  not  live,  562. 
Wild,  pale,  and  wonder-stricken,  even  as  one, 

446. 
Wilt  thou  forget  the  happy  hours,  358. 
Within  a  cavern  of  man's  trackless  spirit,  436. 

Ye  Dorian  woods  and  waves  lament  aloud,  620. 
Ye  gentle  visitations  of  calm  thought,  490. 
Ye  hasten  to  the  grave  !  What  seek  ye  there, 

400.     _         _ 
Ye  who  intelligent  the  Third  Heaven  move,  522. 
Ye  wild-eyed  Muses,  sing  the  Twins  of  Jove, 

504.        _ 
Yes!  all  is  past — swift  time  has  fled  away, 

559. 
Yet  look  on  me — take  not  thine  eyes  away,  341. 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


[The  titles  of  m^jor  works  and  of  general  divisions  are  set  in  siuu;  capitau.] 


Adokais,  307. 

Adonais,  Lines  written  for,  438. 

Adonis,  Fragment  of  the  Elegy  on  the  Death  of, 

520. 
'Alas!  this  is  not  what  I  thought  life  was,' 

490. 
Alastor,  31. 
Allegory,  An,  399. 
Apennines,  Passage  of  the,  357. 
Apollo,  Hymn  of,  388. 
Arabic,  From  the,  403. 
Arethusa,  387. 
Autumn  ;  a  Dii^e,  398. 
Aziola,  The,  408. 

Balloon  laden  with  Knowledq^e,  Sonnet  to  a, 

5()9. 
Before  and  After,  486. 
Bereavement,  553. 
Bigotry's  Victim,  561. 
Bion,  Fragment  of  the  Elegy  on  the  Death  of, 

520, 
Bion,   Translation  from ;   a  Fragment  of  the 

Eleg:y  on  the  Death  of  Adonis,  520. 
Birth  of  Pleasure,  The,  444. 
Boat  on  the  Serehio,  The,  449. 
Bonaparte,  Feelings  of  a  Bepuhlican  on  the 

Fall  of,  344. 
Bridal  Song,  A,  406. 
Buona  Notte,  400. 
Bsrron,  Sonnet  to,  482. 

Calderon,  Scenes  from  the  Magico  Prodigioso  of, 
526.  Stanzas  from  the  Cisma  de  Inglaterra 
of,  537. 

Carlton  House,  On  a  F§te  at,  563. 

Castlereagh  Administration,  Lines  written  dur- 
ing the,  364. 

Castlereagh,  To  Sidmouth  and,  365. 

Castor  and  Pollux,  Hymn  to,  504. 

Cat,  Verses  on  a,  546. 

Cavalcanti,  Guido,  to  Dante  Alighieri,  525. 

Cenci,  The,  20(5. 

Chamouni,  Lines  written  in  the  Vale  of,  347. 

Charles  the  Firet,  452. 

Circumstance,  519. 

Cisma  de  Inglaterra,  Stanzas  from,  537. 

Cloud,  The,  380. 

Consequence,  486. 

Constantia,  To,  481. 

Constantia  sinijing.  To,  352. 

Convito,  The  First  Canzone  of  the,  522. 

Corday,  Charlotte,  Fragment  supposed  to  be 
the  Epithalamium  of  Francis  Kavaillac  and, 
557. 

Critic,  Lines  to  a,  356. 


Crowned,  490. 

Cyclops,  The  :  A  Satyric  Drama,  506. 

Daemon  of  the  World,  The,  416. 

Dante  Alighieri  to  Guido  Cavalcanti,  522. 

Dante,  Translations  from,  522-525. 

Death  ('  Death  is  here,  and  death  is  there  *), 

398. 
Death    ('They    die — the    dead    return    not. 

Misery '),  355. 
Death,  On  ('  The  pale,  the  cold  and  the  moony 

smile '),  343. 
Death,  To  ('  Death !  where  is  thy  victory '),  549. 
Deserts  of  Sleep,  The,  489. 
Despair,  558. 
Devil's  Walk,  The,  570. 
Dialogue,  A.  548. 
Dirge,  A  ('  Eough  wind,  that  meanest  load '), 

415. 
Dirge  for  the  year,  402. 
Dirge  from  Ginevra,  The,  448. 
Doubtful  Poems,  573. 
Dream,  A,  489. 
Drowned  Lover,  The,  554. 

Early  Poems,  339. 

Earth,  Mother  of  All,  Hymn  to  the^  505. 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Adonis,  Fragment  of 

the,  520. 
Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Bion,  Fragment  of  the, 

520. 
Elegy  on  the  Death  of  John  Keats,  An,  307. 
Emmet's,  Robert,  Grave,  On,  566. 
England  in  1819,  365. 
England,  Song  to  the  Men  of,  364. 
England,  To  the  People  of,  484. 
Epigrams  from  the  Greek,  519. 
Epipsychidion,    297 ;    Lines  connected  with, 

436. 
Epitaph  ('These  are  two  friends  whose  lives 

were  undivided '),  415. 
Epitaphium,  Latin  Version  of  the  Epitaph  in 

Gray's  Elegy,  547. 
Epithalamium,  407  ;  another  version,  407. 
Euganean  Hills,  Lines  written  among  the,  358. 
Euripides,  Translation  of  The  Cyclops  of,  506. 
Evening :  Ponte  al  Mare,  Pisa,  407. 
Evening :  To  Harriet,  339. 
Exhortation,  An,  367. 
Eyes,  550. 

Face  A   486. 
Faded  Violet,  On  a,  358. 
Falsehood  and  Vice,  595. 
Farewell  to  North  Devon,  572, 
Faust,  Scenes  from,  537. 


648 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Feelings  of  a  Republican  on  the  Fall  of  Bona- 

pai-te,  ;M4. 
F6te  at  Carlton  House,  On  a,  563. 
Fiordispina,  443. 
'Follow,' 484. 
Fkagments,  416. 
Fragment  of  a  Ghost  Story,  480. 
Fragment  of   a   Sonnet ;    Farewell  to   North 

Devon,  572. 
Fragment  of  a  Sonnet ;  To  Harriet,  568. 
Fragment  of  an  Unfinished  Drama,  4G(). 
Fragment  of  the  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Adonis, 

520. 
Fragment  of  the  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Bion, 

520. 
Fragment  supposed  to  be  an  Epithalamium  of 

Francis  Ravaillac  and  Charlotte  Corday,  657. 
Fragment  ('  Yes  !  all  is  past  —  swift  time  has 

fled  away '),  559. 
From  the  Arabic :  An  Imitation,  403. 
Fugitives,  The,  405. 
Furies,  Song  of  the,  486. 

Gentle  Story,  A,  485. 
Ghost  Story,  Fragment  of  a,  480. 
Ginevra,  44<i. 

Gisborne,Maria,  Letter  to,  390. 
Godwin,  Fanny,  On,  355. 
Godwin,  Mary  Wollstonecraft,  To,  342. 
Goethe,  Scenes  from  the  Faust  of,  537. 
Good-Night,  401. 

Gray's  Elegy,  Latin  Version  of  the  Epitaph  in, 
547. 

•  Great  Spirit,'  490. 

Harriet  *****  ,  To,  2. 

Harriet,  To  :  Fragment  of  a  Sonnet,  568. 

Harriet,  To  ('  It  is  not  blasphemy  to  hope  that 

Heaven '),  5f)8. 
Harriet,  To  ('  0  thou  bright  Sun  !  beneath  the 

dark  blue  line '),  339. 
Harriet,  To  ('  Thy  look  of  love  has  power  to 

calm '),  342. 
Hate-Song,  A,  486. 

*  He  wanders,'  4S9. 
Heart's  Tomb,  The,  489. 
Heaven,  Ode  to,  3fi(). 

Hellas,  317 ;  Lines  written  for,  439. 

Home,  480. 

Homer,  Translations  from  the  Greek  of,  491, 

503,  504,  505. 
Hope,  Fear,  and  Doubt,  489. 
Horologium,  In,  548. 
Hymns :  — 

Apollo's,  .388. 

Pan's,  389. 

To  Castor  and  Pollnx,  504. 

To  Intellectual  Beauty,  M6. 

To  Mercury,  401. 

To  Minerva,  504. 

To  the  Earth,  Mother  of  All,  605. 

To  the  Moon,  5a5. 

To  the  Sun,  504. 

To  Venus,  503. 

*I  faint,  I  perish  with  my  love,'  489. 
*I  would  not  be  a  king,'  487. 


lanthe.  To,  340. 

Icicle  that  clung  to  the  Grass  of  a  Grave,  On  an, 

562. 
In  Horologium,  548. 
Indian  Serenade,  The,  370 ;  Lines  written  for, 

435. 
Inspiration,  483. 

Intellectual  Beauty,  Hymn  to,  346, 
Invitation,  The  j  To  Jane,  412. 
Invocation  to  Misery,  362. 
Ireland,  To,  565. 

'  Is  it  that  in  some  brighter  sphere,'  487. 
'  Is  not  to-day  enough  ? '  487. 
Isle,  The,  415. 
Italy,  To,  484. 

Jane,  To  ('  The  keen  stars  were  twinkling '), 

415. 
Jane,  To ;  The  Invitation,  The  Recollection, 

412  :  First  Draft  of,  440. 
Jane,  To  :  With  a  Guitar,  413. 
JULLA.N  AND  Maddalo,  151 ;  Lines  written  for, 

4:i5. 
Juvenilia,  546. 

Keats,  John,  An  Elegy  on  the  Death  of,  307. 

Keats,  On,  482. 
Kissing  Helena,  519. 

Lady  of  the  South,  The,  485. 

Lament,  A,  410. 

Laurel,  483, 

Lerici,  Lines  written  in  the  Bay  of,  416. 

Letter  to  Maria  Gisborne,  390. 

Liberty,  398. 

Liberty,  Ode  to,  382  ;  Lines  written  for,  436, 

Lines  connected  with  Epipsychidion,  436. 

'  Far,  far  away,  O  ye,'  405. 

'  If  I  walk  in  Autumn's  even,'  410. 

'  That  time  is  dead  forever,  child,'  365. 

'  The  cold  earth  slept  below,'  345. 

To  a  Critic,  356. 

To  a  Reviewer,  400. 

'  We  meet  not  as  we  parted,'  452. 

*  When  the  lamp  is  shattered,'  410. 

Written  among  the  Euganean  Hills,  358. 

Written  during  the  Castlereagh  Adminis- 
tration, ;^64. 

Written  for  Adonais,  438. 

Written  for  Hellas,  4.S0. 

Written  for  Julian  and  Maddalo,  435. 

Written  for  Mont  Blanc,  4:^5. 

Written  for  Prometheus  Unbound,  435. 

Written  for  the  Indian  Serenade,  435. 

Written  for  the  Ode  to  Liberty,  43(i. 

Written  for  the  poem  to  William  Shelley, 
481. 

Written  in  the  Bay  of  Lerici,  416. 

Written  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouni,  347. 

Written  on  hearing  the  news  of  the  death 
of  Napoleon.  406. 
Lord  Chancellor,  To  the,  353. 
Lost  Leader,  A,  482. 
Love    ('  Wealth  and  dominion  fade  into  the 

mass'),  488. 
Love  ('  Why  is  it  said  thou  canst  not  live'), 
562. 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


649 


Love.  Hope,  Desire,  and  Fear,  444. 
Love  8  Atmosphere,  487. 
Love's  Philosophy,  371. 
Love's  Rose,  550. 

Magico  Prodiffioso,  Scenes  from  the,  526. 

Magrnetic  Lady  to  her  Patient,  The,  411. 

Marenghi,  432. 

Marianne's  DrePTn,  350. 

Marseillaise  Hymn,  Stanza  from  a  Translation 

of  the,  5(jl. 

Mary .  To,  49. 

Mary,  To  ('  0  Mary  dear,  that  you  were  here '), 

480. 
Mary,  To  ('My  dearest  Mary,  wherefore  hast 

thou  gone  '),  481. 
Mary,  To  ('  The  world  is  dreary '),  480. 
Mary,  To,  upon  her  objecting  to  '  The  Witch  of 

Atlas,' 272. 
Mary,  To,  who  died  in  this  Opinion,  563. 
Mask  of  Anarchy,  The,  252. 
Matilda  gathering  Flowers,  523. 
Medusa  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  On  the,  369. 
Melody  to  a  Scene  of  Former  Times,  560. 
Mercury,  Hymn  to,  491. 
'  Mighty  Eagle,'  483. 
Milton's  Spirit,  483, 
Minerva,  Hymn  to,  504. 
Minor  Fragments,  480. 
Misery,  Invocation  to,  362. 
Mont  Blanc :  Lines  written  in  the  Vale  of  Char 

mouni,  347  ;  Lines  written  for,  435. 
Moon^  ifymu  to  the,  505. 
Moon,  To  the  ('  Art  thou  pale  for  weariness '), 

485. 
Moon,  To  the  ('Bright  wanderer,  fair  coquette 

of  heaven '),  485. 
Moonbeam,  To  the,  549. 
Moschus,  Translations    from    the    Greek    of, 

520. 
Music  ('  I  pant  for  the  music  which  is  divine '), 

488. 
Music,  To  ('  No,  Music,  thou  art  not  the  "  food 

of  Love  "  '),  488. 
Music,  To    ('  Silver  key  of   the    fountain    of 

tears '),  488. 
Mutability  ('  The  flower  that  smiles  to-day  '), 

404. 
Mutability  ('We  are  as  clouds  that  veil  the 

midnight  moon  '),  343. 
'My  thoughts,' 490. 

Naples,  Ode  to,  395. 

Napoleon,  Lines  written  on  hearing  the  news  of 

the  death  of,  406. 
National  Anthem,  365. 
Nicholson,  Margaret,  Posthumous  Fragments 

of,  554. 
Night,  To,  403. 
Nile,  To  the ;  Sonnet,  357. 

'  0  thou  immortal  deity,'  490. 
Odes:  — 

To  Heaven,  366. 

To  Liberty,  382;   Lines  written  for  the, 
436. 

To  Naples,  395. 


To  the  West  Wind,  367. 

Written  October,  1819,  before  the  Spaniards 

had  recovered  their  liberty,  369  ;  Stanza 

written  for,  436. 
CEdIPUS  TYRANliUS,  283. 

'  Oh,  that  a  chariot  of  cloud  were  mine,'  489. 

Omens,  547. 

On  a  Faded  Violet,  358. 

On  a  Fete  at  Carlton  House,  563. 

On  an  Icicle  that  clung  to  the  Grass  of  a  Grave, 
562. 

On  Death  {'  The  pale,  the  cold,  and  the  moony 
smile '),  343. 

On  Fanny  Godwin,  355. 

On  Keats,  482. 

On  launching  some  Bottles  filled  with  Know- 
ledge into  the  Bristol  Channel,  569.  , 

On  leaving  London  for  Wales,  572. 

On  Robert  Emmet's  Grave,  566. 

'  On  the  Dark  Height  of  Jura,'  551.  _  - 

On  the  Medusa  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  369. 

'  Once  more  descend,'  483. 

One  Singing,  To,  488. 

Orpheus,  441. 

Otho,  431. 

Ozymandias,  356. 

Pan,  Echo,  and  the  Satyr,  620. 

Pan,  Hymn  of,  389. 

Passage  of  the  Apennines,  357. 

Past,  The,  358. 

Petek  Bell  the  Third,  258. 

Pine  Forest  of  the  Cascine  near  Pisa,  The,  44ft 

Plato,  Spirit  of,  519. 

Plato,  Translations  from  the  Greek  of,  519. 

Poems  written  in  1816,  345. 

Poems  written  in  1817,  349. 

Poems  written  in  1818,  356. 

Poems  written  in  1819,  364. 

Poems  written  in  1820,  371. 

Poems  written  in  1821,  401. 

Poems  written  in  1822,  410. 

Poetry  and  Music,  485. 

Poet's  Lover,  The,  487. 

Political  Greatness,  405. 

Ponte  al  Mare,  Pisa,  407. 

Posthumous  Fragments  of  Margaret    Nichol« 

son,  554. 
Prince  Athanase,  424. 
Prometheus  UNBOtrND,  160;   Lines  written 

for,  435. 
Proserpine,  Song  of,  while  gathering  flowers  on 

the  Plain  of  Enna,  388. 

QiTEEN  Mab,  1. 
Question,  The,  389. 

Rain,  484. 

Rain- Wind,  The,  48^. 

Ravaillac,  Francis,  Fragment  supposed  to  be  the 
Epithalamium  of,  and  Charlotte  Corday,  557. 
Recollection,  The :  To  Jane,  412. 
Remembrance,  408. 

Republicans  of  North  America,  To  the,  565. 
Retrospect,  The:  Cwm  Elan,  1812,  566. 
Reviewer,  Lines  to  a.  400. 
Revolt  of  Islam,  The,  43. 


6so 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Roman's  Chamber,  A,  486, 
Rome,  484. 

Rosalind  and  Helen,  136. 
Rosicrucian,  The,  Poems  from,  551. 

St.  Irvyae,  Poems  from,  551. 

St.  Irvyne's  Tower,  553, 

Satire  on  Satire,  A,  445. 

Scene  of  Former  Times,  Melody  to  a,  560. 

Sensitive  Plant,  The,  372, 

Shadow  of  Hell,  The,  486, 

Shelley,  William,  To  ('  My  lost  William,  thou  in 

whom  ''i,481, 
Shelley,  William,  To  ('  The  billows  on  the  beach 

are  leapin"'  around  it ').  354. 
Shelley,  William,  To  ('  Thy  little  footsteps  on 

the  sands')}  481. 
Sidmouth  and  Castlere^h,  To,  365, 
Silence.  To,  489. 
Sister  Rosa :  a  Ballad,  552, 
Skylark,  To  a,  381, 
Society,  A  Tale  of,  as  it  Is,  563. 
Solitary,  The,  549. 
Songs : — 

Bridal,  406. 

'Calm  art  thou  as  yon  sunset!  swift  and 
strong,'  88. 

'  False  friend,  wilt  thou  smile  or  weep,'  249. 

'  Furies,'  480. 

Hate-Songr,  A,  486. 

'  Heigho !  the  lark  and  the  owl,'  466. 

*  Here,  oh,  here  ! '  197. 

*  I  loved  —  alas  !  onr  life  is  love,'  432. 
'  Life  of  Life,  thy  lips  enkindle,'  188. 
Proserpine's,  while  gathering  flowers  on  the 

Plain  of  £nna,  388. 
'  Rarely,  rarely,  comest  thou,'  403. 
Spirits,  184. 

To  the  Men  of  England,  364. 
'  What  sounds  are  those  that  float  upon  the 

air,'  580. 
Sonnets :  — 

Cavalcanti,  Guido,  to  Dante  Alighieri,  525, 
Dante  Alighieri  to  Gnido  Cavalcanti,  522, 
Evening:  To  Harriet.  339. 
Farewell  to  North  Devon :   a   Fragment, 

572. 
Feelings  of  a  Republican  on  the  Fall  of 

Bonaparte,  344. 
'  Lift  not  the  painted  veil  which  those  who 

live,'  303. 
On    launching   some    Bottles    filled    with 

Knowledge  into  the  Bristol  Channel,  509. 
Ozvmandias,  356. 
Political  Greatness,  405. 
To  a  Balloon  laden  with  Knowledge,  569. 
To  Byron,  482. 

To  Harriet :  a  Fragment,  568. 
To  lanthe,  340, 
To  the  Nile,  X}7. 
To  Wordsworth,  344. 
'  Te  hasten  to  the  grave  I  What  seek  ye 

there,'  400, 
Sophia.  To,  370. 
Spectral  Horseman,  The,  659. 
Spirit  of  Plato,  519. 
Sfibit  of  Solitude,  The,  31. 


Stanzas :  — 

April,  1814,  .341. 

From    a  Translation  of   the   Marseillaise 
Hymn,  5<)1. 

Written  at  Bracknell,  340. 

Written  for  the  Ode,  written  October,  1819, 
436, 

Written  in  dejection  ne-ar  Naples,  363. 
Star,  To  a,  563. 
Stella,  To,  519, 
Summer  and  Winter,  399, 
Summer  Evening  Churchyard,  A,  343. 
Sun,  Hymn  to  the,  504, 
Sunset,  The,  345. 

SWELLFOOT  THE   TyRANT,  283. 

Tale  of  Society  as  it  Is,  A,  563. 

Tale  Untold,  The,  485. 

Tasso,  431, 

Tenth  Eclogue  from  Virgil,  The,  521. 

'  The  fierce  beasts,'  480. 

'  The  rude  wind  is  singing,'  486, 

Time,  402, 

Time  Long  Past,  400, 

To ('  For  me,  my  friend,  if  not  that  tears  did 

tremble '),  483. 

To ('  I  fear  thy  kisses,  gentle  maiden '),  387. 

To ('  Music,  when  soft  voices  die '),  404. 

To ('  O  mighty  mind,  in  whose  deep  stream 

this  age  '),  482. 

To ('  Oh,  there  are  spirits  of  the  air '),  340. 

To ('  One  word  is  too  often  profaned '),  408, 

To ('  When  passion's  trance  is  overpast '), 

404, 
To ('  Yet  look  on  me  —  take  not  thine  eyes 

away'),  341, 
To  a  Balloon  laden  with  Knowledge,  569. 
To  a  Skylark,  381. 
To  a  Star,  563, 
To  Constantia,  481, 
To  Constantia  singing,  352, 
To  Death  ('  Death !  where  is  thy  victory '),  549. 
To  Edward  Williams,  409, 
To  Emilia  Viviani,  482, 
To  Harriet  •••*»,  2. 
To  Harriet :  Fragment  of  a  Sonnet,  568. 
To  Harriet  ('  It  is  not  blasphemy  to  hope  that 

Heaven '),  5(». 
To    Harriet  ('  O   thou    bright  Sun  I    beneath 

the  dark  bine  line '),  339. 
To  Harriet  ('  Thy  look  of  love  has  power  to 

calm '),  3i2. 
To  lanthe,  340, 
To  Ireland,  565. 
To  Italy,  484. 
To  Jane  ;  The  Invitation,  The  Recollection, 

412  ;  First  Draft  of,  440. 
To  Jane  (*  The  keen  stars  were  twinkling '),  415, 
To  Jane  :  With  a  Guitar,  413. 

To  Mary ,  49, 

To  Mary  ('  My  dearest  Mary,  wherefore  hast 

thou  gone  ').  481. 
To  Mary  ('  0  Mary  dear,  that  you  were  here '), 

480. 
To  Mary  ('  The  world  is  dreary*),  480. 
To  Mary,  on  her  objecting  to  *  The  Witch  of  At- 
las,' 272. 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


651 


To  Mary,  who  died  in  this  Opinion,  563. 
To  Mary  Wollstonecraft  Godwin,  342. 
To  Music  ('  No,  Music,  thou  art  not  the  "  food 
of  Love*"),  488. 

From  Homer,  491,  503,  504,  505. 

From  Moschus,  520. 

From  Plato,  519. 

From  Virgil,  521. 

To  Music  ('  Silver  key  of  the  fountain  of  tears  '), 

Triumph  of  Life,  The,  470. 

488. 

Two  Spirits,  The,  390. 

To  Night,  403. 

To  One  Singring,  488. 

Ugolino,  524. 

To  Sidraouth  and  Castlere^h,  366. 

Unfinished  Drama,  Fragments  of  an,  466. 

To  Silence,  489. 

'  Unrisen  Splendor,'  484. 

To  Sophia,  370. 

To  Stella,  519. 

Venus,  Hymn  to,  503. 

To  the  Lord  Chancellor,  353. 

Verses  on  a  Cat,  546. 

To  the  Men  of  England,  364. 

Victoria,  551. 

To  the  Moon  ('  Art  thou  pale  from  weariness '), 

Vi»e,  The,  485. 

485. 

Virgil,  Translation  of  the  Tenth  Eclogue  of,  521. 

To  the  Moon  ('  Bright  wanderer,  fair  coquette 

Vision  of  the  Sea,  A,  377. 

of  heaven '),  485. 

Vita  Nuova,  Adapted  from  a  Sonnet  in  the,  522. 
Viviani,  Emilia,  To,  482. 

To  the  Moonbeam,  549. 

To  the  People  of  England,  484. 

To  the  Republicans  of  North  America,  565. 

'  Wake  the  serpent  not,'  487. 

'  To  thirst  and  find  no  fill,'  487. 

Wandering  Jew,  The,  576. 

To  William  Shelley  C  My  lost  William,  thou  in 

Wandering  Jew's  Soliloquy,  The,  573. 

whom'),  481. 

Waning  Moon,  The,  485. 

To  William  Shelley  ('  The  billows  on  the  beach 

War,  555. 

are  leaping  around  it'),  354;  Lines  written 

West  Wind,  Ode  to  the,  367. 

for  the  poem,  481. 

'  What  men  gain  fairly,'  484. 

To  William  Shelley  ('  Thy  little  footsteps  on  the 

'  When  soft  winds,'  484. 

sands'),  481. 

'  When  winds  that  move  not  its  calm  surface 

To  Wordsworth,  344. 

sweep,'  520. 

To  Zephyr,  484. 

Williams,  To  Edward,  409. 

To-day,  487. 

Wine  of  Eglantine,  485. 

To-morrow,  410. 

Witch  of  Atlas,  The,  271. 

Torpor,  487. 

With  a  Guitar  :  To  Jane,  413. 

Tower  of  Famine,  The,  399. 

Woodman  and  the  Nightingale,  The,  430, 

Translations,  491. 

Wordsworth,  To.  344. 

Translations :  — 

World's  Wanderers,  The,  400. 

From  Bion,  520. 

From  Calderon,  526,  537. 

'  Ye  gentle  visitations,'  490. 

From  Cavalcanti,  525. 

Year,  Dirge  for  the,  402. 

From  Dante,  522-525. 

From  Euripides,  506. 
From  Goethe,  537. 

Zephyr,  To,  484. 

Zucea,  The,  450. 

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